Page 5 of So Thrilled For You

Nicki and Matt are happy. So happy. They’ve been together since university and known each other almost as long as the Little Women. Practically childhood sweethearts. Andhappy.With their nice house, and good jobs, and thriving social circles, and their eight hours a night. Now I have to go to her party, see her swollen bump, and pretend I’m excited for her rather than terrified.

I bet she thinks she’s going to have a nice water birth like I thought . . .

Memories of screaming.

My body making noises I didn’t know it was capable of.

A dying animal.

Breathe, Lauren. Breathe.

Just my luck. I get a precious half hour to myself and I waste it with another panic attack.

I breathe. I push the memories aside. Push the endless worries into the crammed cupboard in my mind. The worries that the sleep training clearly isn’t working and Woody will therefore never sleep and therefore I’ll never feel sane again. The worries about how to fucking drive Woody to fucking Nicki’s parents’ house in the middle of fucking nowhere, and having to pick up fucking Steffi on the way, on this little sleep, when Woody hates his fucking car seat. The jarring infantilising games, pretending Nicki is about to embark on a good thing, rather than treading on the same snare trap that clamped down on me. Will I crash the car trying to drive on this little sleep? Kill Woody? Kill us both? Horrific visuals play across my mind in high resolution, turning my stomach to acid, and . . . No. Distract yourself,Lauren. I get my phone out and hold it up in front of my psychological abyss.

I attempt to keep up with current news and flick through various news stories about the heat wave and how global warming is going to kill us all. There’s an opinion piece about the carbon footprint of children – apparently having Woody is the equivalent of twenty flights to Australia a year in terms of his carbon emissions, and they’ve not smelt his nappies. On a different site, another columnist laments the plummeting birth rates and how women are too selfish to have babies. I sigh and tap into Instagram instead. I scroll mindlessly past the frozen grins of people showing off their best lives. It hurts seeing anyone doing anything nice – looking free and fulfilled and glamourous. I see Steffi was out again last night, at some elaborate-looking dinner with loads of editors, with cocktails afterwards in a hotel bar. The jealousy tastes literally sour on my tongue. No doubt she’ll be hungover later when I pick her up and complain about being tired – and I’ll try not to stab her in the eyeball.It must be something important to do with her new agency, I remind myself, in an effort to be kind rather than jealous.

All of this is a delay tactic. I know what I’m really doing online. I’m about to do what I always do when I have a spare second. If I send them enough messages, maybe they’ll say sorry. Maybe they’ll stop playing this dangerous game. The one that almost killed me. I feel myself float away as I log out of my regular account and into my newest burner one. I know their account name by heart and I type it into the search bar. Up comes their smug face – the one I used to love and trust.

I open a new DM to them and tap out my message.

‘You’ve got to stop the lies. Seriously. Stop. Fucking. Lying.’

Transcript: Inspector Simmons

interviewing Steffani Fox

Steffani: Did you know editors are already asking me for the rights to this fire?

Simmons: You’ve mentioned before, how busy you were that day with work.

Steffani: Busy? It was crazy. Literally the last thing on earth I needed was to be at that baby shower, let alone a baby shower that turned into . . . that.

Steffi

Out of all the weekends in the history of my life, of courseNicki’sbaby shower lands on this one. This weekend should be about me and in celebration ofmyamazing life-changing news. So, of course, it’sNicki’sbaby shower, of all people’s, meaning I definitely can’t miss it. No matter how much both of us want me to. I’d argue it’s much harder and braver launching your own business than having a baby with your perfectly OK husband, but Nicki’s the one getting all the presents and support so I’ve had to celebrate myself, by myself.

In fact, I’ve been up since 5am, buzzing my tits off, after I was woken by a message from Liv, the editor at ShutterDoor. We only said goodbye in the hotel bar a few hours previously, so it’s a cosmic sign of utter brilliance she’s messaging already, especially on the weekend.

Liv:

I haven’t slept, Steffi. I can’t stop reading. This book, Steffi. THIS BOOK. Expect a significant pre-empt on Monday first thing. Don’t you DARE let another publisher buy this book.

I squeal and run around my flat in my silk pyjamas before the heat catches up with me. I wipe my palms off on my tiny shorts and type back.

Steffi:

I KNOW, RIGHT?

It’s out with ten other editors. Sorry, but not sorry. I really think you and Rosa Williams are perfect for each other though. Let’s talk Monday.

Liv:

Still got a third left. How is this so good? Where did you find this woman? This book is everything. EVERYTHING. If anyone else gets it, I will DIE, and then I’ll haunt you forever.

Obviously I will be much more professional on email on Monday. But holy shitballs, Steffi. This book is The One. You must be so thrilled. What a perfect way to launch your agency. I’m so happy for you. Everything is about to explode!!!!!

Publishing is an industry that expresses itself solely through the use of multiple exclamation marks and five translates to ‘super lead title, NYT bestseller, multiple foreign auctions, and a giant marketing budget’. Sleep was never going to happen after five exclamation marks. Especially when it’s ten bazillion degrees outside, at dawn, and living in London adds an extra two degrees to Dante’s inferno. Also, I live in a loft conversion so I’m essentially a baked bean right now. It’s not even six, but I may as well shower and get ready for this baby-shower vibe ruiner. Google maps predicts it will take meeight hours and twenty-fourminutes to get to the venue. Well . . . technically only two hours,but when that includes a bus journey, two tube changes, a train ANDthen Lauren picking me up from the nearest station, I may as well be Mary on her way to Bethlehem on some donkey. Youknow who didn’t have a baby shower?Mary.That’s my girl.

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