Motherwhelmed

‘You’ll never achieve this huge figure Rebecca,’ Darren had said in one of our more recent catch-ups. ‘You won’t even come close but let’s set the bar REAL high? Let’s see where that tide takes you.’

He’d grinned, flashing those ghastly gnashers. He delivered bad news whilst smiling like Jack Nicholson’s character in The Shining. This might have come from his self-help book but it didn’t work for me. Many were terrified of him.

‘I worked until three a.m. on a debrief last night.’

‘I typed the whole thing whilst cycling on my bicycle.’

‘My Fitbit says I got one hour of sleep but I just had a twenty-minute cat nap so my metabolism is back on form.’

‘I missed my daughter’s birthday because I was winning this new project from Ribena and so she didn’t mind.’

‘I’ve worked out that if I nap for ten minutes at three p.m. I can keep working till ten and feel fine.’

These were typical Darren statements. People who are workaholics smell bad. This was something I’d noticed about him from day one. His body was slowly decomposing as he became a man/robot hybrid. When he sweated it smelt like someone had died. The human elements were rapidly being broken down. He often appeared from nowhere and was suddenly right behind you like he was floating around. His legs replaced by wheels because legs were useless and didn’t transport you from one laptop to the next in quick enough time. Meanwhile in that same appraisal meeting, Phoebe had sat in the corner and taken notes the whole time he was speaking – ‘This loser will probably last no more than six months,’ or something close. Maybe she drew penises in the margins too. And I tried to do these things – to be more enthusiastic, more dynamic, but it felt as if I was sinking.

They knew this of course and I felt like this was part of the plan.

We were back in the meeting. Darren was using the corner of a piece of paper to pick something out of his teeth.

‘I’m proud that I took good notes during the banking groups and learnt some super interesting insights about people and their favourite financial services apps,’ the intern said cheerily.

She was very pretty but would soon be very tired. I often witnessed their pink, healthy cheeks become hangdog and pale as the long hours drained the life force from them.

‘Great work,’ Darren said tapping his pen noisily on the table. ‘Banking is one of my favourite categories. Well done Sasha.’

‘It’s not Sasha,’ she replied.

‘Whatever … next dude!’

‘I’m proud that I’ve identified a new paradigm shift in the pet food market,’ said the TWAT.

I drew a little penis in the margin.

‘I’m constantly surprised by the pet food category,’ Darren said. ‘Such rich behavioural data when you compare dry versus wet. There’s definitely a breakfast innovation session in there somewhere if you’d be interested in writing it.’

TWAT nodded and then glanced at my pad. I worried that perhaps he’d noticed my penis drawing, so I quickly drew some branches coming out of the bell-end so it looked more like a blossoming tree.

‘And what are YOU proud of this week, Rebecca?’ Darren asked.

I could always sense sarcasm in his voice. I had violent fantasies which ended with me punching him in the face. I knew these feelings were irrational, but Darren had come to represent my failure and lack of popularity. I stared back at him, and thought about how I’d need to bandage up my hands properly to get a good punch in. How I’d never punched anyone before but this first punch would be very powerful. How his teeth would shatter one by one, like in a cartoon, and then fall to the floor. How I would perhaps pick these teeth up and keep them as mementos. How I would leave the office with them in my pocket and then make a bestselling rap album where I dissed Darren in every song. Then I stopped and felt a wave of panic. It wasn’t Darren’s fault that I was becoming less relevant. Or that I only had two clients commissioning business. Or that I didn’t share his boundless enthusiasm for dog kibble.

‘I feel like I’ve finally had a breakthrough on this baby wipe presentation.’ I said, which was not true but no one was going to read it apart from the client. Darren flashed me his winning business smile.

‘Well there’s a surprise. You’re being AWESOME. Well done dude.’

‘Rebecca, I’d love to run some ideas past you about the pet food market,’ TWAT said.

