Page 40 of So Thrilled For You

Would you like a blow job, honey? Before you go get eight hours sleep? I’m actually really up for sex too. I’m not too tired, or touched out, or traumatised by my horrific birth, or dry because of the breastfeeding, or petrified about the thought of sex because I could get pregnant and there’s no way I’m putting myself through this again. Let’s do it doggy style, to prove nothing has changed! Now, come on my tits. Well done. And off to sleep with you, darling husband. Don’t worry. I’ll do the night wakes. Let’s not let your life change at all. I don’t mind, I’m a Cool Mum.

‘Wow,’ I say, and I can’t quite help but deadpan. ‘Your husband is a lucky man.’

Poor Tristan. I feel such guilt for all the times I’ve made him stay up with me, even though he can’t help. ‘Don’t go tosleep,’ I’d begged him, three weeks in, when he was practically drooling he was so exhausted on our seventh wake of the night due to cluster feeding.

‘I’m no good to you awake,’ he’d pleaded. His exhaustion matching mine. Both of us broken in the name of equality.

‘No, you can’t leave me. Don’t close your eyes,’ I’d shouted. ‘Don’t you dare close your eyes.’

Cara blushes. ‘Well, I do often have to remind him. Men, eh?’

‘Men,’ I agree, shifting Woody from one shoulder to another so he doesn’t fall asleep on me.

‘Are you OK, Nicki?’ I ask.

She starts shifting herself up, having to twist into at least three different yoga positions to get herself out of the comfy chair.

‘Yes. Sorry. I’m just getting stiff. I need to keep moving. It hurts to sit for too long. I might go load the dishwasher.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I add, standing up, keen to escape this triggering nightmare. ‘I need to keep Woody up another twenty minutes before nap time, and he has this weird obsession with watching me do domestic chores.’ I turn back to Cara. ‘It was lovely to meet you.’

I escort a waddling Nicki into the kitchen, jiggling Woody to keep him awake. We pass clumps of her guests who all turn like she’s famous and throw out generic comments about how glowing she is, and what a lovely bump she has, andoh I can’t believe how soon it’s coming. The house is open plan, but the kitchen around the corner offers a tiny appearance of privacy. My phone vibrates against my leg as I wrangle Woody into the high chair Charlotte’s providedand give him a breadstick from the nappy bag to keep him entertained. I start collecting discarded glasses up with my fingers, and, as predicted, Woody falls quiet and watches me, like I’m doing the world’s most elaborate interpretative dance.

‘Sorry about Cara,’ Nicki half whispers. She’s put two glasses into the dishwasher and is now attempting to get herself onto a stool. My phone vibrates again. ‘She’s really nice but she missed the memo on fourth wave feminism.’

‘She was lovely,’ I lie.

‘She’s our engagement ring marketing person. As you can imagine, she’s perfect for it. She literally cries with happiness whenever any customer sends us a proposal story.’

I plop some more glasses down and scan the kitchen, seeing there’s no more in here. There are loads scattered around the living space, but I don’t have the strength to re-enter that performance of femininity yet. Plus, now Nicki’s chatting about Cara, I figure cleaning up was an excuse to exit anyway. ‘Matt better do some of the night wakes, anyway,’ she adds. ‘I want us to be totally equal.’

I nod as my phone judders on my leg for a third time.

‘God, it’s so stuffy in here,’ she says, distracted and fanning her face. ‘Will it break the air-con entirely if I crack a window? Do you mind? I’m too big.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ I lean over the sink and shove open a giant square of glass. The hot air streams in like a current but at least it’s fresh. I lean towards it, not realising how stuffy I was until this alternative is offered. Nicki sighs behind me.‘That’s better. Phew. How long do you think we can hide in here?’

‘I say ten minutes before Charlotte brings you in to accept the animal sacrifice.’

We laugh together and say, ‘Bless her,’ and then Woody randomly joins in, clapping from his high chair. My love for him gallops back in, almost drowning me. I rush over to pluck him from his high chair so I can burrow myself into his scent. He laughs again and snuggles me back, and Nicki looks relieved for the first time in twenty minutes.

‘Oh he’s glorious,’ she tells me. ‘He’s making me get impatient. Can I have another cuddle?’

‘Of course.’

I tip Woody over and he spills into her arms happily – shoving his fingers into Nicki’s mouth. I take the moment to check my phone, fishing my device out from my sack dress. I lean against the counter as I check my notifications.

Two replies from the account I messaged earlier.

Please leave me alone.

I’ve reported you. Please. Get some help.

The final notification was from Instagram, telling me I’ve breached their community guidelines and I’ll have my account deleted if I continue my behaviour of harassment and intimidation.

The rain of my rage turns into a downpour, soaking me through. ‘Are you OK with Woody for a second?’ I ask Nicki, who is singing him a song. ‘I just need a wee.’

I run past her before she even agrees, past the hubbub. Charlotte tries calling after me, telling me the food’s served in twenty minutes. There’s no queue for the bathroom and I fall to the toilet – shaking my hands to try and dislodge all this energy. Then I put my head between my legs, and I howl into the flesh of my flabby postpartum thighs.

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