I Don't Know How She Does It

That night, dining on a repast of lightly sauteed frogs’ legs,

The princess chuckled to herself and thought:

I don’t fucking think so.

Men today can only be better fathers than their fathers. Simply by knowing how to change a nappy or figuring out which hole you stick the bottle in — these things mark them out as more capable parents than any previous generation. But women can only be worse mothers than our mothers, and this rankles because we are working so very very hard and we are doomed to fail.

At Edwin Morgan Forster, the desks of men with children are dense with photographs of their offspring. Before you get to the computer and the blotter, you have to negotiate a three-day-event course of family portraits: leather frames, mottled crocodile frames, double steel frames with a copper hinge, witty Perspex cubes. A missing tooth here, a soccer goal there; that skiing trip in February where Sophie wrapped her red scarf around Dad’s neck and they both turned to face the camera with Steinway smiles. A man is allowed to advertise the fact that he is a father; it’s a sign of strength, a sign he is a good provider. The women in the offices of EMF don’t tend to display pictures of their kids. The higher they go up the ladder, the fewer the photographs. If a man has pictures of kids on his desk, it enhances his humanity; if a woman has them it decreases hers. Why? Because he’s not supposed to be home with the children; she is.

I used to have a photo of Ben and Emily on my desk. Rich snapped it just after the baby had learned to sit up. Em was sitting behind, clutching him round the middle with fierce pride. He was bubbling up as though life was one big joke and he’d just heard the punch line for the first time. I kept the photo on my desk for a few weeks, but each time I caught the children looking at me I had the same thought: you are providing for them, but you are not bringing them up. So the picture’s in the drawer now.

Last year, I went to this lecture by an American chief executive at the London Business School. She said she was going to train her daughters up as geishas; the real future for women was as nurturers and men-pleasers. There was nervous laughter in the room: she was joking, wasn’t she? She was beautiful and she was incredibly smart and I don’t think she was joking.

All I knew was that I didn’t want my mother’s life. I didn’t need a role model to teach me that being dependent on some man was debilitating, maybe even dangerous. But will Emily really want my life? When she looks at her Mummy, who does she see? (If she ever sees her Mummy.) Back in the seventies, when they were fighting for women’s rights, what did they think equal opportunities meant: that women would be entitled to spend as little time with their kids as men do?

12:46 P.M. Chowzat! is the hi-tech cafeteria installed by EMF last year in the basement as part of its attempt to look less like a bank and more like a nightclub. The cafe is meant to have a funky postindustrial ambience, but the effect is a lot like an airport coffee lounge. I am still lightly stoned after the joint accepted in a moment of madness this morning. What could I be thinking of? As I was getting out of the car, Winston invited me to join him at a concert a fortnight on Sunday. Might find it not totally my scene, he said, the music was a bit overwhelming, but he thinks it would do me good. As the proud-fortress fund manager composed her polite but frosty refusal, I opened my mouth and out fell the word yes. Presumably, I now have a date at a rave with my new drug dealer. What the hell am I going to tell Richard?

As the weed wears off, I feel both nauseous and ravenous. Weigh up the rival merits of the Jumbo Blueberry Muffin and its dainty lo-cal sister, Lemon and Sesame Seed. Buy both. Am stuffing alternate fistfuls into my mouth when I look up and see familar brick-red features glowering down at me.

“Jesus, Katie. You’re not eating for two, are you? Got enough trouble in that department with Candy.”

Rod Task.

“Ygno.” I splutter, shooting blueberry bullets across the table.

Rod tells me he needs me to go to New York to do a pitch to some brokers on Wednesday. Wants me to give them “a little TLC.” This information followed by a grotesque wink.

“Next Wednesday?”

“Sure. As in the day after tomorrow.”

“Actually, Rod, my nanny is off sick and I have to find a temporary to—”

He cuts me off with a karate slice of the hand. “Are you telling me you can’t make it, Kate? If you can’t, I’m sure Guy can handle it.”

“Nyes. Of course I can, it’s just that—”

“Great. And can you take a look at this for me, sweetie? Thanks.”

I study the photocopy in the lift on the way back to the thirteenth floor. It’s an article from Investment Manager International under the headline THE GENDER EQUALITY PENNY IS FINALLY DROPPING!

Investment management firms are increasingly jumping on the bandwagon of gender equality as they realize that a more welcoming attitude towards women employees makes good business sense. Herbert George and Berryman Lowell have recently won laurels for their efforts in this area. Julia Brooking, a vice-president at Herbert George, says: “The City offers fabulous opportunities for women. More are being promoted every year. Most firms have now appointed diversity coordinators.”

Many institutions lament, however, that while they offer great careers for women, preconceptions of antisocial working hours and macho culture are still deterrents to female applicants.

“Puncturing the stereotype of old-boy cronyism associated with the Square Mile is not easy,” admits Celia Harmsworth, Head of Human Resources at Edwin Morgan Forster.

Well, she should know. Seeing Celia’s name in an article on gender equality is like finding Heinrich Himmler conducting a guided tour of a synagogue.

Harmsworth announced that EMF, formerly considered to be one of the City’s more old-fashioned outfits, has recently appointed a diversity coordinator, Katharine Reddy.

What?

Thirty-five-year-old Reddy, the youngest senior director at EMF, has been tasked with identifying gender- issue obstacles in the business culture.

I notice that Rod has circled the phrase “gender-issue obstacles.” Next to it he has scrawled, What the fuck is this?

To: Debra Richardson

From: Kate Reddy

hello hello from yr borderline psychotic friend. Do you think postnatal depression can last up to 18 months after the birth? If so, when does it go away?

Did I mention we have RATS. One ran across the floor when the in-laws were staying. OH, AND MY CLEANER HAS FIRED ME. Came in to work to discover 61 e-mails, pitch to do in NYC, nanny “sick,” only available temp is close relative of Slobodan Milosevic. Plus I am EMF’s new “Diversity Coordinator.” Have to take urgent steps to redress the firm’s gender imbalance. Any idea where I can purchase some kind of automatic weapon?

Can we PLS do that lunch? name a day xxxx

To: Kate Reddy

From: Debra Richardson

Believe that postnatal depression can last up to 18 YEARS after the birth and then we have a hysterectomy and start watching old episodes of Friends from red rubber old-lady chairs in gated retirement community.

Don’t worry, rats now v. middle class. No stylish home dare be seen without one. Felix has been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. Think that’s what his dad suffers from too, but that could be because he’s having an affair???

Too knackered to care. Read in Good Housekeeping that half of all working mothers are worried relationship with husband is suffering because of a terrible “time famine.” What are the other