‘That’s a great idea,’ Darren said. ‘Rebecca, remember we said you needed to collaborate more with the semiotics and cultural insights team moving forward? It would be great if you two could hit those waves REAL hard if you know what I mean?’

Darren had managed to make this sound rather pervy. That was another thing he specialized in – innuendo. I scribbled over the penis tree on my pad and nodded. I didn’t like this TWAT but would play the game. If it helped me appear more dynamic and with it then so be it.

I went back to my desk. The meeting had felt a bit staged. Had the TWAT and Darren agreed ahead of time that we would collaborate? Who was this boy? A spy? A flash drive in a baseball cap? I continued writing slides and checking Instagram as before, but I suddenly felt like my head was detaching from itself, and travelling up to the ceiling. Had the nursery texted but I’d accidentally lost the text? Was Bella really okay? Were the prawns defrosted or not? What about the sausages? And the non-existent brief? I’d lied about that and Phoebe would soon uncover the lie. Once it reached the ceiling my head stayed resting on the plastic tiles, and softly bounced around looking down on everyone; the young people in their blankets; the green smoothies in massive plastic bottles; the headphones; the grey carpet; the photocopier which was always broken and required a complicated access code; the herbal teabag stuck to the floor. I’d done a pill or ten in my youth and the whole sensation would have been pleasant if I’d been in a nightclub back in the noughties, but here under the florescent lighting, with the tinny echo from headphones and relentless air con being blown down our necks, this was not pleasant at all. I had to hold onto the desk to stop myself from falling out of my chair. Was this a stroke?

I got up and half walked, half staggered to the kitchen. No one looked up from their laptop. It wasn’t unusual. We were all alone with our emails and anxiety. Once inside the kitchen, I stared at the cupboard and repeated the instructions stuck to the door. Dispose of ALL teabags in the bin provided. The fridge will be cleaned every Friday and all EDIBLES will be disposed of PROMPTLY. My head was still not attached to my body. It was somewhere outside seeking a blanket. I wondered whether I was dying. I tried to normalize my breathing. I rested my head against the cupboard. I am okay. I am okay. I am okay. I repeated. Then I turned around and the TWAT was right next to me.

‘Are you feeling alright?’ he said not unkindly. ‘I read one of your blog articles and you’d written about the unique connection between cats and their owners and I wanted to try and tap into some of that for this proposal I’m writing.’

‘Yes,’ I said weakly, could he not see I was dying right now? ‘I will check my diary and be in touch.’

I turned back to face the cupboard.

‘I hate the instructions, everywhere don’t you?’ he said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or are you just chilling in here?’

My head has come off and is floating somewhere next to the bookcase thanks.

‘Chilling,’ I said.

Now please leave me be. I really didn’t want him to notice my hands shaking as I took the coffee out of the cupboard and deposited a spoonful into my cup.

Back at my desk I wrote an email to Phoebe and copied in Darren, explaining that I needed to go home as I felt like I was coming down with something bad. Before leaving I sat in the toilet and tried to compose myself for the journey home. It was frightening to feel so out of control. Was this a panic attack? A breakdown? Or was I about to drop dead?

‘We used to have Molton Brown soap and now they’re getting it from Tesco,’ I heard a girl outside the cubicle saying, ‘Do you think there will be redundancies soon?’

I recognized the voice as one of the admin team.

‘Phoebe’s just won that big frozen food account,’ another voice said – it sounded like the receptionist –‘It’s massive. Phoebe is pretty amazing really.’

‘Phoebe is incredible.’

‘I heard she only took one week for her maternity leave.’

‘I heard she had no pain relief during labour.’

‘She did a climb up Kilimanjaro a month later.’

‘I heard her husband is very good-looking.’

‘Their kitchen is huge – I saw a picture on Facebook.’

‘She has lots of dinner parties and I heard that Piers Morgan came to one.’

‘Well maybe we’ll get Aesop in the toilets again.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

On the train, I stared out the window. I felt like you do at the end of a hangover. The feeling you get at roughly 3 p.m. My head was back on my body but my head was aching. I felt flat. I looked down at my phone and saw an email labelled URGENT.

