Having It All Page 5

  Liz had met the breed before: bitchiness was their stock-in-trade. She was going to have to watch her step.

  ‘Do you mind awfully if I smoke?’ Not waiting for an answer, Steffi delved in her vast Vuitton duffel bag and took out a pack of gold-tipped Menthol cigarettes and a portable ashtray.

  Smoking was such an endangered habit now that it was safer, in Steffi’s view, to take your own gear. A fellow-smoker had given her the ashtray in onyx with its own push-button lid, saying it stopped people looking at you like a child molester at a Sunday school outing every time you asked for somewhere to dump your ash.

  Steffi took a large gulp of the cold white wine Liz had poured her and opened her notebook. If there were any cracks in that smug exterior she’d soon find them. Better ease in gently and make her feel relaxed. She could put the boot in later.

  ‘So, Liz’ – she smiled a wide sympathetic smile –‘how does it feel to be the most powerful woman in television?’

  OK, thought Liz, we’re starting with the soft pedal. Now, remember the party line: Being a Mother is an Asset.

  ‘Great. I mean the most powerful woman in telly stuff is just media hype. But the job’s wonderful. I’ll be the first woman ever to run a major TV company.’ Liz hoped she sounded keen and enthusiastic rather than smug and self-satisfied. ‘It’s taken me years to get here but now I can finally make the programmes I believe in. And best of all, it shows it can be done by a woman with kids.’

  ‘But can it really?’ Steffi asked quickly. She’d meant to stay off the subject till Liz was more relaxed but she couldn’t resist this heaven-sent opening. ‘I mean it’s bound to be incredibly tough. Won’t having kids mean constant compromises? Aren’t you afraid of spreading yourself too thinly?’

  Sometimes Liz felt like an old elastic band stretched so thin she might break at any moment, but she wasn’t telling Steffi Wilson that.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s all down to organization and delegation. I have a wonderful nanny.’

  A wonderful nanny who’s thinking of leaving because you never see your children, thought Steffi maliciously.

  ‘But a job like that must need total commitment, can you really throw yourself into it one hundred per cent?’

  Liz fingered her glass, remembering Conrad’s annoyance the other night when she’d wriggled out of the celebration drinks and raced home to see Jamie and Daisy, and her bitter disappointment on finding they’d already gone to bed. Just the kind of story you’d love, thought Liz, as Steffi looked at her curiously. The Price of Success. Could she scent blood? Surely Liz’s wounds were inside, buried deep, away from the prying gaze of Fleet Street hacks?

  ‘When I’m at work I am one hundred per cent committed, I simply close the door on my home life and forget about it.’

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. This was treacherous terrain and she didn’t know how much longer she could keep it up. Head her off. Change the subject. Give her a whiff of sexism to throw her off the trail.

  ‘Once I’m at work I keep my head down and get on with it. Only essential lunches. No drinks after work. It’s only the old macho ethic that says you’ve got to stay at the office till ten p.m. every night. Men waste so much time boozing and bragging, bless them, don’t they?’

  But Steffi was too canny to take the bait. ‘All the same, you can’t see much of your children. Don’t you miss them?’

  Liz said nothing. Steffi Wilson took another large sip of her wine. She wasn’t getting anywhere. Liz was too guarded, too well primed by Metro’s PRs. She saw the interview slipping away from her, turning out to be not a Stephanie Wilson hatchet job but a predictable profile of a boring career woman anyone could write. Time to put the boot in. The nanny had been very useful once she’d persuaded her off the cappuccino on to the wine.

  ‘So how much do you actually see your children?’

  Liz thought she detected a subtle change in Steffi’s tone and told herself she must be imagining it. ‘We have an hour together in the mornings when the children come to our bed. That’s very precious time.’

  If they’re lucky, according to your bloody nanny, thought Steffi.

  ‘How about bedtime? Do you bath them and put them to bed?’

  ‘Of course I do’ – Liz tried not to feel defensive –‘whenever I can.’

  ‘And how often’s that?’

