‘Even on Mondays?’ I said, having failed to switch off my sarcasm button upon entering the building.
I am so not a Monday person. I am a lunchtime on Friday person.
‘Especially on Mondays,’ she said grimly, a flash in her eyes showing me she saw the sarcasm and didn’t like it. ‘You start their week with energy. With happiness. With wisdom. You want to sell books, a TV show and later your own cooking implements and baking dishes?’
‘I wish,’ I sighed.
‘Then get with the programme, Freya,’ she said. ‘This is what you pay me to tell you.’
Point taken.
She is expensive and I can only afford to use her services if I make money. Another bastion of my career is my agent, theLondon-based Paddy Ashmore, an utter gentleman who never raises his voice and whom I would trust with my life. Paddy does not haunt me with reminders about social media but then Paddy isold-school and negotiates deals for my books. Nina knows more about the frenetic pulse of all sorts of media than he does, so I listen to her.
In light of my absence from both the bookshops and the TV screens, I know I need to keep my media profile up there.
With this in mind I work very hard to keep the social media career moving even when I ammid-move,pre-?menstrual, have flu, you name it.
Someone has posted something about difficult roads leading to glorious destinations. Once, I would have loved that – now, I am so over inspirational quotes, although I do my best to post ones every few days.
Difficult roads lead to more damn difficult roads, and road blocks, and workmen digging a hole and traffic. The universe does not give us what we need – it gives us ulcers.
I’d love to postthatonline. But Nina would kill me and as I am sure she has a deal going with the devil to make her successful andstress-free, she would have a plan to hide my body, no problemo.
In the real world, I post things on all the social media channels most days, even if it’s just me beaming into the camera wearing aflour-covered apron and holding up a whisk, making early morning fruit muffins for the children’s school lunches, which was one of last week’s postspre-move. It’s sad that nobody viewing this lovely scene on Instagram can hear the background yelling as Teddy informs everyone that she will not eat anything with blueberries in it.
‘Bunny poo!’ she insists. ‘Not eating bunny poo.’
‘Blueberries do look a bit like bunny poo,’ agrees Liam, ever the peacemaker, ‘but they’re nice in Mum’s muffins.’
‘NO!’
It is funny, so including the bunny poo story, the picture of me goes up. A chef comparing their cooking to animal faeces can never be a good thing, I think, awaiting a backlash. But hey – dark humour is good, right?
Is that supposed to be a funny caption?
Nina texts me about a millisecond later. That woman lives on her phone. She is notchild-friendly, either. If she has a child, she will get it from a pod on the mother ship.
I had sex last night – should I mention it?
I type the words in and then delete before hitting the send button. Nina’s odd: nothing is out of bounds for her so she might decide that a segment on ‘what foods get you both in the mood’ is a runner.
In her vision, I would be in a negligee (obviously, I don’t have one), gazingglossily-lipped into the camera in no time.
Write down funny lines for future,I think. Unfortunately, most of my funny thoughts are too dark to be shared with the world.
I have a quick morning routine and I get myself done up pretty speedily. Then it’s into jeans, flat shoes – the red suede trainers I adore – and an aquamarine silk shirt that suits my colouring really well. The stylist on the last show insisted I buy it and I thank the stars for stylists every time I get dressed.Pre-styling, my look was a bit chaotic. Except with fabulous shoes. Shoes I can do. It’s the rest that bewilders me. I honestly don’t care about clothes. Nina insists that I can’t possibly say this publicly.
‘Why not?’
‘Because people expect you to have it all! Don’t you get it?’
There’s no point arguing with her. Nobody has it all.
Going quietly, I head downstairs to get the breakfast things ready. After a boost of caffeine, I race upstairs and realise that Dan hasn’t woken up yet, which is unusual because he’s marvellous at getting out of bed in the morning. Sickeningly a morning person, I should add. I must have exhausted him with my fabulous lovin’, I think, wondering again if I could post that? Probably not. I am officially losing control of my mind.
With that sort of post, I would be invited on to some reality TV show where I’d have to expose mypost-baby self in a bikini and drink my body weight in cocktails with people who think that cooking is pressing the ‘on’ button on the microwave.
Nina would love that. It would ‘broaden my viewership’, which is a vital thing.
