My virtual life, p.2
My Virtual Life, page 2
Then there is the how to section: how to snog with braces; how to ditch an uncool mate; how to tell a bezzie mate that they have bad breath.
How nice.
God, who reads this rubbish?
I flick on. ‘Go Green, Not Mean’ sings the next headline. The feature is trying to sell eco-friendly living as a way of showing off green savvy while not being a ‘recycle skinflint’ as they put it.
Oh no, I have just turned to the double-page spread and there it is: ‘Stella’s Star Guide to Fashion’. A photo of my mum looking ridiculously young staring out at me. I know enough about magazine publishing to realise that she has been airbrushed to within a millimetre of reality to remove any trace of the fact that she is a real live woman. Horror upon horrors that she should actually look like a mother!
Give me a sec—
Right, I’m back. On close examination of the offending picture I have found:
The fine lines which crinkled up when she laughs have been magically erased.
The frown line between her overly arched eyebrows which, according to the depth of its crease, indicates whether she is cross or puzzled has been banished.
The little dark mole which normally sits under her right eye has been conveniently obliterated.
Even her nose seems to have been lengthened and smoothed out so that it resembles a manipulated piece of Play-Doh.
I think they may have trimmed a little of her jaw line.
But worse, much worse than her appearance, is the outfit. If Stella ‘Fashion editor for hot teens everywhere’ wasn’t my mother it would be funny, but instead it is pathetic and sad.
Surely social services should be alerted. I shouldn’t have to face this ritual humiliation without counselling of some description.
In the double-page spread my mother is wearing a tiny baby pink tank vest emblazoned with a shower of diamanté studs. Stella stands posed in the full-length photograph with her hand placed on her hip which is jutting out at an unnatural angle, her long legs clad in skin-tight dark jeans, and balancing on ridiculously high platform wedges. Oversized sunglasses (or sunnies as she calls them) sit high on her head and her honey blonde hair is tousled and tweaked to look like she has just effortlessly blown in from the street.
Not for the first time, I can feel the flush of red-hot shame when contemplating my mother’s attire.
Why can’t she be like Matt’s mum, Rae, who wears comfy jeans teamed with cardigans out of Hobbs or Phase Eight and jaunty, spotty scarves from Accessorize? Rae wouldn’t be seen dead in any of Stella’s clothes. Her freckly snub nose would wrinkle up in distaste but she would never say anything critical. But then again, she wouldn’t have to. Any full-grown woman with a smidgen of self-respect and maturity would not want to dress like a spivvy teenager.
I better read it in the hope that it won’t somehow identify Stella as my mother. I would happily deny all knowledge of ever having met the new fashion writer of the hottest teen magazine around. Except mummy dearest has blabbed to anyone who would listen, including sending an email from my computer to everyone on my contacts list, announcing her appointment and promising to secure ten per cent off subscriptions for any of my friends. The joke is on her since, beyond Matt, I don’t really have any friends and I can’t see Matt taking out a subscription any time soon.
My contacts list happened to include Jessica Bailey and Freya Layton who, having once befriended me when I arrived fresh faced from London, have long since moved on up the ranks of grammar school popularity; leaving me firmly behind in the cold shadow of the outcast tree.
Within a week they had discovered that, despite having lived in London, the only thing of interest about me was my accent and that I was neither hip nor happening. I was promptly dropped from the ever-so-temporary echelons of popularity and resigned myself to the familiar and comfortable position of being a school nobody. It is a position I wear with quiet pride and had grown used to in London (not that I had a choice).
Why change the habit of a lifetime?
The outcast tree is a huge sycamore which, for reasons unknown, has become the gathering ground for those not cool enough to hang around the back of the school canteen where sneaky ciggies and clandestine encounters are rumoured to occur. I think it is mainly Year 11s who do all the ciggie sneaking and flirting, though I have it on good authority from Matt that some Year 10s and even odd uber-cool Year 9 have been sighted. Perhaps when I have reached the grand old age of being a Year 11 I will find out what goes on behind the canteen. Until then I shall just have to use my imagination, or more likely Matt’s.
