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were also some love hearts floating across her face. She said this granola has helped her stay full until lunch time, and all the other advertising rhetoric breakfast brands rely on. I know it’s a lie, because I spent three months testing menus with Lauren and she doesn’t even eat breakfast.

      I like Lauren though, I think. I mean, it’s not like I get much out of her. Considering her Instagram feed is largely posts about happiness, self-confidence and being grateful, she’s quite unassuming in person. I’ve not really had much alone time with her – her mother Mayra is usually with us. I get the impression their relationship is a little tense. I’ve worked with a lot of brides, and generally mothers are supporting figures who are just excited for their daughter’s big day. I’m sure Mayra is excited for Lauren, but she is very bossy. Some days it feels like it’s her wedding that I am organising. She’s the kind of woman I can imagine slapping me in the face if I forget to tell her she looks nice.

      ‘I’m getting that granola. It’s got dark chocolate in it, and that can boost your mood,’ Risky says, obviously back on Instagram and abandoning all work.

      ‘But don’t you think she’s only saying it’s good because she’s getting paid to say it’s good?’

      ‘No boss, Lauren only posts about products she believes in. That’s her promise to us.’

      ‘“Us”?’

      ‘Her fans.’

      ‘Oh, I see,’ I reply, pleased there is a clause in Risky’s contract that essentially says she isn’t allowed to lose her shit around celebrity clients. Risky has met Lauren twice, and both times this extremely effervescent, connected, confident and cool young woman has turned into a mute. She thinks Lauren is the Jesus of the social networks.

      ‘She understands mental health,’ Risky tells me often. ‘Her anxiety isn’t taboo. It’s inspiring. We have to talk about mental health more.’

      ‘Well, you are certainly flying the flag for that,’ I’d say, to which she looks proud of herself. She talks about her anxiety like it’s her pet cat. Something she needs to handle with care or it will scratch her eyes out. Something that is always tapping on her shoulder when she is trying to sleep. Something she has to keep under careful observation until it dies.

      I don’t know what sounds worse, anxiety or marriage. I am glad I only suffer from one of them.

      ‘It’s OK for her to monetise her Instagram feed,’ Risky says, now applying some bright pink lipstick. ‘Why should she give so much of herself to us for nothing? And at least she isn’t just living off her rich husband. She’s paying her own way, I respect that. She’s a businesswoman really, showing us all that we shouldn’t be taken for granted.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose that’s one way to look at it,’ I say, putting on some mango-flavoured lip balm. Some of our chats make me feel so old. It’s strange to think of myself as a grown-up, but around Risky I feel positively ancient. When I was a teenager we had posters of celebrities we liked on our bedroom walls. They felt like untouchable gods. Now these people expose every inch of their lives on Instagram and reply to their fans. If Madonna had replied to a message I sent her in the Nineties, I might have imploded. I’m not sure how healthy all this direct access to famous people is, for either them or their fans. Risky is obsessed.

      ‘Well, I am grateful for her brand partnerships, because this wedding is going to cost more than North West’s fourth birthday party,’ I say, delighted with my cultural reference.

      ‘Um, boss. North West is already six,’ Risky says. I let the conversation dissipate naturally.

      Lauren rather publicly turned down £600k from OK magazine, saying she didn’t want her big day to be about that. She then quietly signed a million-pound deal with Veuve Clicquot to live-post the wedding on her Instagram feed. I suppose she will be in more control of it now, but it all boils down to the same thing – an absolute abuse of privacy that you willingly sign up for, leaving you powerless to tell the press to back off. It’s not my job to judge, and I am making a fortune out of this wedding. I take twenty per cent of the whole cost, and the budget seems to increase every day. But I do think relationships are hard enough, without the public being involved. It can’t be easy when everyone wants to know all of your business.

      A few years ago I did weddings for budgets of £30k or less. It took one influential guest at a wedding breakfast to think the beef pies were a revelation to book me for her daughter’s wedding (an IT girl, already divorced twice; third time lucky, I suppose) and that was that, I was catapulted into the world of high-budget nuptials.

      While Risky pretends to work but actually tries to take surreptitious selfies ‘at work’/‘feeling hungry’/’hoping today is a good day’, I sit at my desk and try to look like I’m concentrating whilst scanning porn sites, to give my neglected clitoris a tiny thrill. I’m worried it might go into panic mode, break free from my cumbersome body and throw itself at random strangers if this drought carries on.

      I think being starved of intimacy is why I currently have horn levels that seem impossible to control. I realise I only had a baby four months ago, and that my libido probably shouldn’t be this high. But it’s all I can think about. An obsession. It would be the same if I went on a vegan diet to lose weight; I would crave beef burgers and fantasise about dinner at Korean BBQ joints, where I’d get to dribble over the preparation of food as well as the joy of eating it at the end. The ultimate food experience, surely? My husband has put me on a brutal sex diet, and I am gagging for a three-course (at least) romp.

      It’s been so long since we did it. Last time was right at the beginning of the pregnancy. As soon as my body started to change, Michael pulled back even more than usual. When this job came in, Lauren and her mother wanted to test menus from around fifteen caterers. I joined them, of course. I ended up trying everything on their behalf, as neither of them seem to eat anything apart from kale and tofu, and maybe granola if they are being paid. I was never exactly a slip of a thing, but two stone later (and no that wasn’t just the baby), I was pleased when they finally decided on a chef.

      Michael suggested I employed a ‘food taster’ to do that job in future. To stop ‘this happening again’. By ‘this’ he obviously meant me putting on weight. I didn’t think it was a problem, really. All anyone else said to me when I was pregnant was that I was so lucky to be able to eat what I wanted. That I was eating for two. That I needed the calories.

      Everyone except Michael. It gave him even more of a reason not to have sex with me. And then there was the pregnancy itself.

      ‘The baby, the baby, I don’t want to hurt the baby,’ he would say. I don’t know if that was genuine or not, but even our doctor’s assurance that the baby wouldn’t be damaged by his penis wasn’t enough to help. He just couldn’t do it. I’m not pregnant anymore, but he still acts like my vagina has teeth.

      My nipples release some milk, as they seem to every time I think about sex.

      ‘Risky, where is my pump?’

      ‘Oh, I washed it for you,’ she says. She’s excellent like that.

      Risky goes into the kitchen and returns with my electric breast pump. She is wearing an Eighties crop top today and high-waisted jeans. She is tall, slim, and loves neon. She’s not pretty, exactly. She has quite a big nose and her hair is damaged from over-dyeing. Her skin isn’t great, which is why she hangs off every recommendation Lauren and her filtered face make. Risky is attractive in her own magical way. Her style, quirks and personality are gorgeous. I quite like millennials, I’ve decided. I think maybe they will make the world a better place. Risky is certainly going to try.

      She plugs in the pump, screws the bottles into place and gets it ready while I take off my top and bra – one of the benefits of being the boss at an all-female workplace. Before I was lactating, I’d often get to my desk in the morning and take my bra off right away. Heaven. I put on the weird elastic bra thingy I got that holds the bottles in place, so that I can pump whilst being hands free and getting on with work. Hardly any point in

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