Shelly, on the other hand, felt oddly relieved. She leaned down to brush her lips against Dash’s velvety little cheek; she was shattered but free.
Free from the yoke of the phone, free from the anxiety over exposing her life and family, and free to make a fresh start. She was meeting a new agent after the hearing and, while she was nervous – the woman repped only the most respected talent in the country – she was determined to impress her. It was just a preliminary chat. Dash was still so tiny, she wouldn’t be rushing back to auditions straight away, but she wanted to lay the groundwork. It was time to move on from Durty Aul’ Town and push beyond her comfort zone. Ironically, it was Ali who had inspired her with My So-Called Best Life. Seeing her take that risk, be vulnerable and put something new into the world: that was something Shelly had once loved about acting before she’d begun going through the motions as Imelda and acting the part of herself 24/7.
‘What time are we heading in to meet yer one?’ Jim eased closer along the bench and took Dash, slinging him onto his shoulder for a bit of winding.
‘Four p.m. in Brooks Hotel.’ Shelly tidied away the baby paraphernalia so that she’d be ready for the call from the court clerk.
It was still impossible for her to see Polly as @__________. Even though it was a matter of public record now.
Shelly felt bad for Polly. At first, sure she’d been angry but that had rapidly given way to pity. To that end, she’d decided to attend the hearing and, should Polly be found guilty today, which seemed likely, Shelly would have the opportunity to deliver a victim impact statement. Obviously, she wouldn’t be condoning Polly’s actions – she’d endangered Georgie and terrorised Shelly – but she was sick more than malicious and Shelly wanted to try to appeal to the judge before he or she handed down their sentence. It wasn’t strictly allowed for people to reference their own personal feelings towards a defendant in such a statement but, if Shelly could just get across that Polly needed compassion not punishment, then she’d be happy with that. Poor, poor Polly. From reading the online coverage of proceedings, it seemed her family hadn’t attended court even once.
‘Shelly Devine?’ The clerk emerged from the throng of people milling in the hall. ‘The defendant has been found guilty. Would you come this way for the reading of your statement?’
‘Honeys, I’m home!!!!’ Liv’s voice from the hall was jubilant. ‘Every “i” is dotted,’ she called as she navigated the hall’s obstacle course of Millie’s travel system, rubbish awaiting transportation to the bin and the unending laundry that migrated through the house, apparently of its own accord. ‘Every reference is Harvard-approved, every image is credited, the bloody thesis is out of my life. Even if it is sham-fucking-bolic, I don’t care. It’s over.’
In the kitchen, Ali was in a state of exhaustion so acute that the sound of someone, even Liv, in a good mood was causing her actual physical pain.
Just. Be. Calm. She. Is. Just. Excited. She. Deserves. This. Ali held Millie – as she had for every second of this stupid fucking day so far – and jigged in time to each word as she thought it.
Liv came in pulling on the complicated stretchy sling that she’d completely gotten the hang of and Ali still couldn’t be bothered with.
‘How is my baby?’ Liv cooed, hurrying over to take Millie and slip her into the cocoon of the sling.
‘She’s being a little cunt today.’ Ali stormed back over to the onion she’d started trying to chop at exactly 10 a.m. that morning, more than eight hours earlier.
‘Ah, Ali. Don’t say that! She is just a baby – she can’t help it. Leave that. Amy’s on her way. She’s gonna bring Thai. Please go lie down. Have a shower. Just give yourself a rest for a bit. I’ve got her.’
Ali threw the knife and the onion in the sink and stalked out of the room, down the hall to the shower.
Why does Liv have to be so nice all the time? Millie is objectively being a cunt today. And most bloody days. Just fucking agree with me. That’s all I want.
She knew that she was being a brat and that Liv was not the person to take it out on but equally … fuck EVERYTHING.
She ran the overhead shower, stripped off her clothes and sat in the chilly bath underneath it. She watched blood snake towards the drain between her feet as the water pounded down on her from above.
When would the blood stop? It had been a month. When would any of this feel normal? Her body felt rearranged and her whole middle section was gelatinous while her tits grew and shrank with milk throughout the day. But it was the climate inside her head that was really disturbing. She’d known – or thought she’d known – that having the baby would be a headfuck, but nothing could’ve prepared her for the terrifying anxiety, random bouts of rage, glimmers of exquisite joy and bottomless sadness that took turns invading her day and night.
What is wrong with me? Calling Millie a cunt, what kind of a fuck up does that? She whimpered as tears poured down her face and pooled with the milk now streaming from her breasts. The boobs were very sensitive to Ali’s emotions. It was yet more Motherland strangeness. Beneath the sound of the shower, she thought she could hear Millie crying, though she was plagued by the sound of baby cries, real or imagined, day and night. She reached up to turn off the shower and strained to hear.
Nothing.
Sighing, she’d pulled herself out of the bath onto the bathmat before she noticed she hadn’t introduced so much as a drop of shampoo or soap into that bleak wash.
She slipped across the hall to her room, paranoid that Millie would smell her on the wind and start demanding another feed. It was seriously annoying being the food source for another person, like being hunted by a tiny, adorable cannibal in your own home.
She sat on the bed and tried to relax. This was her few minutes to herself. I should sleep or tidy up. Do something, she thought as she picked up her phone to scroll through pictures of Millie from earlier that day. She really was a divine baby, if a bit demanding – though if she was a total pushover, Ali supposed, that would be boring. It was mad: when she was home alone with the baby all day, all she wanted was for someone to come and take her away for a few minutes’ reprieve. But in a very irritating catch-22, anytime anyone actually did, Ali wasn’t at ease until she had her back in her arms.
The phone pinged. Mini.
Erasmus and I are going to stop in after the Arts Council meeting this evening. Liv said she’d include us for dinner. How are you doing since this morning? Any naps?
Mini and Erasmus. Ali shook her head, smiling slightly, pleased with the distraction – even one as bizarre as her mother and her assistant getting together. And Mini was clearly happy. Mini was also the only one with the tolerance for in-depth analysis of Millie’s non-existent sleep patterns. She messaged without fail every morning to get a breakdown of the night before. It was extremely gratifying to report Millie’s impervious-to-sleep ways even if Mini said little more than how difficult it was. You just needed someone to agree with you, Ali had realised. Someone to witness the struggle and say ‘Yes, it’s hard.’ Ali texted back:
Great, see you then. PS What’s a nap? FML
Ali straggled around pulling clothes from various piles on the floor and Millie’s bassinet, which mocked her from the corner, having been used exclusively for laundry-storage since the baby’s arrival.