The Cows Read online

  Now I just cling on to those words my mother said – ‘never needed anything but you girls’ – and I know that having a child is my only real chance of happiness. Even the thought of it changes my mood.

  I think I’d like a boy. Girls are so complicated, what if I had one like me? I think, chuckling to myself at my desk. I wonder if you can do that? Choose which sex you’ll have. I Google it.

  For a Boy Baby, try the following …

  Male sperm are thought to be stronger and tougher than their female counterparts. So there are a few ways you can help them along.

  * Cough syrup, apparently the ingredient that thins your nasal mucus also thins your vaginal mucus, meaning the boy sperm have more chance of breaking through.

  *Acidic conditions are said to kill boy sperm, so the prospective mother needs to go on a high alkaline diet.

  *Weight loss apparently encourages conceiving a girl. So don’t lose weight. Bulk up, if anything.

  *Doggy style is the best position for conceiving male children. Deep penetration, so those strong boy sperms have easier access.

  *Drinking a shot of coffee beforehand is said to make the Y chromosome more active.

  *Having an orgasm during intercourse is said to give the male sperm a head start.

  Wow, OK, so there is. So aside from getting him to have sex with me, all I have to do to have a baby boy by Jason is drink loads of cough syrup, eat tons of vegetables, put on some weight then get him to have sex with me from behind, just after he’s drunk a coffee, while I am having an orgasm.

  I mean, how hard can it be?

  ‘Fuck this,’ Jason shouts, storming in and making me leap three feet into the air. I quickly slam shut my computer. ‘I’m trying to focus on writing but I can’t stop thinking about her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tara!’

  Oh, shit.

  ‘I know it seems crazy, but she was just amazing. Confident, in control, successful, sexy as hell. I know I’m a walking cliché but there was just a connection. I want her! I’m going to trawl the Internet until I find her, it can’t be that hard. Tara, TV, Walthamstow. She’ll be there somewhere.’

  ‘No, Jason. No Internet. You promised,’ I say, trying to lay down some guilt about the book. It’s been relatively easy to keep Tara’s video out of his sight until now, but if he searches for her, he’ll find her right away and that would totally ruin my plan. I have to keep him offline until it all dies down.

  ‘Stella, please move. I am using your computer,’ he says, firmly.

  There is a gentle tussle, but I am determined not to let him online. He clings onto my laptop while I try to pull it away, but eventually he wins and I’m forced to stand to the side. He’s typing those fatal words into Google. TARA. TV. WALTHAMSTOW.

  This cannot happen. He cannot find Tara. He has to get me pregnant.

  I grab a glass vase from on top of the filing cabinet behind my desk and throw it on the floor, it smashes everywhere. Jason tuts but is unperturbed. I can see the pages loading. All is about to be lost. Should I push him off the chair? Throw a glass at the computer screen? Take my top off? No, fuck, shit, aaaaaaar, ahahahah …

  ‘Jason!’ I shout, falling to the ground, unsure if what I am thinking will actually make it past my lips. But then I am saying it, I’m just bloody saying it.

  ‘Cancer! Jason, I have cancer!’

  Total stillness.

  Jason turns to look at me just as a picture of Tara appears on the computer screen behind him. He doesn’t turn back to see it, he’s too much of a good person to do that. He stands up and comes over. Kneeling down to join me on the floor, despite the glass slivers, he hugs me, with no thought for what the boundaries should be. The comfort of his cuddle eases me into whatever mess I just made. The power of affection overrides the tap-tapping of guilt. I deserve a few moments of this.

  ‘Stella, no,’ he says gently. ‘Cancer?’

  ‘Yes, cancer,’ I reply. Breathy, pained, committed. He wipes a tear from my cheek, presuming I am crying because of the fatal illness I just told him I have. Actually, it’s because glass is cutting my knee.

  He lifts me up, and leads me over to the couch. As we pass my desk, I push the laptop closed before he sees Tara’s haggard face.

  That was close.

  ‘Here,’ says Jason, coming back in from the kitchen and handing me a cup of tea. I quickly reassume my ‘I’ve got cancer’ face. ‘Don’t you need to work?’ I say, as if shunning his attention.

