Page 73 of So Thrilled For You

I thought so too,I thought. But I’ve been amazed at the level of grossness I’m willing to endure to bring peace to my baby. I’ve sucked out Woody’s snot with my own mouth to try and get him to sleep(before I bought the snot sucker). I’ve sat covered in vomit that’s slowly cooking in the heat from the radiators, making me stink of mouldy cheese, because Woody was sick but then fell asleep on my chest and I knew the sleep would help him get better. I’ve carefully wiped liquid shit from every crevice of his body, multiple times a day. I’ve wiped it off the wall, from the sides of his baby bath when he injected the bubbles with his diarrhoea meaning I can’t look at Molton Brown bath products in the same way ever again.

‘You’ll need the Calpol for before the baby’s jabs too,’ I add. I feel everyone’s judgement and try and get them to understand what a good gift I’ve given. ‘It stops them getting a fever. But honestly, the digital thermometer is so useful. They always gettheir first fever at some godawful hour, and 111 always want to know their temperature, and you’re going spare for not having one, or for trying to use an adult one on a squirming, sick, baby. If it’s over 38, you need to go straight to hospital, but, without a thermometer, you don’t know, and you just panic, and end up in A&E without needing to, which is no fun with a baby, I promise you.’

‘Right,’ Nicki nods slowly, holding up the thermometer with the tips of her fingers, almost in horror. ‘That’s, er, a bit fucking dark, but I’m sure will be quite useful. Thanks, Lauren.’

A bit fucking dark.

I wilt back into my seat, the leather attaching itself to my hot bare dimpled skin, as Nicki reaches out for a present wrapped in paper with scented strawberry eco-glitter.

Fuck you, I think. You think you’re going to be grateful for an elephant onesie at 2am, when you’re convinced your baby is dying? Will your sensory Moomin mobile help then? No, it fucking won’t. One of the worst things about having a baby is the love. Yes, it’s the best thing too, but that love is the most terrifying and overwhelming feeling any human can feel. You will worry about your child dying, daily, multiple times. You will picture all the obscene ways it could happen. Meningitis. Kidnapping. The pram being hit by a car while you wait at a pedestrian crossing. When your baby cries, it peels you back to the bone because you love them so much and want to stop the pain for them. Your whole life will become an endless, failing mission to prevent them from ever crying because it hurts you so much. So, Nicki, yes. When your baby gets sick for thefirst time, which it inevitably will, because babies are like fucking lemmings, obsessed with danger and shoving everything into their dribbling gob, especially things that other germ-ridden babies have shoved into their gob . . . you will fuckingLOVEme for getting you thisDARKthermometer. For not having to frantically google which pharmacy might be open while your baby screams red in your arms, and you weep with desperate hopelessness. This thermometer will give you relief and comfort deep in your very soul, unlike a fucking Jellycat platypus. But, hey, yeah,a bit dark,go actually fuck yourself. This is the best present you’re going to get today, even in the Santa paper, you fucking fuck.

Phoebe sits next to me and holds up her drink to cheers me. She seems slightly drunk, her eyes not quite focusing. ‘Your gift is the best gift,’ she whispers, the smell of punch sweet on her breath.

I sag into her with relief. ‘Thank you. Everyone else seems to think I’m crazy.’

‘I’ll tell you who will be going crazy.’ She points over at Nicki. ‘This one, if her baby has a temperature in the middle of the night, and no Calpol.’

‘Exactly!’

‘Honestly, best gift here. Well done.’

I grin, liking this woman more and more. She’s so different to the rest of Nicki’s friends. Spiky – so not Nicki. I can’t imagine them getting on but she’s here, so they must. ‘I mean, it’s so clearly a competition. And the Santa paper really finished the look.’

She shrugs and waves the comment off with her hand, revealing some kind of tribal tattoo up the side of her wrist.‘You’ve got a baby too, right?’ I nod. ‘The fact you’re here. Dressed. Not crying. You were on time, right?’ I nod again. ‘That’s amazing. That should be present enough, to be honest. My big sister has three kids and, I swear, it takes her so long to leave the house she often doesn’t bother. Forget the Santa paper. You’re a marvel for being here.’

‘I like you,’ I tell her, reaching out and swigging a swallow of her punch while she nods in approval. ‘You are officially allowed to be friends with Nicki. I grant you permission.’

Phoebe’s eyes travel to where Nicki’s unwrapping the last gift, with much less enthusiasm than she unwrapped the first. ‘Aww thank you. But I’m sure today will be the last day I see her.’ I tilt my head, confused, and she corrects herself. ‘I mean, everyone vanishes off the face of the earth when they have a baby, don’t they?’

‘What’s earth?’ I joke. ‘Where’s that? I miss that place.’

She reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You’ll come back. I promise.’

I almost well up, at her saying that. ‘Thank you. I hope so.’