  ‘As I said, whenever I can.’ What was the woman getting at?

  ‘Once a week? Twice a week?’

  Liz started to feel annoyed. ‘Look, this interview was supposed to be about –’

  ‘You. This interview was supposed to be about you. And it is. So you see your children for an hour in the morning two or three times a week. And what about Sports days, school concerts, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Again, whenever I can.’

  ‘Whenever you can.’ Steffi’s tone had the slightest edge of sarcasm. ‘Yet you didn’t make it to the Medieval Evening, or the Family Quiz Night or the Welly Throwing Contest in aid of the Under-Fives Library Fund?’

  Liz looked startled. How did the wretched woman know all this about her?

  ‘Tell me, Liz, do you ever feel you neglect your children?’

  Liz stood up, furious. ‘This is outrageous. Of course I don’t neglect my children!’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. What I’ve heard is that they’re lucky to see you at all some days.’

  ‘How the hell do you know so much about my family?’

  ‘Just gossip, Liz. Gossip is my territory, you see. Don’t you feel guilty, Liz, at the thought of never seeing your children?’

  Guilty! What did that red-taloned harpy know about guilt? It was just a word to her. Liz had lived with it gnawing away at her for months, stuck at work night after night hammering away at their programme plans, longing to be kissing Daisy’s fat cheeks and reading bedtime stories to Jamie.

  Liz started to feel angry. What right did this over-made-up cow have to accuse her of being a bad mother? She had to get away for a moment before she lost her temper and said something she’d regret.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Liz said frostily. ‘I’m afraid I can hear my son crying.’ She ran upstairs, furiously angry and bumped into Susie, who was peering down at Steffi from the landing, looking white-faced and tearful.

  ‘Liz, who is that woman?’

  ‘She’s the gossip writer on the Daily World.’

  Watching Susie’s face, Liz began to feel the first glimmerings of panic. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh God! Liz, I’m so sorry!’ And Susie burst into tears. ‘She said she was the auntie of one of Jamie’s friends and she took me out for a coffee.’

  Liz felt sick. ‘And what did you tell her?’

  But Susie was crying too much to answer.

  ‘OK, Susie. I’ll handle it. Maybe you’d better go back to your room.’

  For half a minute Liz leaned with her head against the banisters and weighed up the situation. Steffi Wilson had got her information from Susie, and by the sound of it from other mothers at school. She was planning a hatchet job, that much was obvious. Cruel mother who puts success before her babies. And it sounded as though she’d done her homework. Liz tried not to panic and calmly assess her options.

  She could deny everything but Steffi would go ahead anyway. She could beg her not to print but Steffi would probably just put that in the piece too. She could threaten her with libel, but Liz had always thought it was a mistake to sue. The rest of the press just repeated the allegations when it came to court and you got screwed twice.

  For a moment Liz couldn’t see a way out. And then it came to her. There was one other option. She could tell her the truth. That she was tired of pretending being a working mother was easy, sick of glossing over the pain and the panic and the guilt. This was the fifth interview she’d given today, all of them trotting out the party line. Being a mother Wasn’t a Problem; indeed it added to her Understanding of Everyday Concerns. Except that it was a problem. She never saw h
er children. Or her husband, for that matter.

  Maybe it was time to tell the truth. That women had been sold a pup. Having It All was a myth, a con, a dangerous lie. Of course you could have a career and a family. But there was one little detail the gurus of feminism forgot to mention: the cost to you if you did. Steffi would probably be thrilled. After all, it was a much better story.

  Slowly she walked downstairs and sat opposite Steffi, refilling her glass and pouring another for herself. She was going to need it.

  ‘You accused me of being consumed by guilt just now and I was about to deny it.’ She took a sip. The wine and the relief of finally admitting to herself the price she was paying for her success were making her light-headed. ‘But you’re right, of course. The truth is I’m riddled with it.’

  Steffi tried not to look excited, but all her instincts were shouting This is it! The tough cookie crumbles! She could smell a scoop. Her editor would be creaming his jeans. Especially at the thought of how embarrassing all this was going to be for Liz’s husband.