  ‘Writing can wait,’ he says, generously. ‘Is tea enough, do you need something stronger, wine? Whisky? Shit, what am I thinking, you can’t drink wine.’

  ‘NO, wine is fine,’ I say, a little too desperately. I correct myself, ‘I mean, it can’t get much worse, can it? A little wine can’t hurt.’ I really need a drink.

  He goes over to a little bar in the corner of the studio where we keep booze for clients, and opens a bottle of red. ‘If I found out I had cancer I’d probably go on a massive drug binge and smoke a whole packet of cigarettes. I’d think, fuck it.’

  ‘Oh, you couldn’t be more right. Trust me,’ I say, taking a huge glug of wine.

  ‘So I want you to start at the beginning, OK? How long has this been going on, I mean, when did you find out?’ Jason says, settling next to me on the sofa. I know I have to tell him things, it’s one of the things he finds attractive in women. Emotional honesty … I need to give him some.

  ‘My mum got breast cancer when she was in her early forties, she died when she was fifty-two,’ I say, as Jason pours more wine into my half empty glass. ‘My twin sister and I—’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know you had a twin sister,’ Jason says, interrupting, possibly realising I’ve worked for him for nearly a year and he’s not made any effort at all to get to know me.

  ‘Yes, Alice and I took care of Mum, she had so much treatment. Double mastectomy, chemo, radiation. It was brutal. She was battered by it for years, and then we were told that nothing was going to work, and that the cancer had won.’

  ‘Shit, Stella, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, it was the most bizarre feeling, the last five years had been so terrible that we all talked about how we wished we hadn’t bothered with treatment. Alice and I organised a funeral for her, she wanted the memory of her pre-cancer life to be the theme so we both wore her old dresses from the Seventies and asked all of the guests to wear the brightest colours in their wardrobes.’

  ‘That’s adorable,’ Jason says, taking a sip, happy for a glimmer of joy in what is otherwise a pretty bleak story. ‘The traditional black is so depressing.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So where is your sister?’

  I pause. Does he need to know it all?

  ‘She’s dead,’ I say, drinking some wine, deciding I might as well lay it all bare.

  Jason puts down his glass and leans forward to put his head into his hands. ‘Stella, I don’t know what to say.’ I see a tear on his cheek. That’s understandable, I suppose, what I am telling him is horrendous.

  ‘Yeah. A year or so after Mum died, Alice started to feel really ill. She had this constant pain in her belly and was so tired all the time. So we went to the doctor and they did loads of tests but couldn’t work out what it was. And then they found out that she had stage four ovarian cancer. It had spread to her liver and was incurable. She was dead within six months,’ I say, finishing my wine and putting the glass on the floor.

  ‘And what about your dad, is he around?’

  It’s funny, I think so little about my father that I am surprised when Jason asks after him. But of course he would, it’s normal for people to ask where someone’s dad is. One day I might be telling our baby about Jason, and what will I say? What are my intentions if this does actually work? Will I even tell Jason I am pregnant? I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t want things to be complicated. I could just quit work, say working with him after we had sex was too difficult for me. I never ha
ve to see him again; he never has to know. I could remortgage the flat, live off that for a few years and then get another PA job somewhere else. I’ll work it out.

  ‘I never knew him,’ I say. ‘He left soon after Alice and I were born. Twins are a lot of work, he couldn’t take it apparently. Mum was always pretty open about not fighting for him to stay. She said it’s best to be alone than surrounded by people who don’t love you. So that was that, she raised us on her own. I wouldn’t have a clue where he is now.’

  ‘Do you care?’

  ‘Not really. If I’m completely honest, I never think about it,’ I say, realising for the first time in my life that so much of who I am has been shaped by the fact that my dad never stuck around. This is the danger of talking about feelings; you realise that your life is more fucked up than you thought.

  ‘I never even asked you about your life,’ he says, visibly disappointed in himself.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, comforting him. ‘I’m your assistant, you employed me to look after you, not to be my counsellor. And really I didn’t want to talk about it. The job has been really important. When I met Phil he got me out of a dark place, convinced me to work. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, I just wanted to be distracted, so he suggested that I worked as a PA where I focused on someone else, other than me. It’s when I go home that things get complicated.’