Re: FISH FINGER INNOVATION OPPORTUNITY

Hey Rebecca,

I have some great news on a new fish finger proposition that the client wants to research next month. It’s an exciting challenge. It fits perfectly with the goals and objectives we drew up with Darren at your last appraisal.

Hope you’re feeling better already.

Phoebe.

P.S. What happened about that brief? Was it a false alarm?

Better already? I’d only just left the office! There was nothing about the email that made me feel better. I had ZERO interest in fish fingers. Who did? Well Phoebe was different. She could fake an interest in anything. This was why she was successful. She had the stamina of an ox. She never woke up with the sheets imprinted into her face. She never laughed and weed herself because her pelvic floor was shot to buggery. Okay, she wore terrible clothes and had no style but I was clutching at straws. All you saw when you looked at her was confidence and strategic prowess. She was dynamic. This was the word she constantly waved under my nose – the word she bandied about as if it was some sort of magic formula, but what did it actually mean? How could I be more dynamic if my head was flying off all over the place and everyone was talking like a surfer dude? I was sorely tempted to send her an email telling her to FUCK OFF. Wasn’t this a benefit of getting older? Saying exactly what you thought and not mincing your words? This was what I loved about Mum. The older she got, the less she cared about anyone and the more sweary she became. I wished I could channel some of her now so I could overpower Phoebe.

I typed a reply.

AWESOME! I LOVE FISH FINGERS. Sorry, the brief was a false alarm but will definitely chase again next week. They said they needed to spend more time working out the objectives.

Rebecca x

She was also the kind of person who got off a transatlantic flight, and went straight to a meeting, then got straight back on the plane (perhaps turning her knickers inside out in the airplane toilet), slicked on a bit of lip gloss, readying herself to cook a delicious three course meal for her dinner guests when she got home. So it was true that she’d only had a week off for her maternity leave, and I’d also heard another rumour she’d come back with the umbilical cord still dangling out the bottom of her tights (she’d been dynamic right from the get go then). She lost her baby weight the next week by only eating nuts and drinking water. Her baby boy started talking when he was five months old. His first words were ‘Yaki Soba’ (his favourite dish from Wagamama). She did a successful pitch to an online retailer on her first day back in the office. She never drew penises on her notebooks (as far as I knew), and she was constantly giving me advice on how to be more productive.

‘Rebecca – you need to get up an hour earlier and work on your emails.’

‘Why don’t you use the commute time to ATTACK some of your top objectives? You can actually use your phone to record your TO DO LIST and you need never forget anything important again.’

‘Have you tried that new productivity app called RELENTLESS? It means you can fill in every single moment of the day with tasks?’

Both Phoebe and Darren were cut from the same cloth. Phoebe was the CEO and Darren the Managing Director but Phoebe liked to monitor me at close range. There had been a time, when I’d been doing better, and she’d been more hands off. So, the fact that she was so in my face was not good news. I sometimes thought they would have had amazing children together, who never had to sleep (waste of time), never got ill (illness was for wimps) and worked 24/7. The only difference was that Darren tried to pretend he was a nice person and Phoebe didn’t bother with that at all.

I didn’t like to fill in every available moment with work. It was bad enough that no one had dead time, that no one stared or observed anything because they were constantly on their phones. I still cried now and then when I left Bella at nursery and was then too teary to check emails on the way in. Unlike Phoebe, I had still looked pregnant eighteen months after the birth. My pelvic floor was a giant plastic bag flapping about, and I peed without warning. Each time I wrote a business proposal, I usually lost the project. I kept thinking how pointless this stuff was. Who cared about the positioning strategy for some ear buds? Or an innovation path for an Asian suppository brand? I felt like I had no insights to offer unless they involved my daughter and her sleeping habits. I watched colleagues’ eyes glaze over as I talked about her. I wasn’t dynamic it was true. Clients liked me because I was kind. I made them feel good by laughing at their jokes and asking about their family.

