A Very Accidental Love Story Read online

  And I may not let it show, but I love my little Lily so much that it physically aches to be away from her for any length of time, never mind for the eighteen-hour days I’m practically expected to put in right now. For God’s sake, don’t I have enough guilt of my own to deal with at being apart from her, without having it flung into my face by someone who I’m employing? And at premium rates too, I might add?

  ‘Tell you what, I have a suggestion Elka,’ I say, evenly and deliberately locking my voice into its lowest register, which I’ve learned is absolutely the best way to deal with any confrontational situation. And I should know, having been through more than a fair few in my time. ‘Is it too much to ask that you just get on with your job, let me get on with mine and then this evening when I’m home from work, we can discuss this calmly, at a more appropriate time. Come on now, what do you say to that?’

  But madam’s in no mood to listen to reason.

  ‘I say to all the other nannies, you have no husband, you have no boyfriend, no man, instead you are married to your work.’

  And … bam.

  ‘Excuse me, what did you just say?’

  ‘… all other children I know each has each mother and father, but not Lily. She only have mother. So the mother need to be here for her more. Much, much more.’

  Okay, now that feels exactly the same as a hard wallop across the cheek and hurts so much it momentarily stuns me. So of course, the second I come to, I snap right back at her, the way I seem to snap at everyone these days. But there you go, that’s what deep, ongoing exhaustion and off-the-scale stress levels will do to you.

  ‘Elka, I made it perfectly clear to you from day one that I was a single parent,’ I tell her crisply. ‘I don’t have a problem with it and neither does Lily, but if this is some kind of issue for you, you really should have said so before now.’

  ‘Single parent need to spend more time with kids, not less.’

  Okay, so now I’m fuming, feeling like smoke is physically puffing out of my ears, cartoon-like. Because she’s hit my weak spot square-on, with all the accuracy of an aircraft bomber. Yes, I’m a lone parent and yes, there can be huge disadvantages to that. But deal with it, is my attitude.

  The subject of Lily’s father is one that’s not up for discussion. Not now, not ever.

  And when I think of the amount of money I pay Elka every month – and all for what? So she can stand here, pass judgement on my life and make me feel about two inches tall? So she can spend all day playing with a little girl who’s not even three years old? Does she think that I wouldn’t jump at the chance to stay home all day and be a full-time mum? Doesn’t she realise how it’s like a stab in the chest every time I have to kiss Lily’s little strawberry-blonde head of curls goodbye? Or, worst of all, when I have to listen to the innumerable voice messages she leaves on my phone when I’m at work, in her angelic little baby voice, all with the same unvarying theme? ‘I miss you Mama. When are you coming home?’ There are times when all I want to do is hug her and hold her and tell her not to bother growing up, it’s not worth all the hassle. Just stay like this, stay my little girl forever.

  Doesn’t anyone realise how gutted I am that I seem to be missing out on so much of her? Missed her taking her first baby steps, missed her saying her first words … I’m never there, I’m either in a meeting or writing an editorial or chairing a news conference; always, always, working. And of course I went into single parenthood with both eyes open; I knew massive life changes would be involved. Which is why I hired a live-in nanny, plus two back-up childminders in case of emergencies. Hired them – and then subsequently had to accept all their resignations, one by one like ducks in a row, for exactly the same reasons Elka is now citing.

  But come on, in my defence, how was I supposed to know with all the redundancies at work in the past two years that my workload would effectively double? Anyway, I think, furious with exhaustion now, what does Elka think I’m putting in all these ungodly hours for anyway? Only to keep myself sane, while giving my little girl the best life that I possibly can. Hardly my fault that I can’t be in two places at once – not with the hours I’m expected to put in, and certainly not with my contract up for renewal in six months. Not now. Apart from everything else I have to worry about, now there’s trouble afoot at work, you see, though it’s not normally something I articulate out loud.

  Trouble by the name of Seth Coleman, managing editor of the Post.