Hang on a minute, I just want to read it properly.
‘Try adding a flash of florals to your wardrobe this summer.’
‘Wear your denim with an edge – go tight, tight, tight!!!’
‘Lime green is so hot, team it with lemons and sorbet pinks.’
Please, I ask you, how can someone believe that this stuff is important?
At least I can’t be actually identified beyond sharing a surname with my mother. But this town is small and Stella’s network is overactive in sharing its gossip. Besides, she is so into herself for landing this job that she is telling anyone and everyone about it. Last week she stopped some random girl in the middle of Great Victoria Street and told her that her wide brown belt was ‘to die for’. Of course, she just had to go on to explain her ‘professional interest’ as if the girl would be at all impressed. Unfortunately, the randomer was the type of air-brain twit to think writing for a fashion magazine was cool and asked Stella for her autograph. How ridiculous! Stella then gushed about the incident all day. She thinks she is famous now.
10.13pm
Perhaps it is some sort of elaborate April Fool’s prank. But if it is, knowing my mum, she would have a TV company lined up to record my horrified reaction. Then everyone at school and beyond would be able to view me again and again as my face explodes into a crushed raspberry red mess of embarrassment.
Maybe I could go to every newsagent between here and school and buy every copy of Heart before anyone else gets their hands on it. But that would mean spending every penny I have saved for the last three months and I would look like a spacer buying hundreds of copies of that stupid magazine.
Sorry to go on about this but I am traumatised. How am I supposed to go to school knowing certain people will have bought the offending publication and identified Stella Hunter, ‘Fashion editor for hot teens everywhere’, as my mother. Is there no justice in the world? Have I not endured enough shamefaced scorn as the result of the huge evolutionary biological joke of being my mother’s daughter?
There is nothing for it but to accept that my life is over.
I can’t hope to make any sort of come back from this humiliation. My mother, ‘Fashion editor for hot teens everywhere’, has ruined my life, yet again.
How my mother has ruined my life: part one
Thursday 6.56pm
Food consumed since came home from school: one Petits Filous (i.e. one six pack), one flapjack peanut butter sandwich (trust me, it is worth the mess), one glass of pineapple juice. Dinner was Quorn sausages (don’t know why as no one in this house is a veggie) with frozen mash (obviously it wasn’t frozen when I ate it).
Lonely Girl Blog
Please note that I am not a saddo no-mates person. I have BFFs, or at least I have Matt who I have known since forever – well, nearly two years. He is funny, clever and annoying, usually all at once. My problem is that, as he is male and I am female, there are certain issues that we cannot converse on. My mother is one of them.
She got pregnant without being married at the age of eighteen and then refused to stay with my father.
She decided to go travelling throughout Central America when I was less than a year old, taking me with her and putting me at risk of malaria, typhoid and severe sunburn. All of which probably caused my phobia of needles since I had to have several vaccinations against said tropical diseases.
She dressed me in unimaginably cringeworthy clothes throughout my childhood – try wearing a pink tutu with a skull and crossbones motif, striped pirate top, teamed with miniature Doc Marten boots when you are six. She thought I looked cute; I looked demented. The other kids at reception class were frightened of me.
She thinks it’s okay to wander around the house in her underwear and doesn’t understand that when the bathroom door is closed it is because I want privacy.
She likes to eat her favourite Ben and Jerry’s ice cream with a dash of vodka straight from the tub and puts it back into the freezer, with her spoon still in it.
She thinks it’s cool for her to have Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter and Instagram – please don’t get me started.
She dresses like Miley Cyrus and says Chloë Grace Moretz is her spirit animal.
She wears T-shirts with slogans like ‘Pink is a feminist issue’ or ‘Down for it.’
