‘Yes!’ said Stella, not really understanding what she was saying. ‘The farming angle works. He’s hot. He appeals across generations and segments. He makes his own gravlax.’
‘Oh, gravlax,’ said Gabriel, holding his pencil up like an exclamation mark. He shook his head. ‘No, no. No gravlax. Too old-fashioned. It’s all about gin and tonic-cured salmon or beetroot staining, now.’
Stella looked from Big Bird to The Elf and had to smile just to hold her jaw up. The smile was more of a grimace.
‘Gin and tonic salmon?’
‘Yes,’ said The Elf, who was almost bouncing with excitement. ‘It’s fantabulous. I can’t tell you. Tastes exactly as you’d imagine.’
‘Anyway,’ Gabriel cut in. ‘No gravlax, not cool any more. Agreed?’
‘Back to the lentil project. Lentils to omnivores. Any other ideas?’ asked Pippi.
Lentils. Lentils. Flatulent lentils. Michael Flatley? No. Not cool. Healthy and cool, metro… Nothing.
Stella could see the disappointment creeping across their faces. Brows were furrowing. Pencils had ceased to squeak across iPad screens. All the life hissed out of her. This wasn’t going to work. What was she doing here with these clowns? She was pinioned to the bean bags in a flop sweat trying to generate culturally relevant campaigns for Mork and Mindy. She wriggled herself into a more upright position and fixed each of them with a stare.
‘Listen. Thank you for the chance to interview. It’s been an absolute pleasure. It was always a bit of a punt. I’ll try anything once. Well, pretty much anything. Well, not anything. The point is that I’m 40 years old. I’ve been raising my kids for five years. I was… I am a serious journalist and I have the track record to prove it. I might be new to all this online stuff, but I know what I know and I can create content, systematically. You give me the right team and I’ll give you a portal that will exceed every one of your expectations. But I can’t sit here like I’m interviewing for a graduate placement scheme. I like you both. I’ve got good ideas. I’ve got skills and experience. You’d be getting me cheap. Believe me. But don’t let’s pretend I’m like you or the other candidates for this job. I’m not.’
She wanted to stand, but was terrified her ungainly staggering and groaning would undermine the impact of her monologue. She waited.
They looked at each other. Pippi was nodding, but Gabriel was stony-faced.
‘You mentioned inclusion. Well, try this. I’m a 40-year-old mother of two. You need a bit of diversity. Take another look at my CV. Take a look at my track record.’
This time she risked her dignity and went for the side-roll, all fours, onto knees and eventually upright. She couldn’t help laughing. Pippi catapulted to her feet and tried to help her. They were both laughing as Gabriel opened the door for her.
‘Thank you for your time, Stella. We’ll be in touch.’
‘Thank you. Thank you both of you.’
She took the long walk through the Non-Area and The Recreation Zone with her head held high. She nodded to the receptionist, noting that she wore double braces. The doors opened and Stella escaped.
She didn’t look back as she waited for her Uber. She had to fight the desire to giggle. Her first thought was that the girls were going to prolapse when they heard this story. Her second was: I wonder what Coco is up to?
Chapter Sixteen
Ana
Ana and Stella arrived at the rowdy West London Italian restaurant in sync and from opposite directions. Ana from work and Stella from Wandsworth. Dixie would of course be late. They found a table outside. It was a warm evening so they quickly ordered a bottle of rosé and settled down in silence.
‘Are you all right, Ana?’ asked Stella.
Ana was preoccupied, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to share her news with Stella… or Dixie. They’d never been fans of Rex as they had always felt she was settling for second best, and she wasn’t sure she was robust enough to bear their critical commentary. She still needed time to process.
‘Fine. Just some work stuff.’
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘How’s the sexual olympics? Still on the clock?’
Ana did not feel well. Her stomach was tied in knots.
‘Ana? Come on… There’s no faking it. It’s written all over you in bold. Spill…’
‘Oh, Stella, it’s just—’
‘Bitches! Take a look at that. It’s a record. It’s five past eight. I’m only five minutes late.’
‘Your watch is wrong, Dix.’
‘Oh.’ She checked her phone. ‘Yeah. Oops.’
‘Where have you been? Every time I call you I get an overseas ring tone and you NEVER pick up.’
‘You look so… vibrant, Dix. Is that a new foundation?’ asked Ana.
‘New York. It’s the jet-lag tan. The first couple of trips seemed to really throw me and now I’m thriving on it. My sleep need is down to four hours. Seriously, I am a machine. I am literally living out of a handbag. Look!’
She hefted an enormous Prada shoulder bag onto the table.
‘It’s got everything I need. Toiletries. Change of clothes. Underwear, obvs. Painkillers. Condoms. Wet wipes. This is capsule packing at its best.’
‘Why all the New York trips?’ asked Stella suspiciously. ‘London Tinder dried up? Are you dating a dealer?’
‘No. Just work. You know…’
‘You are dating someone?’
‘No! I am not. Excuse me, waiter! Another glass, please. Forza pronto. Necessito. Immediamente. Is that even Italian?’ Dixie laughed raucously at her joke.
Ana was relieved the focus was now off her, but Stella caught her eye.
‘Ana was just about to tell me something.’
‘You’re pregnant! I knew it!’ said Dixie.
Ana just lifted the wine glass. ‘Guess again, genius.’
‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t… I’ll shut up. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. I mean there’s nothing actually wrong with me. It’s…’ Ana wanted to tell them, but then again, she didn’t want to tell them everything. They could be so insistent. They might influence her. She chose her words carefully. ‘Rex and I have been advised that if we want to have a child we’re going to need to consider IVF.’
Just saying it aloud, even the partial truth, was upsetting. Ana drained her wine and reached for the bottle.
The looks of compassion and understanding on her two friends’ faces shamed her in her half truth. They really did care and this almost made it all worse. She bit back the tears.
‘It’s going to cost a fortune. It’s awful. It’s so, I don’t know, clinical. They harvest an egg from me. They take Rex’s bottled sperm and they inject my harvested egg. It all happens in a test tube. A scientist in a white coat combines our DNA in a lab and the fertilising egg is stored in an incubator until it’s okayed and can be returned to my womb. My god, it’s obscene. All those years of sex, all that sex, and this is the only way to successfully breed. It’s like the universe is playing a joke on me. Where’s the love? Where’s the magic? I know I shouldn’t be so romantic. I know that we’re lucky to have the option, but still. A test tube. The actual sexual act will be a medical procedure. Yes, more wine. Thanks.’