  Ah, Seth Coleman. Where do I begin? He hasn’t even been in the job that long; he was headhunted from The Sunday Press when his predecessor at the Post left. Who by the way was a gorgeous, preppy, easy-going guy I strongly suspect I drove out of there and who I now miss more than my right hand. His official reason for quitting was for ‘work/life balance’, and to be perfectly honest, who could blame him?

  Anyway, when pressed officially as to my opinion of Seth, I smile curtly and acknowledge his fine leadership qualities and firm grasp of the newspaper business, always adding that he’s never anything else than a consummate professional, at all times, always.

  But when I’m standing in the shower, which is about the only place I get any kind of private time to myself these days, I will name-call Seth Coleman as the sleaziest, most hypocritical b**locks on the face of the planet, with a thin, slimy, greasy head of hair, and pockmarked, boiled-red skin, whose total absence of neck gives him more than a passing resemblance to Barney Rubble. Oh, and with an ego the approximate size of Saturn’s fifty-seven moons. Represents just about every trait that I despise in the male sex and even manages to discover a few new ones along the way. Patronising to my face, but behind my back, I know right well that he’s deeply resentful of working for a woman. And with my seven-year contract up for renewal in the next few months, even the dogs on the street seem to know that his greedy eye is now firmly focused on the big prize.

  A classically mean-spirited man, he’s also someone who keeps a mental tally of all my losses in work, diligently measuring all my shortcomings, rather than any of my gains. For starters, he’s been busily spreading rumour after rumour about me and they’ve all filtered back; that I’m slipping, that ever since I had Lily I’m not the firebrand I once was, that I’m not living and breathing the job like I used to. And I know, just know without being told, that he’s just biding his time, waiting for me to crack, and so therefore I can’t.

  So I do what I have to do. Go into work and act the part of the bossiest boss that the world of big bossy business could ask for. Do exactly what I’m programmed to do. And it’s tough and getting tougher by the day, even though my job defines me; it’s who I am and not for one second could I consider doing something less stressful.

  But having said all that, the brightest part of my day isn’t when I sign off on the next issue of the Post, it’s seeing the little strawberry-blonde head of an almost-three-year-old sleeping like an angel when I get home, cuddled up in her bed with her favourite teddy bear beside her. And I’ll gaze at her adorably freckled pink little angel’s face and whisper to her that I love her so, so much and that one day we’ll have proper time to be together.

  Then I do what I always do; collapse into bed and try to lock away the guilt that feels like heartburn every time I realise the one single thing that has the power to kill me on the inside; the only time I seem to see my baby girl these days is when she’s sleeping.

  But back to Elka, still spitting fire and venom at me on the upstairs landing.

  ‘Lily is beautiful little girl,’ she spews, ‘and I will be sad to say goodbye to her, but the hours you make me work are crazy. Crazy! And they making me crazy too!’

  ‘Really sorry about this,’ I’m forced to interrupt, unable to take much more, But ‘I’m going to be late for work. Could we please discuss this later?’

  ‘I not finished! I know my entitlements too. My other friends tell me you must give me P45 with full salary entitlements paid up front before I leave.’

  Interesting, I think wryly, grabbin
g my car keys. Elka’s grasp of English is so weak she can barely get by in the supermarket and yet her vocabulary freely encompasses quite scarily impressive phrases like ‘P45 with full salary entitlements paid up front’?

  ‘Elka,’ I tell her, as briskly as I can, given that I’m now running so late it doesn’t bear thinking about. ‘Can I just point out that it’s not as if you have to take care of Lily all day, every day? She’s only just started in preschool and is there till early afternoon every day, which gives you a good five-hour break, plus it’s not like you’re expected to do housework on top of everything else. I’ve a cleaning lady, a gardener and a handyman, who between them pretty much do everything that needs doing around here, so you’ll forgive me for thinking that you actually have it pretty easy compared to some.’

  Like oooh … me for starters.

  But the snarling harridan stands firm, arms folded, eyes slitted, ponytail swished defiantly back over her shoulders.

