‘You’re amazing. A powerhouse. Nailing motherhood and running a business, it’s very inspiring,’ Risky says. She’s endlessly searching for role models to guide her, despite always reminding everyone of her independence. She is in a constant state of anticipation, waiting for someone she admires to say the thing that lifts her through her day. Some days, apparently, it’s me. Risky fantasises about a perfect future full of love and success, she believes in romance and is a true woman’s woman. ‘I’m from a generation of women who were born feminists,’ she likes to tell me. ‘Your generation had to learn to be.’ I often have to remind her that I am only thirty-six. She talks about her thirties like an event that will happen so far in the future, it is impossible to imagine.
‘Let me know when you’re done, I’ll get the milk in the fridge right away,’ she says, heading back to her desk. Just before she reaches it, she turns back and says, ‘It’s so great, you know. For you to have a husband who takes care of the baby while you go to work. I hope I find someone like that one day. I think both parents should make sacrifices for their children. That’s what we believe.’
‘We?’ I ask, unsure.
‘Feminists. Women, like us, who are in control of their lives. I’m going to talk about it on my podcast tonight.’
‘You have a podcast?’ I ask her. This is news to me. If I’m honest, I’m not even really sure what a podcast is, or why everyone suddenly has one. I don’t have high hopes for Risky’s. She is very sweet, and I know her heart is in the right place. But she generally has a lot to say about nothing. Her version of feminism is well-meaning, but quite innocent and inexperienced. She has absolute faith in all women.
‘Yup. I’ve done three episodes. My last one has had nearly eighty listeners.’
‘Wow, that’s huge,’ I say, offering nothing but encouragement.
‘Yup, I’m really brave with my subject matter. I say it like it is and I’m all about female empowerment and women supporting women, and all that stuff. And you’re such a big part of why I feel like one day I could have it all. A career, and baby, a marriage in which I am respected. You’re so lucky.’
To the sound of the low hum of my breast pump, I let those words linger in the air for a moment or two. She looks at me, love hearts and protest posters flashing in her eyes. A sparkling twenty-six-year-old whose dream it was to work for a wedding planning company, who thinks that one day her own marriage will be everything she ever dreamed of. Equal. I’m not going to be the one who tells her otherwise.
‘I sure am,’ I say. ‘Lucky, lucky me!’
Ruby
‘I have an eleven a.m. with Vera,’ I say to the receptionist, out of breath. I feel like I’ve climbed a mountain to get here this morning. I just need to get this done, and then I can calm down. I let Bonnie out of her buggy and tell her to sit on the sofa. I give her a bag of gummy bears to keep her busy. I ducked into a shop on the way here and bought nearly all of their confectionary to bribe her with for the next few hours. I need her to sit still.
‘Your name?’ the receptionist asks, even though I am here every five weeks and she damn well should know it. I put my Balmain handbag onto the desk. I find expensive handbags are a great distraction and a good way to gain status. I often present them to people when I don’t want the focus to be on me. She barely even looks at it, demonstrating a distinct lack of taste.
‘Ruby,’ I tell her, tapping my fingers on the counter. She’s wearing a very tight top and looks ridiculous. Her cleavage is staring me in the face. What is the point in dressing like that when you’re coming to work in a space where you’ll essentially only encounter women? Is it just so, on the off chance a man walks in, she is sex ready? I have half a mind to tell her she’s overexposing herself.
‘And your surname?’
‘For God’s sake, Blake,’ I say, with agitation. ‘Ruby Blake. Eleven a.m. with Vera.’
‘Oh yeah, there you are,’ she says, raising her eyebrows at my stress levels. ‘Vera left, I’m afraid. So you’ll be with Maron today.’
She has no idea of the impact of what she’s just said.
‘What do you mean, Vera left?’ Vera has been my technician for eight years. Only the second in my life. I trust Vera. Vera is the only thing that makes this process bearable. She is Russian and commutes from Wapping, there is no chance of me bumping into her outside of our sessions. That is very important to me.
‘Yup, our boss offered her a job in our Birmingham salon and she took it. Good for her. I’d have turned it down. I don’t know why anyone would choose Birmingham over London. All those motorways …’
‘Who is the Moron person?’ I ask, cutting her off. I couldn’t give a flying wax strip about how she feels about the traffic system in the West Midlands.
‘It’s Maron,’ she says, correcting me. I hadn’t actually meant to say Moron. I realise she thinks I’m horrible. I soften a little, trying to explain myself a bit better.
‘I would have appreciated being told about this before I arrived. I’ve been seeing Vera for years.’
‘Er, well, she only left a couple of days ago and we have a new technician who can do it for you.’
‘I had hoped that my loyalty would be treated in kind, do you understand that?’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ she says, absolutely not sorry but wanting me to shut up. ‘Take a seat please. Maron will be with you in a minute.’
She is petulant. It annoys me. I revert back to my angry mode as I think this situation deserves it.
‘Do you understand why I’m annoyed?’ I ask.
‘No, we have someone who can do the procedure for you.’
‘It’s not about some random person, it’s about years of building a relationship with someone and not wanting to have to start all over again.’
I feel like a man who fell in love with his prostitute and asked her to go steady. Of course Vera didn’t care about me. She was just working.
‘I don’t know what to say, look into trains to Birmingham?’ the receptionist says, as if that is a reasonable suggestion. I need to get this done today. I will meet Maron, and try to cope. I look over to Bonnie. She is quietly eating her sweets. Sticking her finger into the bag, fishing one out, rolling it around her mouth then swallowing it, savouring every single one like it’s a bag of white truffles.
I sit next to her, take four Nurofen Plus, and wait. My heart is racing. Part rage, part fear. But I have no choice. Vera moved to Birmingham. I need to get this done.
‘Ruby?’ calls a tall blonde woman, who meets all the clichés of what a person who works in a beauty salon should look like.
‘Yes,’ I snarl, wishing I wasn’t so desperate. But knowing if I wake up like this again tomorrow I’ll smash my house to pieces.
‘Hi, I’m Maron. I’ll be taking care of you today.’ She holds out a hand for me to shake. It is soft and well-manicured. My hard, bony fingers rattle in her palm. ‘Want to follow me?’
I hate her instantly. I liked Vera. She was fat. When you live with a condition like mine, there is a lot of comfort to be had in spending time with other people who push the boundaries of what is considered attractive.
‘OK,’ I say, standing up, being brave. ‘Right, Bonnie. You wait here.’ I find an episode of Peppa Pig that I’ve downloaded onto my phone and give it to her. I leave the bag of snacks next to her, telling her she can have whatever she wants. ‘I might be a while, but I’m just in there and I’ll be right back. If the video stops, you press the triangle,