She tries to organise sleepovers for me with her friends’ weirdo daughters in the hope that she can doss down with us and be ‘one of the girls’.
She wants to give me a style makeover.
Stella
Tara loved my feature spread. I’m sure she did. I know she’s really proud of her mummy for forging a stellar media career. I’m sure she thinks I take my inspiration from her wardrobe choices but the truth is, I wish Tara would be a little less Emily Brontë and Virginia Woolf in her attire. Would it hurt for her to buy a little Bardot top and show off those gorgeous little bony shoulders? If I had her tiny waist I would live in cut-off white shorts, frayed at the edges with a few strategically placed slashes. Still, she is learning from the best. Any day now, her love of fashion will kick in. It’s just delayed, like when she didn’t cut a tooth until she was thirteen-months-old. I thought she’d have gums forever.
I have to allow Tara to develop her own unique style. After all, we all went through the teen years fashion fails. I just wish she would take a little guidance from me, after all, I am in the fashion industry. She is privileged to have me by her side to oversee her shopping choices.
It isn’t easy being a lone parent. Everyone says so. I have the hardest job on earth bringing up my baby girl all on my own. And look at me. Hardworking, successful, glamorous even. Just like Madonna; doing it all solo. Setting such a good example to my daughter. She learns first-hand how hard it is to be woman of substance. A woman of goals and needs. If I want to purchase a new Coach or Kate Spade handbag, then I know that I need to check my bank balance and make sure that my overdraft and credit card are all in alignment. That is the responsible, grown-up thing to do.
Maybe I’ll treat myself to a new bag. Yes, I deserve an award for getting through a hard week of working, commuting and parenting. Bravo me!
I cannot believe that Madonna is sixty. How did that happen? One minute she’s wearing a Gaultier cone bra and the next she is eligible for her bus pass. Along the way she taught us how to party, how to pray and how to be a badass woman while making no apologies. I must do a feature looking at how Madonna’s fashion choices have influenced us over the decades. The Pope’s visit to Ireland could tie in nicely. After all, nobody wears rosary beads quite like Madonna.
* * *
Want list:
An ankle-length pleated skirt to be wore with flats, preferably plimsolls.
A pug. They are all the rage. I could call it Tiffany or Ivy and take it to the office with me. Tara’s cat may not approve but they could end up devoted to each other. The Instagram possibilities are endless.
A Jackie O style head scarf for the transitional weather we are having.
Some cacti and succulents to create a green zone in the kitchen. It would look great as a back drop for Instagram posts.
A hobby or a man. Or both.
3
Do I really want to wear that?
Tara, Friday 9.12pm
Food eaten: not nearly enough.
Your presence is requested at the party of the year.
Heart invites you to star at our soiree,
12th May 2008 7pm for 8pm
Henshaw’s, Maiden Stone Square, Dublin
Dress code: whatever goes
RSVP juno@heartpublications.com
The commuting part-time mother has returned. She swans in to the kitchen and swoops down on me for a kiss. Her Jo Malone perfume is cloying but I return her hug, in a bid to satisfy her maternal neediness and try to go back to my homework. Not a chance, she’s going to hang around and look for some sort of connection. Often the conversation begins with my day at school and ends with her telling me every detail of her day. She looks at me expectantly. I can’t think what it is she’s waiting to hear and then she prompts me, ‘Well, darling, tell me honestly – what did you think of the feature?’
I looked at her childlike eager, expectant face and couldn’t find it in me to burst her bubble of happiness and total self-involvement. You see, that’s how nice I am really.
‘Sure, it’s great.’ It is all I can manage without choking on my words.
‘Really? You loved it? Oh, I’m thrilled. It’s racing off the shelves as we speak. Can you believe it? In this internet dependent world, magazines are practically dying and yet my feature is a hit! Jago has just WhatsApped me to say Perpetua is expecting it to be their highest selling issue ever.’ Stella is practically dancing around our slick grey and indigo kitchen, throwing chopped peppers and radishes into the huge bowl of salad leaves. She sets a bottle of balsamic vinegar on the table and arranges cutlery next to the slate place mats.