  ‘You not listening to me. I am handing you in my notice and I want to be gone by the end of the week. I’m veeeery sorry, but that’s final.’

  It’s all I can do to nod curtly, resisting the temptation to wham the hall door behind me, and get into my car as calmly as I can, above all trying not to let her see how much she’s knocked me for six.

  Stopped at traffic lights on Leeson St. on the way to work, I have to pull the car over when I realise that out of nowhere, there’s a hot hole in the pit of my stomach and suddenly I have an urgent need to cry. And now here it comes, my daily anxiety attack – jeez, I could nearly set a clock by its arrival. So out they come, messy, uncontrollable, dry, hiccupping tears of frustration and tiredness that I never allow myself, born from not having paused for breath in … Oh … about seven years now. Can’t help it. It’s like my heart is aching with a pain that’s completely indescribable.

  Christ alive, not even six a.m. in the shagging morning and already I’m filled with a darkness that’s almost unbearable at the thoughts of the day ahead. To my knowledge, I’ve never actually had a heart attack, but I swear, it couldn’t possibly feel much worse than this.

  Because I have never felt so torn in my whole life. Not just between work and home; that I could deal with, that wouldn’t be a problem. Trouble is my job isn’t just one big job, it’s also about nine hundred and ninety-nine small jobs that go with the one big job, so instead of feeling pulled in two directions, I’m being pulled in around a thousand. And frankly there are times when I just don’t know how much longer this can continue.

  ‘Oh what the hell is wrong with me?’ I say aloud, starting to get panicky as I fish round the bottom of my handbag for a Kleenex. Can this really be me, Eloise Elliot, acting like such a complete milksop? Time was when I would work this exact same schedule and it barely knocked a feather out of me. Time was if I happened to drive past a woman on her own sobbing her heart out in a parked car at dawn, I’d look at her pityingly and assume she was having some kind of breakdown and clearly needed professional help. Time was when I used to think that I’d somehow been born without tear ducts.

  But that girl only existed B.L. – before Lily – and now in her place is a shadow of the old Eloise Elliot, a woman filled with darkness who’s expected to do the work of a dozen people and never ever crack, all the while eaten up with guilt like I’ve never known. And why? Because a little girl who’s nearly three will come home from preschool later on today, full of stories and chat that her mummy will never get to hear.

  And now, on top of everything else, I’m nannyless. Yet again.

  The six a.m. news comes on the car radio and I know this bout of unforgivable self-indulgence is over and it’s time to go and face into another day. So I make a huge effort to compose myself, knock back a large gulpful of Rescue Remedy (an editor’s best friend), pat a bit of concealer round my puffy, red-raw eyes and with shaking hands, drive on. I’m already a good fifteen minutes behind schedule so I put my foot to the floor to try and make up the time. If I dared to arrive in late, word would spread that something was up and rule one of survival in my job is simple; never let anyone see a chink in the armour for any reason, ever. They’re like a pack of barracudas in my office, I swear they can physically smell the fear.

  Calmly as I can, I make a mental note to find another childcare agency and leave a voicemail message for Rachel, my assistant, telling her to start setting up interviews as soon as she gets in. Easier said than done, given that the last agency I went to fired me about two years ago. Which stung more than a bit too. But I managed not to let it show. You just can’t in my game, not for one second.

  Anyway, by six fifteen a.m. I’m racing upstairs from the underground car park of the Post’s offices on Tara St., the only bit of exercise I ever seem to have time for these days, what with all the extra work that I’m now expected to do for pretty much the same money I was making three years ago. Which by the way, is a fairly standard change in the newspaper industry now, ever since the recession hit in a big way and our sales took a sharp decline. I.e. yet another stress-inducing source of sleepless nights, if you’re the editor and your contract is up for renewal later on in the financial year.

