Chapter Seven
Stella
Friday was another grey rainy day in London as Stella bundled herself and Rory up to head out to the bleak concrete playground – again. Tom was at school meaning there were no arguments and no choices. She couldn’t understand what Rory saw in the playground, but she was coming to believe his first word would be ‘swing’ and he was destined to be a pilot or maybe a paratrooper. He was absolutely fearless when it came to heights and seemed to have no attachment needs at all. He would just wobble off without looking back and if Stella didn’t pay constant attention, he would disappear over the horizon. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just let him go. Would he return in sixteen years, all grown up, a veteran of several wars, a member of the French Foreign Legion, thankful to Stella for her trust in his abilities, or would he be taken in by social services and Stella charged with criminal negligence? Thank god Jake was a lawyer.
Stella was having a tough morning. After a couple of days indulging fantasies of all the roles she might return to, she’d begun to make the first tentative steps towards going back to employment. Still having to hide from Jenny and Tim – she’d cancelled drinks by text, citing a vicious viral infection which had cost her her voice – she’d crept out to the newsagent while Rory was taking his 5–10-second post-lunch nap. To extend her alibi, in case of meeting either one of the couple, she’d donned one of Jake’s Crombie jackets, a thick striped scarf (Jake’s again), sunglasses and a faux fur aviator hat with drooping earpieces. Careful to use her own credit card to avoid further embarrassment or delay, she’d purchased all the fashion and celebrity glossies on offer: Grazia, Hello, Yes, Now!, So and Glamour. For research and to see if the editorial listings included anyone she recognised, anyone who might be a useful lead.
Seven years is a long time in politics, in a marriage, but in fashion journalism, it was an epoch. Where once every name would have been someone familiar, now it was as alien as this year’s X Factor entries.
Three names rang a bell with Stella, and not all of them were good. One she’d fired from Grazia for persistent lateness (industry code for a party girl with a narcotics problem). One she’d offended when she threw her out of her Christmas party, as she’d thrown up into Stella’s vintage Chanel handbag. But I mean, wouldn’t you!?
There was one name that stood out. Lucy ‘Left Eye’ Witherington-Smiley. ‘Left Eye’, obviously, because she’d lost an eye in an unlikely collision during a charity polo match at Cowdray Park. She had many faults, but she was a straight talker and was now editor in chief at Now! and features editor for the Mail on Sunday. She was a formidable woman whom Stella had given a significant leg-up, her first column in Grazia. They’d always got on as long as Stella could keep her gaze fixed on the moving and expressive right eye. The Left Eye was a no-go area.
Stella had fantasies that Left Eye would welcome her back with gratitude, reciprocating Stella’s contribution to her career, that a position would be made available or perhaps offer something freelance until another position opened up. The first inkling of a problem came as she flicked through the pages wearing her editor’s hat (figuratively, as she was still in the faux fur aviator). The nature of fashion had changed. The 18–24, and even the 25–35 age ranges were almost unrecognisable. There were references to brands she’d only vaguely heard of, certainly never worn. There were links and references to bloggers and vloggers and Pinterest and Instagram accounts she’d never encountered. She dismissed these first flutterings of doubt with the idea that once you can ride a bike, you never forget; it’s merely a matter of adapting to new terrain. The second wrinkle appeared when Lucy’s PA twice refused to put Stella through, and insisted, twice, that she spell her surname, in spite of Stella using her most casually presumptive tone to enunciate, ‘Hammer–Son. As in Hammer and Son. No, one word. Hammerson. Yes. Stella. No, Stella. Not Estella. Where am I from? It’s a personal call. She’ll know who I am. No, she might not have my number. Yes, yes, well, actually I’m a former colleague.’
‘From the last fucking decade,’ she spat, flushing hot and sweating. She threw the fur hat ineffectively across the room. She wanted to break something, something glass. The way that girl had spoken to her!
And, no, in spite of the passing of three tedious hours, Lucy had still not returned her call.
As she neared the concrete oblong, the cries, screeches, wails and weeping grew in volume. She was not ready for the shiny mothers fresh from their weekly microdermabrasion, their judging eyes. Seven years ago, before two children, two caesareans, and at least 2,500 chocolate muffins, 5,000 full-fat mochaccinos, equivalent bottles of cheap Rioja and value packs of cheesey puffs, Stella had had a trim(ish) waist, a thigh gap (almost), and fantastic breasts that defied gravity and opened doors (literally and metaphorically). Now she was wrapped up in thick duck down that camouflaged any physical outline. She’d wanted to wear jeans today, but the button wouldn’t close. She blamed the tumble dryer. She was certain there was an issue with the temperature gauge, too many of her clothes were shrinking.
She looked around at the grey rectangular space, chocka with kids, nannies and bug-eyed mothers side-stepping dog crap. She sighed and prepared herself. Stella found any kids that were not her own an irritant, and she loathed the cheery chumminess demanded as they buffeted and bullied her and her child. Snotty little vermin chasing around desperate for space. She remembered swearing that she would never be this woman, stood staring into the distance day after day pushing the swing, willing the hours away. But here she was. Her career vanishing behind her and a husband who was married to the law more than he was to her.
She remembered that she must ask Jake about the bank account. She’d tried to log in to the online joint account and her password had not been recognised.
Besides, she said to herself, did she really want to be a fashion journalist any more? It was so meaningless. What did she really want from her life? Rory was scowling at her until she pushed harder and sent him higher and they laughed together. She so wanted to be able to tell people she was more than a housewife, wanted to escape the side glances and sneers of the lycra-clad women at the school gates. She missed the respect she’d had when she’d been an editor. She’d set the agenda. It might only be in the realm of fashion and celebrity but she made the news, moved trends, mocked the unfortunate and celebrated the best. That was incredibly important to her, to her self-respect, and more than that, to her place in the world, her relationship to Jake. She shook her head, she knew she was whining, hoped it would pass. She pushed Rory hard, maybe too hard, and he flew high up, giggling. He didn’t notice but she scared herself with the force of her action and she pulled a frowning Rory from the seat and deposited him on the ground with a shove towards the merry-go-round.
Dark clouds were blowing in from the west. She was going to get wet later, she thought.
She was snapped out of her melancholy by the distant screams of ‘Mummy!’ And then she found herself running towards Rory who had fallen and was throwing himself around on the ground like he’d been shot. A striking young woman with glossy brown hair and olive skin was comforting him. It was the girl from the supermarket, Coco.