Some people are top strategists and others are … nice.

As I made my way out of the station, walking to the bus stop for the second stage of my journey, I still wasn’t feeling right. There was an uneasy sensation working its way through my body. The email from Phoebe had only made it worse. The month before I’d just finished a project for a frozen yoghurt product. I had found it all so demoralizing. There were people dying in wars and famines, and I was contemplating whether this product should be called ‘Milky Joy,’ or ‘Full of Milkyness.’ Then whether it should have a cartoon dog or a koala as its mouthpiece. I knew this was where I was going wrong. I had to talk myself into it. I had to try and emulate Phoebe.

Then I remembered Dad and quickly left him a message. ‘Dad, can you please pick up? Mum is worried about you. She says you’re spending all your time in the shed and haven’t come out in a while now. Ring me back or send me a text just so I know all is okay.’

Back home I couldn’t wait to see Bella but she was grumpy and tired, kept flailing about and kicking off about the fact that her pasta had tomato sauce ON TOP rather than ON THE SIDE and I’d mixed the broccoli in too. On the positive side, her head just had a small bruise on the side so the fall obviously hadn’t been serious. Nevertheless I lost my temper and ended up shouting at her. Eventually things calmed down, I put her to bed, and spent some time stroking her hair. These were my favourite moments in the day.

‘Mummy, is it nursery day tomorrow?’

‘Yes it is darling.’

‘I don’t want to go.’

She sat up and flung her arms around me, planting tiny kisses on the side of my head.

‘I know. But listen, just two more days and we’ll be together again. We can do lots of fun things.’

I put her back into bed, and pulled the duvet up which she immediately kicked off again. I often came in in the night and found her lying on top of the covers, her tiny feet freezing cold.

‘I don’t like the grown-ups at nursery, they’re horrible.’

‘But you never want to leave when I pick you up.’

‘They said I was a baby because I cried this morning.’

‘Well that’s not true. You’re clearly a big girl.’

‘They’re monsters. They’re horrible. Mummy isn’t a monster.’

‘Sometimes Mummy is a monster right?’

She closed her eyes, sucking on the ear of her bunny toy and fell asleep. I remembered the nights standing over her cot, willing her to sleep, crying with the tiredness of sleep deprivation. It was true that things got easier. It was perhaps a blessing that I’d never had another baby. I was too old to cope. She murmured in her sleep, and something tugged inside. I leant in and smelt her hair. This was one of those happy moments. These moments usually involved Bella. Moments when I felt like life had a bit more meaning and purpose. When I wasn’t lost in a panic of information and things to do.

The prawns had been defrosted.

Pete and I watched TV like most evenings.

‘Why is she running back into the factory when she knows the psychopath is in there?’ I was holding a pillow in front of my face.

‘She’s not. She’s going back to warn him – she wants to save him most likely.’

‘Yeah but she’s the one having an affair with the gangster. Why does she even care about the other guy?’

Pete didn’t answer. He refused eye contact. He hated it if I talked during a dramatic moment.

That had been all the words for the day. No more content. In bed, he gave my arm a quick squeeze, rolled over onto his side, and started snoring.

That night I dreamt I was floating in the sea and I came upon a giant fish wrapped in plastic. He kept floating past me, mouthing the words DYNAMIC then lying very still, like he was in a coma. Was this the fish finger proposition? Was this my career? Was this Dad? Was this Bella? My relationship with Pete stagnating?

Three

Your dad came out of shed for exactly one hour yesterday. I am feeling lonely. What is the point? Also I got a parking ticket in Sainsbury’s car park. How is that even possible? I thought the parking was free? Is it free?

Mum

I needed to ring Mum and speak to her properly. I popped it on the bit of ticker tape that ran through my brain and it promptly disappeared down a chute labelled –‘the millions of things to do at some point in the future.’