‘Umm, is that thing yours?’ She points at the baby monitor in my sweaty hands, and Woody is awake. Of course he’s freakin’ awake. I’ve turned the sound off but I can see him crawling about, his mouth open, probably crying. He’s always crying. I check my phone. Yep, he’s been asleep for precisely 27 minutes. There’s no way he’s had enough nap. I look at the screen, and my pixelated baby going berserk in the travel cot. It’s easier to emotionally detach with the sound off. I know I should go to him and comfort him – sacrifice myself, and my day, and this nice conversation, and go be a caring mother. If Tristan was here, he’d already be in the room, being the Perfect Dad and neverlosing his temper because he’s not had to sacrifice as much as I have. Normally, despite my irritation, I’d already be in the room, self-sacrificing as Woody refuses to self-soothe. But today, a part of me has hardened or maybe just plain broken. Instead, I find myself turning the screen over and burying the device in the lap of my ugly dress. The expensive sleep consultant said we should be giving Woody a ‘chance’to ‘get himself back to sleep’. Maybe now is the time to try? She promises his cries weren’t cries of distress, but merely ‘frustration’that he’s awake. Tristan doesn’t agree, however, and hasn’t let us implement her plan. ‘How the hell does she know why he’s crying?’ he’d said, refusing to let us leave Woody crying for more than twenty seconds, condemning us to potentially unlimited sleep deprivation. But Tristan’s not here, and I’m having a nice time, and maybe this is what needs to happen to fix Woody’s sleep right now? Somethinghasto change. It must. I can’t be this mentally deranged anymore. So broken that I limp through each day like it’s a time-loop of a car crash.I’ll give him ten minutes,I decide. He can’t get permanently damaged from ten minutes crying, and, who knows? It might actuallywork.I dare myself to imagine an alternate reality where Woody slept through. Maybe I’d get myself back? My sanity, my figure, my marriage, my hope. Maybe I’denjoyWoody more if I could scrape some sleep?

I push the camera further down into my skirt – decision uneasily made. The party’s so loud nobody will hear him upstairs, and it’s only for a few minutes. I am here. I’m going to have a nice time. My baby will learn to sleep.

I turn to Phoebe. ‘You’ve got to tell me all about working at Roar Girls Jewellery,’ I say, just as Nicki applauds herself for finally getting through all the presents. Everyone joins in whileCharlotte pushes the wrapping into a recycling bag and runs off somewhere. Probably spraying the peony wall with glitter juice or something? ‘I’m obsessed with their jewellery. Do you get a discount?’

I think I hear a yelp through the ceiling, but I tune it out.

Steffi

My phone starts ringing the second Nicki finishes unwrapping her pointless future landfills. I’d already withdrawn my present from the pile before she started opening them and hid it under the sofa to take home later because, yes, I am nine years old. So what if I don’t have a bump for the Neal’s Yard Bump Juice? I’m going to smother myself in the whole tub when I get home from this godawful greenhouse of hell. Spite smells of organic lavender and ylang-ylang – who knew?

I see that it’s Rosa again and run to the bathroom to take it. But the door’s locked and a queue’s already forming outside it. I message her, saying I’ll call in five, and stalk about trying to find somewhere quiet. Downstairs is all crepe paper, cranes, and crowds, so I duck under the makeshift rope on the staircase and sneak up. Four master bedrooms branch off from a glass corridor that overlooks the entire countryside. Two of the doors have signs in Charlotte’s cursive writing that say,‘Baby Sleeping –Do Not Disturb’. But, past them, there’s an empty bathroom. I duck in, locking the door behind me, and put the loo seat down to use as a chair.

‘Rosa, what’s up?’ I ask, taking in the monolith bathroom. The toiletries don’t match the bathroom itself. An own-brand Sainsbury’s hand soap nestles between the two sinks, and a neon bottle of lime Original Source swims in a puddle on the floor of the rainforest shower.

‘I want you to withdraw the book,’ Rosa tells me breathlessly. ‘Sorry, but I can’t do it. I don’t want to be published.’

‘Ahh.’

‘. . . I’m sorry for wasting everyone’s time, but I think this book was just meant for me, you know?’ She rushes on. ‘Just a nice thing for me. I don’t want other people to read it and judge it. I don’t want my life to change. Honestly, Steffi, sorry, but is it too late to back out?’

I take a breath. Rosa’s following the debut author algorithm perfectly. I have no doubt that, by the time we hang up, everything will be fine again. She’s just having the freak-out all major debuts do when they can’t trust their wildest dreams are coming true. All the smartest authors freak out. They know nothing is ever going to be the same again. And they’re right, it won’t. But it will be better, so much better, especially as my author care is second-to-none. It’s so important to monitor and support an author’s mental health in their debut year. Everyone goes a bit loopy. It’s a mixture of things. Often, it’s hard for them to adjust to the actual realities of their dream being realised. The publishing industry is brutal. And when they imagined getting a book deal, they didn’t imagine tax forms, bad reviews, bookshelf placement (or lack therefore . . .), being snubbed for awards, and needing to write a second novel within a year. I’m happy to guide them through the adjustments, overwhelms and disappointments until they’re out the other side – slightly embittered but mentally healthier.

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