could almost have handed her one of those stickers you got at conferences: GINNY WALKER, HOUSEWIFE.
‘Hello girls. Waiting for someone?’
Wrapped in their discussion of whether Liz should or shouldn’t have done it, none of them had noticed her arrive. But everyone else in the club had. Mel saw drinkers nudge each other and
whisper behind their hands. Whether she liked it or not, Liz had become an Instant Celebrity.
‘Well,’ teased Mel, handing her a glass of Britt’s champagne, ‘if it isn’t the tearful TV mogul. What kept you? Been weeping on
Wogan
?’
‘Give me a break, would you, Mel? I’ve had it up to here already from Conrad.’
‘Are you surprised?’ Mel moved over on the low sofa to make room for her. ‘I mean he was hardly going to be pleased, was he?’
‘I didn’t do it for Conrad,’ she said wearily. She wished they could talk about something else, but everywhere she went this was all people wanted to discuss.
‘Why did you do it?’ asked Britt, trying to sound casual, hoping her resentment wouldn’t show. In fact she was furious with Liz. It was typical that Liz had landed a job anyone
else would have killed for and she didn’t even seem to value it enough to keep her mouth shut.
For as long as Britt could remember Liz had had things too easily: private school, holidays abroad, a car, even David, the cleverest student of his year. She hadn’t had to fight for
anything like Britt had. And even though it had been Liz who’d invited her, the grammar-school kid, into their posh little group at college, Britt had never really understood why. She kept
feeling that Liz had done her a favour. And she hated people doing her favours.
Liz bit into a crisp savagely. ‘I did it for me. I just got fed up with pretending it was all effortless, that’s all. Having to make high-powered decisions all day after being up all
night coping with colic. Being expected to shut the door on your children and not give them a second thought.’ She turned accusingly on Mel. ‘Do you know what I read in your bloody
magazine? An article on going back to work that told you never to mention your kids, because men don’t, and to wear red nail varnish because it makes you look less like a mother!’
Mel looked uncomfortable. ‘Don’t you think you’re going a bit over the top on all this? Plenty of women with kids work. In fact, most of
Femina’s
readership are
working women.’
‘And do you tell them the
truth
? You haven’t even got kids, Mel, and Olivia prefers cats, for God’s sake. Yet you do nothing but push this image of women with the
Wall Street Journal
in one hand and a baby in the other, zapping the Board and still home for bath-time. Take it from me, Mel, it’s bullshit!’
Mel looked around embarrassed, and sipped her Margarita, for once not springing to the magazine’s defence. Olivia McEwan,
Femina’s
founder and now its publisher, had just
discovered The Family and suddenly no photograph appeared without happy toddlers crawling all over their power-suited mamas. Olivia had decided that children were what admen called
‘sexy’. In other words they sold magazines, like free cars or Princess Di.
In fact, a piece on Executive Mothers had hit Mel’s desk just before she left for The Groucho. None of the mothers in that were whingeing on like Liz.
‘I’d have thought the solution was obvious.’ Britt emptied the last of her champagne and drummed her fingers on the empty glass. ‘If you’ve got a career,
don’t have kids. It’s simple.’
‘Simple for you,’ flashed Liz. Britt’s studied disinterest was beginning to get up her nose. ‘You don’t want any.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Britt,’ snapped Mel. ‘That’s what the last generation of women did. We were supposed to be different! We believe in Having It All,
remember?’
‘Maybe we were wrong.’ Bored with the conversation Britt snapped her fingers at the waitress for another bottle of
‘Hello girls. Waiting for someone?’
Wrapped in their discussion of whether Liz should or shouldn’t have done it, none of them had noticed her arrive. But everyone else in the club had. Mel saw drinkers nudge each other and
whisper behind their hands. Whether she liked it or not, Liz had become an Instant Celebrity.
‘Well,’ teased Mel, handing her a glass of Britt’s champagne, ‘if it isn’t the tearful TV mogul. What kept you? Been weeping on
Wogan
?’
‘Give me a break, would you, Mel? I’ve had it up to here already from Conrad.’
‘Are you surprised?’ Mel moved over on the low sofa to make room for her. ‘I mean he was hardly going to be pleased, was he?’
‘I didn’t do it for Conrad,’ she said wearily. She wished they could talk about something else, but everywhere she went this was all people wanted to discuss.
‘Why did you do it?’ asked Britt, trying to sound casual, hoping her resentment wouldn’t show. In fact she was furious with Liz. It was typical that Liz had landed a job anyone
else would have killed for and she didn’t even seem to value it enough to keep her mouth shut.
For as long as Britt could remember Liz had had things too easily: private school, holidays abroad, a car, even David, the cleverest student of his year. She hadn’t had to fight for
anything like Britt had. And even though it had been Liz who’d invited her, the grammar-school kid, into their posh little group at college, Britt had never really understood why. She kept
feeling that Liz had done her a favour. And she hated people doing her favours.
Liz bit into a crisp savagely. ‘I did it for me. I just got fed up with pretending it was all effortless, that’s all. Having to make high-powered decisions all day after being up all
night coping with colic. Being expected to shut the door on your children and not give them a second thought.’ She turned accusingly on Mel. ‘Do you know what I read in your bloody
magazine? An article on going back to work that told you never to mention your kids, because men don’t, and to wear red nail varnish because it makes you look less like a mother!’
Mel looked uncomfortable. ‘Don’t you think you’re going a bit over the top on all this? Plenty of women with kids work. In fact, most of
Femina’s
readership are
working women.’
‘And do you tell them the
truth
? You haven’t even got kids, Mel, and Olivia prefers cats, for God’s sake. Yet you do nothing but push this image of women with the
Wall Street Journal
in one hand and a baby in the other, zapping the Board and still home for bath-time. Take it from me, Mel, it’s bullshit!’
Mel looked around embarrassed, and sipped her Margarita, for once not springing to the magazine’s defence. Olivia McEwan,
Femina’s
founder and now its publisher, had just
discovered The Family and suddenly no photograph appeared without happy toddlers crawling all over their power-suited mamas. Olivia had decided that children were what admen called
‘sexy’. In other words they sold magazines, like free cars or Princess Di.
In fact, a piece on Executive Mothers had hit Mel’s desk just before she left for The Groucho. None of the mothers in that were whingeing on like Liz.
‘I’d have thought the solution was obvious.’ Britt emptied the last of her champagne and drummed her fingers on the empty glass. ‘If you’ve got a career,
don’t have kids. It’s simple.’
‘Simple for you,’ flashed Liz. Britt’s studied disinterest was beginning to get up her nose. ‘You don’t want any.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Britt,’ snapped Mel. ‘That’s what the last generation of women did. We were supposed to be different! We believe in Having It All,
remember?’
‘Maybe we were wrong.’ Bored with the conversation Britt snapped her fingers at the waitress for another bottle of
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