  Liz paused for a moment, wondering how to go on. Now that she’d jumped, there was so much to say. The words came tumbling out unstoppably, a Niagara of pain and guilt.

  ‘The truth is I haven’t put my children to bed for three months. If I’m lucky I see them for half an hour in the mornings before Jamie’s arms have to be prised off my leg so I can go to work.’

  She paused remembering the sight of Jamie’s face pressed up against the glass of the front door when she left this morning. He’ll be fine in five minutes, Susie had said, and she knew he would be. But his face had haunted her all the same.

  Steffi looked up from her notebook, concerned that Liz might have changed her mind. This was dynamite. But Liz hardly seemed to notice she was there. ‘I work a fourteen-hour day, and quite often bring work home. Then there are the broken nights. The truth is I’m exhausted, I’m panicky and I’m guilty as hell. Sometimes when I shut the front door I feel like bursting into tears.’ She picked up her glass and drank it down. ‘In fact I’m beginning to wonder if taking this job hasn’t been the biggest mistake of my life.’

  Steffi watched Liz intently. Claudia would be wetting herself if she could hear this.

  ‘So what will you do if the job turns out to be too much?’ For once Steffi found herself genuinely interested in the answer.

  Liz ran her finger round the rim of the empty glass. ‘Then I’ll just have to give it up, I suppose.’

  ‘And what does the legendary Conrad Marks think about all this?’

  Steffi knew all about Conrad. Claudia had spared her no details of his habits in and out of bed.

  ‘He doesn’t know.’ Liz felt a sudden shiver of apprehension. ‘Yet.’ And neither, she realized with a shock, did her own husband.

  Steffi flipped her notebook shut and gulped the last of her wine. She’d get on to copy from her carphone before Liz had the chance to regret any of this and try and retract.

  Liz stood at the door and watched Steffi climb into her specially sprayed shocking-pink Golf GTI. What on earth had she done? And what the hell was Conrad going to say?

  The great tide of relief she’d felt at finally admitting a truth that had been crushing her started to ebb away, leaving her with the terrifying feeling that she’d just done something terminally stupid. But what choice had she had? And wasn’t it time somebody stood up to be counted? So why if she’d just made a brave stand for the working mother did she still feel that she’d just been stitched up like a kipper?

  CHAPTER 5

  Liz stood in the hall for a moment taking deep breaths. One. Two, three . . . OK, so she’d come out with it . . . four, five . . . maybe it was for the best . . . six, seven, eight . . . after all, she couldn’t go on pretending for ever . . . nine, ten . . . che sarà and all that . . . keep calm . . . shi . . . it! She must have been round the bloody bend! And to the Daily World of all papers to choose!

  She heard David’s key turning in the door. She’d have to tell him what she’d just done. Would he understand? He’d been so pleased about her getting the job. How would he take it when she told him she’d just put it all at risk?

  David edged into the hall, almost tripping over Daisy’s pushchair, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm. For a moment he looked irritated at the clutter, then, seeing her standing there, he came up and nuzzled her neck.

  ‘How’s my superstar? You were great on the News.’ His voice rang with pride. ‘I loved the bit about the nineties belonging to women. I could have written it myself!’

  Liz closed her eyes. Except that everything she’d said had been a lie. She’d given four interviews today proclaiming the joys of working motherhood. And only one telling the truth. She took his briefcase and put it down by the mirror. ‘Look, love, we need to talk.’

  ‘Talk later.’ He kissed her neck and started to undo the buttons of her yellow suit. ‘We haven’t even celebrated yet.’ He’d clearly started already. ‘Let’s take the bottle upstairs.’

  It was the first time she’d seen him looking relaxed in days. Maybe sex was just what they both needed. It had been ten days since they’d last made love. Wait till after the launch, she’d mumbled, falling exhausted into bed every night.

  For a moment she thought of insisting that they talked now, not later, but she knew that moments like this were precious. As she stood debating with herself one of her mother’s nuggets of marital advice strayed into her mind: ‘Sex is the engine oil that keeps a marriage running smoothly.’

