Unable to face whatever is waiting for her inside her own front door just yet, she pulls her car over to the side of the road at the top of her street and inhales a full family-size Whole Nut bar, and immediately hates herself after. She’ll have to work extra hard at yoga to try and undo the damage. She shovelled it into her mouth so fast she doesn’t even think she tasted it.
Tears prick at her eyes. ‘Oh, pull yourself together, Niamh!’ she scolds herself. Tomorrow she’ll phone the doctor and make that appointment and that will be when she starts putting herself back together.
10
ZIP-ITTY DOO DAH
Becca
Daniel is looking at me with his full-on sad face as I try on my third outfit of the day, trying to find something that screams ‘funny, fresh and talented writer’ instead of ‘I haven’t bought any clothes other than leggings, hoodies and fluffy socks in the last few years’.
I was sure I’d have something suitable for my meeting with Grace Adams in my wardrobe. I was sure I had something work appropriate which also managed to make me feel relaxed and fabulous, but of course I didn’t check, which was absolutely a fatal mistake.
I am now in my bedroom, red-faced and sweaty as I struggle into a Hell Bunny pencil dress, wondering if it might just scream a bit too much ‘gangster’s moll’ than ‘brave new journalistic voice’. I’d bought it in the sale three years ago, promising myself I would start to reclaim my social life. The plan was to drag Niamh out for drinks in a nice bar so that we could dress up and remind ourselves we weren’t just overworked and underpaid mothers of teenagers. I’d bought a nice pair of patent Mary Janes to wear with it. I’m sure they must be in the back of my wardrobe somewhere.
I pull the zip up on the dress, thinking that whoever invented side zips in dresses is assured a place in hell. I can’t imagine the thought process behind that particular joy.
The side zip – that most wretched of creatures – and specifically the side zip on this lovely dress goes a step beyond that particularly hellish task. It requires a balancing act to get the tension just right so I can pull up the zip without hauling the entire dress northwards and exposing my knickers to an already sad and depressed-looking dog.
The implied sorrow in Daniel’s pleading eyes is reminding me that I have not walked him this morning. In fact, I’ve shown him a startling lack of attention today, and he is not happy. My ‘scritches and scratches’ count is far below what he normally expects in a day and this wounds him deeply. A day cannot be considered a success in Daniel Land unless he has had his fur ruffled and that sweet spot behind his ears scratched at least three times every hour.
If there was a TripAdvisor equivalent where dogs could review their owners, I’d be scored a disappointing two out of five – ‘Must try harder. Standard used to be higher but has dropped significantly in recent days. Could do with revamp.’
Thankfully, however, no such site or app exists, and so far his unhappiness is only at the emotional blackmail stage and not at the teach-himself-how-to-write-so-he-can-leave-a-scathing-review-online stage. With Daniel, I can’t help but feel the latter is only a matter of time.
When I sit down on the bed, he doubles up on the sad-eyes look, and scooches across the covers before laying his head on my lap and exhaling loudly into a ‘boof’ of sorrow.
‘I’ll take you out when I get back from my meeting,’ I assure him, which only makes him ‘boof’ again, and louder, turning his head away from me as if he can barely bring himself to look at my hateful face. He really can be quite the drama queen.
Trying to ignore him, I instead allow myself a moment of celebration at managing to win my battle with the zip in my dress. Sadly, however, when I look in the mirror I do not see the put-together professional I’d been hoping would stare back at me. It’s giving less Peggy fromMad Menand more Peggy fromHi-de-Hi. My hair is extra frizzy and hanging damp around my overheated face, the pale skin of arms and décolletage is blotchy. It’s not a great look.
Pushing down the panic that is threatening to overwhelm me, I try to work out if anything from this particular look is salvageable.
The dress, I can accept, looks quite well. It hugs but doesn’t suffocate my figure, managing to look chic rather than slutty. The skirt skims my knee in a way that flatters, and the neckline doesn’t dip outrageously low. This isn’t bad.
But perhaps it’s too sculpted office professional? What do journalists atNorthern Peoplewear to work anyway? Is it the latest fashion? Will my three-year-old sale rack Hell Bunny frock mark me out as being totally out of touch with current trends? Are they all in some modern designer? Maybe dressing in ‘fashion forward’ creations – shapeless billowing dresses made out of parachute fabric cut in asymmetric patterns, with cut-outs to show off some part of their bodies that I’d only ever show to a doctor or lover. Or perhaps those ridiculous extra-super-wide-leg trousers which make young trendy folk look like Borrowers, but which would make me look five times the size I am and as if I’m trying too hard. It might even be the case that they all are the complete opposite of fashion-obsessed media darlings and spend their days dressed in jeans and tees and can get away with it because they are young and lithe and have flat stomachs and a flawless tan. What if I show up in my body-con but business-friendly dress and heels and they all just gawp at me from the comfort of their band T-shirts and Converse?
I feel like lying down on the bed and ‘boofing’ along with Daniel.
If only I had someone to come along and offer me some scritches and scratches of encouragement around now? My mind immediately goes to Conal. We’d spoken on the phone for a full hour last night when I’d called to fill him in on the big decision. He’d listened with just the right amount of understanding, and then he had made me laugh by sharing some of Lazlo’s recent antics. I realised I had been listening to him while smiling so broadly that my jaw now hurt.
‘I miss you,’ I’d blurted, without really thinking.
There was a pause. Not a long one, but one long enough for my bruised heart to convince me he was horrified at my declaration and was currently booking himself a one-way ticket to Australia.
There was a sigh. ‘Becs,’ he said, and the low timbre of his voice, heavy with longing, actually vibrated through me. ‘I miss you too. I know we were only getting going, but I was enjoying the ride.’
Chance would be a fine thing, I thought, and immediately blushed. It has been a long time since I’ve had ‘the ride’ and nervous as I am about it, I can’t help but let it creep into my thoughts every now and again. Especially when I’m with Conal.
No. I cannot allow myself to get distracted, or hot and bothered, thinking about Conal O’Hagan. It will bring out a hot flush to end all hot flushes, then I’d look even more of a mess arriving at my meeting with Grace. Overdressed and overheated. It’s not the first impression I want to make.
I’m scared I’m getting ready to make a holy show of myself. Maybe this indecision and self-doubt is the universe’s way of signalling this isn’t the right time for me. Maybe I’m mad to think I have (a) the talent and (b) the energy to chase a gig like this.
Maybe I should be putting all my efforts towards my impending granny-hood. Perhaps there’s a class I could be taking? It could teach me all the basics, such as how to slip a fiver into the hand of a grandchild without their parent noticing, or the best place to store a secret supply of nice biscuits and sweets that only come out when the children visit? What else could it teach, I wonder, thinking of my own granny. How to knit? How to bake an apple tart? How to have a prayer for every occasion? None of these sound particularly like me.
I wish I could phone Niamh or Laura for a last-minute pep talk, but they are both at work. Instead I read over the messages they sent me just this morning telling me I’m brilliant and how I’ve got this, etc., etc., but it seems my doubt is too loud to allow me to believe them.
I sit on the bed again and allow Daniel to scooch his way back onto my lap, not caring about the dog hairs he is currently covering me in. He’d certainly be happier if I stayed doing what I’m doing and being at home every day, free to walk him between writing uninspiring nonsense for ungrateful clients who rarely even bother to say thank you.