After dropping Bella off, I bumped into a mum who’d been at the local park a couple of weekends ago. We’d ended up having coffee – she was in the newborn phase and had that drawn-out, anxious expression that was characteristic of that time. Her name was Bryony.

‘Love your trainers,’ I said as we stopped near the station.

They were bright green with purple flashes. Despite looking knackered she had that ability to look dishevelled in an attractive way, her hair piled up in a bun on the top of her head, a big leopard print scarf wrapped around her neck. She was probably about twenty-seven. Her baby was wrapped in a dozen blankets despite the warm sunshine. I had been exactly the same. It paid to ensure your baby was as warm as possible and poor Bella had often ended up clammy by the time we got home.

‘Thanks. I must take your number,’ Bryony said. ‘I thought we could meet up for another coffee soon perhaps.’

I sympathized with the need to talk to another adult. When Bella had been tiny I’d have had coffee with the postman if he’d have been interested (he wasn’t – instead he always shouted ‘Oi Average! Cheer up!’ whenever he saw me on the street. I wasn’t sure how my nickname had come about but guessed he was referring to my appearance in a casually sexist/offensive manner – ignoring the fact that he had one remaining strand of white hair that was plastered across his forehead. Last time we’d met, Bryony had told me she’d worked in advertising for a big London agency in Soho, but was now on six months’ maternity leave (advertising was an unforgiving industry for mothers, much like marketing). She now had ambitions to be a photographer. She wanted to take photos of children that weren’t cheesy, the opposite to those studio portraits where you get a family gurning holding onto a bunch of nonsensical props.

‘I feel completely rootless nowadays,’ she’d said with the candour that lack of sleep and a bit of welcome adult conversation tends to create. ‘I need to find something that energises me again. I think having a baby really brings it all into focus. Why would I want to sacrifice spending time with Ralph to do something I hate?’

It was a good question. It was one that puzzled me most days. Ralph was suckling from her breast. He was beautiful – white blonde hair and grey eyes, tiny fingers which wrapped around one finger, nails translucent and pale. Bella meanwhile span round and round in a chair kicking the bottom of the table. I’d always struggled with breastfeeding. Perhaps because of my age?

‘It’s a phase. You’ll feel better,’ I’d replied but I wasn’t so sure.

At least when you were on maternity leave you could dedicate all your anxiety to raising a small person. Once you went back to work, it got mixed together with a whole heap of other shit (which in some ways was beneficial as it diluted the brutal levels of worry you’d previously dedicated to your baby).

We swapped numbers and agreed to meet up for a coffee. It was against my usual anti-social instincts but I sensed she needed a friend and so did I (I wasn’t exactly swimming in them).

I got to work on time (no sarcastic comments from Phoebe) and after checking my inbox went with Simon/TWAT HAT for a coffee to discuss pet strategy.

‘I definitely feel much better,’ I lied as I sipped my turmeric latte, which I was trying to convince myself was nice, but was not as nice as a regular coffee at all. I was hoping Simon would be impressed by my ideas, and would pass it on to Phoebe/Darren so they’d see how dynamic I was. The only problem was the day hadn’t got off to a flying start. Bella had cried again at nursery, and I’d then spent five minutes looking for a nursery assistant who would take her from my arms. Many of the other children were crying too, and the whole scene made me sad. Why were we leaving these poor saps with other people so we could do jobs we hated? Simon was quite sweet though, and when I arrived he listened as I did my usual brain dump about my travel problems/childcare/woes/bad commute. He was softly spoken and intelligent. He also didn’t talk over me like many of the other men at work.

‘So how long have you worked at Mango?’ he asked.

‘Since the early noughties,’ I said. ‘I guess you would have been about ten years old when I started. Mad hey?’

And in a flash I saw that classic catchphrase, ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps!’ printed on tea mugs and mouse mats everywhere. Was that what had happened to me? Had I been institutionalized at Mango-Lab and made crazy? Why had I never tried anything else? Bryony and the way she effortlessly considered a new career, simply moving onto something new, felt unimaginable.