  Particularly if you happen to be answerable to a board of directors who are all male, with a collective average age of about sixty-five. The T. Rexes, I call them; they’re like dinosaurs from a bygone era, representative of a time when all you could hear in the newsroom was the furious clacking sound of clunky metal typewriters. The days when senior editors swaggered in drunk after big, boozy lunches, where they’d all quaff cognac, wining and dining advertisers on fat expense accounts, then roll back to the office late in the afternoon pissed as farts and no one would so much as bat an eyelid.

  A whole other age ago, during the glory days of the newspaper industry. And right now, frankly there are times when I feel like all I’m doing is fighting a brave rearguard action trying to sustain what I worry is turning into more and more of a twilight industry, with the internet now leading the field as the gutteriest gutter press out there. More and more each day, I’m starting to feel that my job is like trying to steer an oil tanker through a minefield and that it’s only a matter of time before the whole industry is declared as extinct as the dinosaur.

  It’s as though the board of directors feel that survival is a form of success and as far as I’m concerned, that’s just not enough, not in this climate. Their old-fashioned attitude is that the Post is a bastion of tradition that holds up the sky, and while that may have been the case at one time, it sure as hell isn’t now. Times have changed and we either evolve or we die, simple as that.

  What’s worse though is that redundancy is now in the air again. I can smell it sharp as you like; it’s hanging round every office corner, it’s in the stale, recycled air we’re breathing. And I know, just know without being told, that it’s only a matter of time before there’s yet another staff culling, another round of people being asked to exactly the same job, except for far less money, on a three-day week.

  Oh God, I think, suddenly sickened just by the very thought that I have colleagues I pass on corridors each and every day whose days here are numbered and what’s worse, that I’m the only thing standing between them and a dole queue. Or more precisely, me and the amount of sales volume I can continue to generate for the paper. They may not know it, but they’re dependent on me and me alone for their job survival, and the pressure is at times overwhelming.

  I quicken my pace, puffing and panting to make up time, thinking must try harder. Don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’m just going to have to find more hours in the day, somehow. Because if it kills me, no one is going to lose their job, not on my watch. Not if I can help it.

  Oh God, half of me wonders if I’ve got room for another stress ulcer.

  My office is all the way up on the fourth floor, a gorgeous, airy, spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows that look down onto all the briskness and business of Tara St. below me. Not that I’ve ever got a spa
re second to enjoy the view, that is. Or indeed, to luxuriate in the early-morning stillness, a few precious hours before the phones start hopping and things really get pressurised round here.

  And every single morning of my life when I flash my pass at the security doors and stride across the main open-plan office to get to my inner sanctum, there waiting for me on the wall above my desk is a giant portrait of one Douglas Merriman, our founder and first editor. Who by the way, would have sat in the very same office now occupied by me, all of a hundred and fifty years ago. He’s a heavily bearded geezer who looks exactly like Tolstoy, and when I feel those stern Victorian round owl glasses glaring down at me, I look back up at him, thinking the same thought that I do every single day since I took this job.

  Bastard. You never had to work in a digital age, with email and mobiles to connect you to the office even on a Sunday at two a.m. did you? You never had to compete with twenty-four hour news channels or try to sell papers in the middle of the worse economic slump since the Great Depression, did you?

  I’m just flipping open my briefcase and whipping out my initial draft of notes on today’s edition, always how we kick off the day round here: with a thorough going over of this morning’s early edition; where we scored, where we could have done better, where there’s vast room for improvement, that kind of thing. All department heads are required to be here for this, which means about a dozen people sitting round the conference room in total, ranging from political affairs, to foreign, to sports and culture.

  Next thing, without even bothering to knock, Seth Coleman’s lean, slimy, Basil Rathbone-esque form is filling my office door. Looking like he always does, like he was dressed by his mammy. Funny, but for the longest time I assumed he was gay but still in the closet; no straight man would ever wear trousers that sharply ironed, for starters. But then a few years back, he made a bizarre and badly misjudged pass at me at the Christmas party. I remember looking at him in blank astonishment that he’d somehow misread my deep loathing of him for in-your-face lust and it now lives on forevermore in the comedy quadrant of my brain.