So Lucky. Dawn O’Porter

never go back. Ever.

      By the time I find my phone I see that I have three missed calls from my mother. She hasn’t called me in around three months. Why now? It’s like she knows. I am having a disastrous parenting moment and she is right there to rub it in.

      I struggle on for a while and we come to the entrance of a park. I push Bonnie in, and let her out of her buggy. She immediately runs off and starts collecting sticks and leaves, happy. I take a seat on a bench and call my mother back, taking in a long slow breath before I do.

      ‘Who is this?’ she asks when she answers. She is drunk, I can tell.

      ‘Hello, Mum, I saw that you called.’

      ‘What do you want?’

      ‘I’m in a park with Bonnie,’ I tell her, knowing this mood well, and knowing that detailed responses are pointless. ‘Just calling back to check you’re alive.’

      ‘Like you care, you little beast,’ she says, followed by a cackle so loud I put my hand over my phone to make sure no one else in the park hears it.

      ‘Don’t be unkind, Mother.’

      ‘What did you say?’ she asks, her tone instantly snapping into defence mode.

      ‘I said, please don’t be unkind. I don’t like it when you call me that.’

      ‘Oooo, she doesn’t like it when I call her that. She gets all upset. The poor ugly beast.’

      ‘Mother, did you want something specific because if not I am going to go.’

      ‘I’m going to kill myself,’ she says. Suddenly deadpan.

      ‘Don’t do that,’ I tell her, as I have done so many times over the years.

      ‘You can’t stop me. I’m going to do it tonight.’

      ‘No you won’t,’ I say.

      ‘Yes I will.’

      ‘Why?’ I ask her, wondering if this might be the one miraculous time I get an answer.

      ‘Shut up. It’s not like you care about me—’

      I hold the phone away from my ear while she continues to rant abuse.

      ‘Are you done?’ I ask, after a minute or so. She seems to be and goes quiet. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go.’ I brace myself for the next stab.

      ‘Go on then. Piss off. If your own mother doesn’t love you, who will?’ she says, before hanging up.

      I feel tears begin to well in my eyes as I watch Bonnie play happily without me. I know the second I tell her we need to leave, she will act just like my mother does towards me. Screaming, kicking, yelling, telling me she doesn’t love me, acting like my very presence in her life is unbearable. I never imagined that becoming a parent would be like reliving my adolescence. Minus the cruel name at least. Mum has called me ‘The Beast’ ever since she burst in on me in the shower when I was sixteen. It’s why I never dare risk my own child seeing me naked. Who only knows what cruel salutations a toddler might come up with.

      How does everyone else make parenting look so easy?

      ‘Move please,’ says a man who is standing in front of me, blocking my view of Bonnie.

      ‘Excuse me?’ I reply, with a certain amount of attitude.

      ‘Please move from the bench,’ he repeats. ‘Please.’

      ‘I absolutely will not move from this bench. I was here first. I’m watching my daughter.’

      ‘Look, I’d really appreciate it if you would go and sit over there. Please,’ he says calmly, still laden with something heavy. ‘You don’t understand. Please, just move.’

      He points to an empty bench a few metres away. I can’t be bothered to fight him – I have had enough conflict for one morning and need a break. I gather my bag and the buggy and move a few benches down. Making sure he hears me say ‘Up yours’ as I go.

      As I settle onto my new seat, I have one eye on him, and one eye on Bonnie. She is playing happily, so I concentrate most of my attention on the man. Is he trying to watch Bonnie play? He’s now revealed that he is carrying a packet of baby wipes. It’s very odd. I cautiously start to move towards my daughter, just in case.

      But then he stands up and faces the bench. Using the wet wipes he cleans the bird poo and any other dirt off the slats. Scrubbing hard in places, polishing others. It is meticulous work. By the time he has finished, it is gleaming like the day it was painted. Satisfied, he sits on it and looks out at the park. I can see a million thoughts passing behind his eyes. I wonder what they are. Eventually, he stands up slowly and walks away; somehow, a little less upset than he was before. What an extraordinary show to witness.

      I head straight over to the bench. A silver plaque is attached to the middle of it that I hadn’t noticed before.

       Verity, loving daughter and sister. Gone too soon, forever missed and loved. Your spirit will always live in these gardens. 1989–1996

      I sit on the bench and look over at Bonnie. Could the man be Verity’s father? I try to imagine losing Bonnie. Wondering how I would feel if all I had left were my memories and a bench.

      I need to work harder at those memories.

       2

       Beth

      Some days I get to work and spend the first thirty minutes looking at pictures of Tommy. I’ve got a box of disposable nipple pads in my drawer because every time I think about him my boobs leak. And I think about him a lot. Is organising weddings really the job that should take me away from my tiny baby? I mean, if I was a nurse, or an astronaut, or about to discover the cure for cancer then sure, get back to work and save the world. But I organise unnecessarily expensive weddings for extremely rich people. I’m selling a product I don’t necessarily believe in. Painting a picture of marriage as an idealistic partnership that begins with a party and stays just as joyous for years to come. But that isn’t the experience that I have had.

      Hey Boss, had an email from a woman who has a budget of £5,000 but wants an entirely vegan wedding for 65 people. What do you think? No leather, organic fabrics, the whole shebang. What shall I tell her?

      My assistant, ‘Risky’ (youngest of three, her parents let her siblings name her) emails me, despite sitting less than three metres away. She doesn’t remember a time when people didn’t have computers to communicate on their behalf. It’s like she forgets she can just talk to me. Sometimes, she even sends me an email, hears it ping into my inbox, watches me read it, then asks me what I think. It’s really extraordinary. I email back. I’m not the one who’s going to tell the future it’s wrong.

      Tell her she can have whatever she wants. I’ll meet with her after ROD

      ROD is the code we use for Lauren Pearce and Gavin Riley’s wedding. We tell them it stands for ‘Riley Order of Day’. But actually we call it ‘ROD’ because when we first got the job Risky said, ‘I’d love Gavin Riley to hot rod me.’ It made me laugh so much we named the project after it. It makes us chuckle, but if anyone realised what it really stood for they would probably get all offended. There isn’t much of a sense of humour in the serious world of celebrity. A lot of the time it’s like we are organising a political dinner. Lauren Pearce is so famous she thinks the government is bugging her phone. I’ve been sent more NDAs for this wedding than Trump’s cabinet give to their female staff.

      Risky is beside herself about the entire wedding. She follows Lauren’s every move. She says she is her favourite ‘influencer’. If Lauren posts about a face cream, Risky buys it. If Lauren