Page 48 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

‘There were a couple of pregnancy tests in the bag,’ I continue, not allowing the talk of gin and tonics to derail me.

‘Yeah, I stopped at Superdrug on the way over,’ she says. ‘I want to be sure and I didn’t want to have them in the house. God forbid the boys or Fiadh find them. Or Paul. Like I told you before, I need to be ready to have that conversation.’

‘You wanted to be sure? How many tests have you done already? How many will it take for you to be sure?’ I ask. ‘Because, darling, you do know that it’s next to impossible to get a false positive. You don’t need to keep doing more tests.’

It seems that I am not the only person employing the old clutching at straws approach to life at the moment.

Niamh turns her head to look at me. I can’t quite read her expression. It’s entirely possible I’m hallucinating with pain at this stage. ‘The thing is, Becks, I haven’t tested yet. I just know.’

‘You haven’t tested yet? Not at all?’ I ask, incredulous. Dear God, give me strength. She hasn’t even peed on a stick yet?

‘I’ve been pregnant four times before,’ she says. ‘I know what it feels like. I know what my body feels like. This is the same. Exactly the same. And my missing period is a pretty big clue.’

Niamh Cassidy is one of the smartest women I know. She is fierce. She is brave. She is determined and feisty and often appears to know everything there is to know about everything. And yet…

‘Oh love,’ I say. ‘You’re forty-six, Niamh. You’re a science teacher. You know your biology. Surely you know there’s another, perfectly normal, explanation for the absence of periods for women of our age?’

32

A PAIR OF JEANS AND A NICE TOP

‘It’s not the menopause,’ Niamh says.

‘How do you know that for certain?’ I ask.

‘Because I know what being pregnant feels like. And I know I’m ridiculously fertile. And I know that certain risky behaviour was carried out.’

‘You know that menopause can mimic the symptoms of pregnancy, Niamh,’ I say, feeling increasingly exasperated.

‘It’s not the menopause,’ she says and there’s a borderline aggressive tone to her voice. I raise my hands in mock surrender. If she wants to die on this hill I shall let her – although she might regret her passing if the pregnancy test comes back negative.

‘Maybe,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Who am I to judge? It’s so long ago since I was pregnant I can barely remember what it felt like. And I only did it once, but with two babies, so my experience maybe wasn’t typical.’

‘Well it’s only seven years since I did it,’ Niamh says. ‘And I remember every last detail. I’m not a stupid woman. I know my body and I’ll prove it.’ She grabs the two pregnancy testing kits from on top of my bed and informs me she’s going to do the tests right here and right now. ‘I want to do two tests so do you have a cup or something I can pee in so I can dip both sticks in?’

‘You want to pee in one of my good cups?’ I ask.

‘Good cup. Bad cup. I don’t care. As long as it can hold a fairly decent amount of wee, we’re good. I drank half a litre of Fanta on the way over. Which, you know, is also a sign because when I was expecting Cal I was obsessed with Fanta,’ she says.

‘You’re always obsessed with Fanta,’ I remind her. It was her go-to hangover cure throughout our teen years and early twenties. A can of full fat Fanta, a Mars Bar and a bag of beef flavoured McCoy crisps. Even now she’s often seen swigging from a bottle.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Cup, Becca? Or I’ll grab your favourite Michael Bublé mug and sully it forever!’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ I say, but not really trusting that she wouldn’t, in fact, dare. ‘Look in the tall cupboard by the fridge. There are some of those red disposable cups the boys used at their birthday party. You know, like the ones you see in movies.’

‘Those are a bit too big. I don’t think all that Fanta has gone through me that fast,’ Niamh says. ‘But thanks. You’re a life-saver.’ With that she disappears off down the stairs and I’m left trying to assess just how much pain I’m in. I lift my phone and google ‘Can you break your arse?’ Visions of some sort of full body cast contraption fill my head. I wonder momentarily whether this is where the expression ‘handing your arse to you in a sling’ came from. I also wonder whether they will bandage me up in some intricate way or make me lie face down in a bed in some sort of arse-repairing traction if I go to hospital. Like Tom Cruise in Born on the Fourth of July. Not that his problem was a broken arse. It was a bit more serious than that, but…

I hear the toilet flush. It’s been a good five minutes and there has been not one peep from the bathroom. The flushing of the toilet would seem to indicate the deed has been done, and the recycled Fanta disposed of.

The bathroom door creaks open and I hear footsteps across the landing. My heart quickens. What result do I want for Niamh? Surely as she doesn’t want any more children and we are both hoping to start living the lives we once dreamt of, I should hope it’s a negative. But the part of me that feels a little dried up and less womanly really wants to convince myself we’re still in our fertile years. And a baby… I do love babies.

I read somewhere that you never know when the last time will be. That there will be a last time you lift your child into your arms. A last time you tie their shoelaces. A last time you rock them to sleep. And you don’t tend to know when that will be. Time moves on until you realise one day that something has changed. Your baby doesn’t reach for a dummy any more. They start pronouncing their words correctly instead of in the endearing way you’ve grown to love. Saul used to confuse his v and f sounds with bs. I miss him asking if he got an ‘inbitation’ to the party. Adam called grated cheese ‘spiky cheese’ – something I still do but they have long forgotten.

If I sit very still in a very quiet room, I can close my eyes and in those moments conjure the sights, sounds and smells of them when they were young and they needed me in that all-encompassing way small children need their mothers. I can imagine the imprint they used to leave as they lay on my chest and yes, I wish I could feel it for real. Just for five minutes. Being a mother was such a huge part of my full-time identity for so long, I’m not sure who I am without it. So yes, a part of me would love it if she walks into the room and waves a positive test in my direction. Sure, it won’t be my baby, but it will be a baby for me to cuddle and coo at, to smell and care for.

And yeah, hand back at the end of the day.

Because, I also realise, I am ready to move on from that stage of life. I’m ready to live a little for me, even if I don’t know how to do that just yet. Even if I have no idea what that looks like or feels like, because there’s a whole other set of last times no one warns you about either.

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