  ‘So when did you meet your boyfriend? Sorry, ex-boyfriend.’

  ‘I met Phil two years ago. He was the first person I’d really spoken to about Alice and he was so supportive.’

  ‘And he just left you? What a prick.’

  ‘Yeah, well I guess there was a lot of pressure.’

  ‘Did he know you have … does he know you have cancer?’

  I pause. I could backtrack, say that I worded it wrong. That I was sorry but I forgot to add the bit about the gene. But you can’t take back the words ‘I have cancer’ once they are said.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Wanker.’

  ‘It’s OK, it’s going to be a tough ride and I guess it’s best I just do it alone, rather than have someone around me who doesn’t really care.’

  ‘Well, I care, OK? I’ll help you.’

  ‘You have a book to write, mister,’ I say, trying to sound like I’m not desperate for him to impregnate me.

  ‘I do. But I’m here for you, I really am,’ he pauses, clearly unsure if what he is about to say is OK or not.

  ‘What?’ I press.

  ‘You could stay at mine tonight if you don’t want to be alone? I have a spare room, it’s clean, I promise. Believe it or not, I have a cleaner.’

  I have to be careful if this is going to work. I don’t want to push things too fast.

  ‘I better go home, but thank you. I have my first treatment tomorrow morning, so if it’s OK I’ll be late? Apparently it’s just mild, I should be OK to come in,’ I say, impressed by my improv skills.

  ‘Jesus, Stella – take the day off!’ insists Jason, but I know that if I leave him unattended, then he’ll find a way to get online.

  ‘No, really. The doctor says I’ll be OK and I’d rather come in than be at home alone. Really, I need life to continue as normally as possible for as long as possible, I should only be an hour late, if that. My appointment is at eight a.m.,’ I say, looking forward to a lie in, I slept so badly all weekend.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ he asks, because he’s a great guy and that is what great guys do.

  ‘No, really. I’m OK to go alone. And look, I’ll let you know when I need you, OK? We don’t need to talk about this again, the focus should be your book, that has to get done, OK?’

  ‘You’re so selfless,’ he says, putting his arms around me, obviously feeling like the perimeters of our relationship have opened up and that friendly physical contact is absolutely acceptable. ‘Thank you for sharing all of this with me and really, if you need me for anything, just call. I’ll leave my phone on all night in case you need anything.’

  ‘Thanks, Jason. But it’s business as usual, OK? I don’t want you to treat me any differently.’

  That was maybe the biggest lie of them all. I want him to treat me so differently that he bends me over his desk and gets me pregnant.

  But of course, I keep that to myself.

  10

  Tara

  I kiss Annie goodbye, and Mum and Dad take her to school. I’m nervous, and they can see it. I go back up to my room and lie on my bed, I close my eyes and try to clear my head, but it’s impossible. I’m terrified, my hands are trembling and I feel like the blood is all in the middle of my body, like it’s been sucked away from my skin. I email Camilla.

  Hey

  I think I’ve fucked up. I said yes to an interview on Sky News, they are about to arrive. I sold out for cash. What have I done?

  She writes back straight away.

  Tara, don’t panic. It’s OK. It’s OK to say your bit, just don’t apologise. You don’t need to apologise. Women do not need to apologise for being sexual. Good luck, you’ll get through it. TV is your world, just be you and you’ll be fine x x

  Don’t apologise? That’s the entire fucking reason I agreed to do this. If I don’t apologise, what the hell else do I say? The doorbell goes. Shit. They’re here.

  I’m dressed in a black polo neck and jeans, as neutral but respectable as I could manage. When I open the door there are nine people with cases and bags and lights and even though I have worked in TV for over ten years and should have known what to expect, I am shocked and intimidated as they walk into our house and turn the small living room into a mini TV studio.