  She’d always loathed her mother’s little homilies. Never Let the Sun Go Down on Your Anger. It Takes Two to Tango. Take Care of the Pennies. Now, to her shame, she found herself living by them.

  Wearily she followed David upstairs. By the time she got to the bedroom he was naked. He came towards her holding two long-stemmed glasses. Gulping back the champagne she tried once more to talk, to tell him what she’d just done.

  ‘Not now,’ he mumbled, taking the glass from her hand and putting it on the bedside table.

  She started taking off her suit.

  ‘No. Leave it on,’ he commanded, his breath short and heavy. She could feel his excitement, barely contained now, as he laid her on the bed, roughly pushing the skirt of her suit out of the way. And just as suddenly he rolled over, lifting her with him so that in one swift moment he was no longer on top but she was astride him, her skirt around her waist, still dressed as she had been for her interviews.

  He was more aroused than she had ever seen him. And looking down at him she thought she knew why. It was her success that was turning him on, the thought of David Ward, working-class-boy-made-good making love to his powerful wife. For a moment she was touched by his naivety, his uncomplicated belief in the fruits of success. She knew it was this that drove him and gave him his energy. It was his strength. But she worried that it might also blind him to reality, to the fact that there was a price-tag on their success and that she was the one who was paying it. She and the children.

  She looked down into his handsome face as his body shuddered into orgasm and saw that unless she explained why she’d talked to Steffi Wilson a gulf would open up between them. And she knew that she must talk to him now about her doubts and fears, before he picked up the World and read it for himself. Slowly she climbed off and lay beside him.

  ‘David,’ she said firmly, stroking his smooth back, ‘there’s something you ought to know. I’m not as happy about all this as you think. In fact in the last few days I’ve been having doubts about the whole bloody charade and I’ve just told Steffi Wilson so. But I had no choice. David, I need you to understand. David?’

  She leaned close to him and saw that his eyes were closed and that he was snoring slightly. He had fallen into a deep and contented sleep.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ Conrad flung down a copy of the Daily World with such force that coffee spilled out of her cup on to her desk.

  In huge type, across the top of a wh
ole page the headline shouted up at her: EVERYTIME I CLOSE MY DOOR IWEEP, SAYS TV MOGUL.

  ‘What is this crap?’ he shouted. She’d never seen him so angry, not even when he was ranting on his favourite subject of screwing the unions. ‘I hire you to be figurehead of Metro TV, a tough, aggressive, confident woman who can carry this company through the nineties and I get this sob stuff about how hard it is to leave your kids. God knows what this will do for our credibility in the City.’

  He mimicked her voice. ‘“If I can’t handle career and family then I’ll just have to give up the job.” What the fuck were you thinking of?’

  ‘It’s the truth, Conrad, that’s all.’

  ‘So who’d be naive enough to tell the truth to Steffi Wilson? You’re not some little groupie who’s been conned into selling her story to the tabloids, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I happen to think it’s an important issue.’

  Suddenly he leaned towards her. ‘Is it true? This shit about weeping on the doorstep?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t true. I just said that leaving my kids can be tough sometimes.’

  ‘Well look, baby, if you can’t stand the heat get back in the kitchen.’

  Liz began to feel as angry as he did. ‘I have no intention of going back to the kitchen, Conrad. That’s not the point.’

  ‘So what is the fucking point?’ For a moment they stood, eye to eye. Anger was something Conrad understood and respected. It was male.

  ‘The point is that you hired a woman because it suited you. You knew that having a woman Programme Controller was good PR. Now you have to live with it. I am a woman and I love my kids. And I’m not prepared to pretend I don’t. But it doesn’t make me worse at my job. Believe me, Conrad, I’m going to make this job work. On my terms.’

  Conrad turned and walked out of the room, pausing for a moment at the door. ‘I hope you can, Liz, I hope you can. Now get back to running the frigging company, will you? And don’t talk to any more journalists.’