Allison Pearson - I Don't Know How She Does It

Bunce was now the head of EMF’s Venture Capital Unit. This was good news in two ways. First, it made it easier to get him to take a huge punt on my dad’s crappy nappy; gambling on exciting new products before anyone else got to them was part of the job. Second, Veronica Pick, the number two on Venture Capital who had been expecting to get the top job herself and was furious at having to make way for a novice in the area, could be relied upon not to steer her new boss clear of any minefields — might indeed be persuaded to guide him towards one with a friendly smile.

FRIDAY NOON. THE SUCKLING CLUB.

“OK, so let’s go through this one more time.”

Candy is not even attempting to hide her scorn. “Your dad, a guy who can’t remember the name of his own kids and has never, to anyone’s knowledge, seen their tushes, has invented a diaper that’s gonna change the face of world diaperdom, except that we know the diaper doesn’t work because you have tried the prototype on your son, Benjamin, and when Benjamin took a—”

“Candy, please.”

“All right, when Ben needed to go to the bathroom, the diaper fell apart. So what we’re gonna do is we’re gonna sell the diaper project to the new chief of our own Venture Capital unit who, being an arrogant cocksucker and knowing even less than your dad about little kids, will invest thousands of dollars in the Great Diaper Adventure and will then lose all that money because…remind me of the because, Kate.”

“Because my father’s company is heavily in debt and the money EMF invests will be claimed by his creditors and the nappy company will immediately go into liquidation and Bunce will lose his shirt, his socks and his poxy boxers and be exposed for the appalling chancre he is. Do you have any problem with the plan, Candy?”

“No, it sounds great.” She sniffs the air as though testing a new perfume. “I just need to hear from you how we are gonna keep our jobs when I’m about to become a single mom and, until Slow Richard returns to the Reddy ranch, you are a de facto single mom.”

“Candy, there’s a principle at stake here.”

She looks momentarily alarmed. “Oh, I get it. It’s our old friend Oates.”

“Who?”

“The snowman. The one you told Rod about? Pardon me, gentlemen, I’m goin’ out now and I may be some fucking time. That’s not a plot, Katie, that’s a noble act of meaningless self-sacrifice. Very British, but you know in the States we have this really weird thing where we like the good guys to be alive at the end of the movie.”

“Not all self-sacrifice is meaningless, Candy.”

My friend detonates her big laugh, and everyone in the club turns to stare nervously at the pregnant woman. “Whoa,” she says. “You’re beautiful when you’re ethical.”

“Look, there will be nothing to link you to the nappy deal, I promise.”

“So all roads will lead to Reddy? You know that after this no one’s gonna employ you ever again, Kate. Nobody. You’re not gonna get hired to change the fucking fax paper.”

With this dire warning, Candy reaches across, takes my hand and guides it onto the swell of her bump. Through the drum-taut skin, I feel the unmistakable jab of a heel. This is the first time she has acknowledged the baby as something permanent, not disposable, and I know better than to say anything mushy.

“Is it kicking a lot?”

“Uh-huh. When I’m taking a bath, you can see her going crazy in there. It’s like some goddam dolphin show.”

“It’s not necessarily a girl, Cand.”

“Hey, I’m a girl, she’s a girl. OK?” Candy clocks my smile and quickly adds, “’Course, I can still get her adopted.”

“Of course.”

I seem to recall it was Candy’s idea that seven women meeting in secret in the City would look less conspicuous in a lap-dancing club than in, say, a restaurant where people were wearing clothes. Sitting here, I wish I had a Polaroid camera to capture the expressions on the faces of my friends as they enter the venue. In the case of Momo, good breeding immediately conquers shock and she sweetly inquires of the blonde at the desk, “Oh, how long have you been open?”

We are not the only women in the Suckling Club, a gentlemen’s entertainment emporium located within easy reach of the world’s premier financial district, but we are the only ones with unexposed breasts. Everyone who has turned up this lunchtime has important work to do. I already know that Chris Bunce is greedy and ambitious enough to plow money into a project without running it by anyone on his team. Why would he want to share the credit if he can take it all himself?

But I also know that we will have to do a highly professional job on the biodegradable nappy to get him to buy it. Dad’s drawing of a winged pig has to be upgraded. There needs to be a brochure, knowledge of the market and production, plus input from a top commercial lawyer. When I called Debra, I was scared she would say no — our string of canceled lunches over the past year had stretched our friendship to twanging point — but she didn’t need to be asked twice. Without ever having met Chris Bunce, Deb knew instantly what manner of man he was and what we had to do to him.

So, our merry band consists of Candy, me, Debra and Momo and Judith and Caroline from my old Mother and Baby Group. We’re still waiting for Alice. (It was vital for Alice, who’s a TV producer, to help us out, but I didn’t hear back from her so I assumed she wanted no part in it. Luckily, she phoned me this morning. Said she’d been away filming, and she’d be delighted to join us, although she’d be late.)

A patent agent before becoming a full-time mum, Judith has written the patent application for the nappy and made it so convincing I want to order a truckload for Ben immediately. In her cool marshaling of language and science, I see a side to Judith I have never known. Caroline, the graphic designer, has come up with a brochure which stresses the nappy’s eco-friendliness and has featured an irresistible picture of her own baby, Otto, sitting on a potty made of lettuce leaves.

Debra is handling the legal side of things. She tells me that EMF will have no comeback against my father. “Look, this isn’t fraud. It’s naughty, but it’s not illegal. And it’s a clear case of caveat emptor — if the buyer doesn’t take care over what he’s buying, then that’s his lookout.”

Deb will be acting as my dad’s lawyer during the meeting he will need to have with Chris Bunce, which we have arranged to be held in a suite at the Savoy.

“You have no idea how brilliant I am at this,” Deb exclaims, as she takes me through the documentation. “What are we going to call ourselves, the Seven Deadly Sisters?”

“Deb, this is serious.”

“I know, but I haven’t had so much fun since Enid Blyton. God, Kate, I’ve missed fun, haven’t you?”

Momo has been given the task of researching the global nappy market. In a few short days she has become an incredible bore on urine dispersal and olfactory containment. “I’m sorry, Kate, but are you aware of how many insults the average nappy can sustain?”

“I can get that stuff at home, thank you.”

My assistant looks anxious. “It won’t work, will it?”

“The plan?”

“No, the nappy.”

“Of course it won’t.”

“How can you be sure, Kate? If Bunce made a killing, I couldn’t bear it.”

“Well, my dad designed it, so it’s an odds-on catastrophe. Plus I took a prototype home and put it on Ben.”

“And?”

“It’s so biodegradable it falls apart at the first poo.”

Alice arrives late at the club from a meeting with the BBC at White City. Over the throbbing music, she points at the girls onstage and mouths, “Are we auditioning?”