  I make everyone tea and try to be hospitable. I paid for Mum and Dad to go to a museum, lunch and a matinee in the West End; I couldn’t cope with Dad’s hyperventilating and Mum cleaning out the Marks and Spencer picnic section to feed the crew. The crew are all very good at acting like nothing is a big deal; the trick with good TV is that no one mentions anything about the issue until the cameras are rolling. This means the contributor, who may not be used to being on camera, doesn’t say things like, ‘as I said earlier’ or even just miss chunks out, for fear of the people in the room thinking they are repeating themselves. Another trick is that the host has no contact with the contributor until the cameras roll, so I’m not surprised that Damien himself isn’t here yet.

  It is so bizarre to be the subject of the show. I know all the tricks. I know that as soon as I am out the room they are talking about me. I know that they are all going to leave and tell everyone they know what I am ‘really like’. So I am careful not to act nervous or insecure. But I am finding the close proximity to strangers excruciating.

  I sit on a chair in the kitchen, as a young girl whose breath smells of Tic-Tacs paints my face with a variety of products.

  ‘I love MAC foundation,’ I say, breaking the ice, because she’s obviously been told not to talk to me about anything personal and that’s clearly killing her.

  ‘Me too,’ she says, happy to speak about make-up. ‘It’s so good. And their new neon eyeshadows, have you seen those?’

  ‘No, I’m not really a neon eyeshadow kind of person,’ I say. ‘I actually don’t wear much make-up, I keep it pretty natural.’

  ‘Yes, I Googled you and saw that so I—’ She stops, realising that by admitting to Googling me she has just confessed to seeing the video. And now her hand is trembling and I have no idea how she’s going to put mascara on me without stabbing me in the eye. We say nothing else until the make-up is done.

  At eleven a.m., Damien walks into the house.

  ‘Tara,’ he says, warmly. He’s about five foot nine, stocky, and looks like he gets his hair cut far too often. ‘Thanks for doing this. I think it looks like we are ready to go, how are you feeling?’

  ‘You know, a bit like I wanked on a train and now I have to go on national TV to talk about it,’ I say, managing to make myself laugh for the first time in a while. Damien doesn’t really laugh. I clock it. I
never engage with any contributors’ humour if I have the intention of stitching them up. I’d never want them to say afterwards that I was two faced, because I was so nice before the cameras started rolling and then I fired uncomfortable questions at them from behind the camera. I suddenly feel suspicious. Damien tries to move things along and goes into the living room to take a seat in my dad’s armchair that has been pulled up close to my mother’s chair as if they are going head to head.

  ‘Can I get you miked up?’ says a sound man, holding a radio mike in front of me. I drop the cable down my top and catch it out the bottom, he connects it to the pack and attaches it to the back of my jeans. And suddenly I am filled with such fear, and such regret that I want to scream GET OUT to them all and get back up to my bedroom where I can hide and Google myself and not have to endure actual human interaction.

  Think of the money, I tell myself, and I must. This is for Annie.

  ‘OK, I think we’re just about there,’ says Damien, suggesting I come over and take a seat.

  He’s in my dad’s chair, I’m in my mum’s chair. It feels symbolic somehow, although of course the crew didn’t know whose chair was whose when they set up the shot. As the cameraman makes a few tiny adjustments, and the make-up girl dashes in to brush my nose with powder, Damien shuffles his notes. There are about ten pages on his knee. I feel like my future depends on what they say.

  The room is silent. The cameraman says, ‘Action.’

  Damien talks to camera.

  ‘Hello, and welcome to the special interview with me, Damien Weymouth. Now, unless you have been living under a stone, you will have heard of my guest today. Twelve days ago, Tara Thomas was living a normal life, working in television and taking care of her daughter, Annie.’

  I flinch when he says ‘Annie’. Something about her being named on TV feels so grim.

  ‘But now, this single mother of one’s life is anything but normal. Branded a “scarlet woman” by the Mirror, a “traitor to feminism” by the Guardian and a “shameful example of a mother” by the Daily Mail, Tara Thomas is not only a national hate figure, but a national joke. Trending on Twitter for a record ten days, in just one week she has lost her job, moved back in with her parents and ended up hospitalised after a severe and public panic attack in a local supermarket. Today, feeling humiliated, vilified and like life may never be the same again, she is here with me, Damien Weymouth, to give her side of the story. Tara, how are you feeling?’