‘Tara, what are you wearing? Didn’t I buy you that, like, two seasons ago?’
I looked down at the oversized T-shirt with a print of feathers across it and shrug.
‘Darling, you really must try harder. You should ask yourself every morning, do I really want to wear that? And if you listen closely you will hear your inner fashionista whisper “no, put it back in the wardrobe”. The key, darling, is to pay attention. Okay, sweetie?’
I sort of nod. No point in trying to explain that I was happy to put on the first thing that came to hand. This as a concept would be alien to Stella, sort of like explaining snow to a child brought up on the desert plains.
A jug of iced water with three slices of lemon floating on top is added to the table and with a flourish of the salad servers Stella announces in a sing-song voice, ‘Dinner’s ready.’
‘What? This is it?’ I ask, eyeing the bowl of salad with suspicion. It looks as if it has just been plucked from an allotment, wildlife and all for added protein.
‘I know, darling, it seems a little light, but us girls have got to watch our calorie intake. Did you read the piece on BMIs written by our resident doctor, Jon?’ Stella serves a generous portion of leaves onto my plate – as if she can make up for the lack of carbs and taste by being big on the garden arrangement. Oh yummy, lots of green stuff, that should fill me up. Not.
‘It is just scandalous how many calories are hidden in food. It is so easy to pile on the pounds and now I’m in the public eye I really must be more responsible. My readers expect nothing else. I’m not saying I’m a role model per se, but young, impressionable girls are reading my work and nobody wants to see a roly-poly role model, do they?’
I promise you I am not making this up. She really thinks that she is someone of celebrity status or at least on her way to being there soon. I offer up a silent prayer that Madonna or Beyoncé declare that keto diet plans are over. Note to self: raid the fridge after dinner, before Kveta conducts her nightly swoop.
I try to tune Stella’s buzzing high-pitched voice out. Since she has begun commuting to Dublin she has acquired a strange hybrid accent, sort of posh BT9 Belfast mingled with that plum-in-mouth voice of Keira Knightley.
Perhaps I could get one of those white-noise machines that would eliminate her simpering voice and give me peace to just think. Or ear defenders. They would be awesome.
Perhaps I am not being totally fair. She was on a high from the success of her first big magazine by-line. I can understand the sense of achievement from reaching her goal but really, does she think that writing fashion pieces for lobotomised teenagers is worthy of starvation? Or worse – starving her own daughter?
I could become anorexic and end up being force-fed with a rubber tube, lie languishing in a specialised hospital ward somewhere and then Stella would be sorry. Does she not know that teenage girls are impressionable? Maybe Heart magazine have yet to do a feature on anorexia. I may have to wait several issues before she has it from the authority of Dr Jon that children must be fed proper nourishing, fatty, tasty food.
I let her prattle on as I try to eat the shrubbery.
‘Amazing bags, quirky little purses, fabulous suede fringed belts …’ All she seems to care about is clothes and accessories. It is beyond me how anyone could find so many different ways to describe an outfit.
I zone back in, roused from my private imaginings of wasting away from lack of wholesome, filling food when I hear the terrifying words: launch party. At first, I thought I was having some sort of calorie withdrawal delirium episode, like Hurley in Lost. Do you remember Lost? Stella was obsessed with it for the first two episodes. She can’t possibly expect me to tag along to some fashion magazine gathering, could she?
‘You’ll love it, honey. We can do a weekend trip and you’ll get to see the apartment. It’s très chic. Very Sex in the City. My own little pied à terre. You can meet all the gang. Jago, my assistant, is super cool, gay as a disco ball and has impeccable taste. Casey will be there too. She’s the new teen agony aunt, you really must meet her – she’s only twenty, can you believe it, and working for Heart?’
I let my fork clatter to the floor, anything to break my mother’s mad rambling.
