Page 4 of Stella is Starting Over

‘We’re not supposed to say stuff like that any more,’ I retort, pulling the pram shade down to block the sun from Rose’s eyes, as if I hadn’t had the exact same thought process when I ate the meal. ‘We’re supposed to pretend we don’t care about being thin.’

‘You actually did look skinny last time I saw you,’ Louella goes on. ‘Can I do a matcha with almond, please?’ she addresses what I assume is a trendy barista.

‘Yeah, divorce will do that to you,’ I say.

‘My boss got divorced and she got really fat,’ Louella counters. ‘So I actually would check your privilege on that one. Anyway, your night sounds fucking tragic and it’s not happening again, so we’re doing something today. What time does Gav pick her up?’ Louella makes the name ‘Gav’ sound like ‘skin infection’.

‘Four-thirty,’ I say, feeling sick.

‘Okay, great,’ Louella says, sounding brighter. ‘I’ll find something fun for us to do and message you the address. Meet me there, okay? Wear the Sézane jeans I got you with a navy jumper and ballet pumps, not white trainers.’

She hangs up without saying goodbye. I roll my eyes and then, after I’ve once again packed up Rose’s entire life, I get ready. Rose is napping, so I’ve got an hour, and instead of doing anything productive for the house I blow-dry my hair and curl my eyelashes. By the end of the process, wearing the outfit Louella dictated, I look in the mirror and to my surprise, recognise the person looking back at me as the girl I used to be, rather than the mumsy-looking woman I’ve been catching glimpses of in shop windows.

‘You look great,’ Gav says with a tone of surprise.

‘Thanks. This is her stuff, and this is a cool bag of purées I’ve made for her – you can use a normal teaspoon to feed her, just obviously watch her at all times while she’s eating.’

‘I thought you said she just has whatever the adults are eating?’

This is technically true, because we are mostly doing baby-led weaning. But last week her clothes came back with a stain that looked and smelled very much like an adult lasagna, which is full of salt, which babies aren’t allowed, and I really cannot bring myself to ask him to read an entire book about weaning. ‘We’re just doing purées for now,’ I say. It’s a lie, but only little one.

‘Oh. Right. Okay.’

Rose screams when I hand her over and I want to claw her back from Gavin and move to a country with no extradition treaties to the UK. But before I know it I’m walking to the Tube. On my own. With a tiny handbag. I’ve checked seven times if I’ve got everything I need, because carrying a handbag with no nappies, wipes, bottles or change of clothes genuinely feels like I’ve lost an extremity. I listen to music on the Tube. I get off at Tottenham Court Road and don’t even look to see if they’ve got step-free access. For a moment I forget to feel sad about Rose being gone and then I’m smacked with a wave of sadness tinged with extra guilt.

When I get to the pin Louella dropped for me, she’s standing outside, wearing a floor-length cashmere coat, hair slicked back into the kind of bun that makes her look like an off-duty model and makes me look like Miss Trunchbull from Matilda.

‘You look fit,’ she says, hugging me.

‘You look really rich,’ I reply.

‘Thank you! The coat’s rented and it came with someone else’s fake eyelashes in the pockets.’

‘New or used?’ I ask.

‘Oh, very used. Previous owner’s eyeshadow all over them. We’re going in here.’

‘Conjunctivitis-y. Fun,’ I say as she steers me into a massive, glossy co-working space. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

There are signs everywhere reading HER MAGAZINE. I have a horrible feeling I know where this is going.

‘Oh my god,’ I say, looking around at the dozens of other middle-class women carrying tote bags. ‘Is this some kind of panel discussion?’

Louella nods. ‘Kind of.’

‘If this is a self-help event I’m going to push you in front of the Tube on the way home,’ I say, teeth bared.

‘I’m on the Overground so that’s not happening,’ she snipes back.

‘You said this was going to be fun. Self-help is not fun.’

Louella looks guilty. ‘I know, and I lied, but there’s a Mexican-Iranian pop-up we can go to afterwards, and I’ll pay, and this won’t be fun but it will actually be useful. I promise.’

We take our seats in the main space where there are rows and rows of chairs filled with rows and rows of different versions of the same woman. Louella and I are one hundred per cent on brand. At the front there are four chairs and a big screen that reads, Navigating Modern Love. Underneath, it explains that we are going to understand how to be better at dating because of these three experts: Jessica Rhodes, co-author of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage, William Green, author of The No-Method Method, and Lexie Leung, author of The Mantourage.

‘I cannot tell you how much I hate this,’ I whisper to Louella. ‘I already tried not having a method, I already had what looked like a perfect marriage and I don’t know what a “mantourage” is, but I do not want one.’

‘If you complain one more time, we’re not getting margaritas at dinner,’ Louella says, taking pictures of the stage for her socials.