Page 9 of So Thrilled For You

Happy baby shower!! Looking forward to seeing you today. It’s been agggeeeeesss xxxx

It seems innocent but it’s a stark juxtaposition to the poison lying in the text boxes above. Surely she can see them too? Are we just going to jump the shark here? I sit up and lean forward and sweat drips off my forehead onto my phone screen. I wipe it with my thumb and then wipe under my sagging breasts too. They’re already double their pre-pregnancy sizeand don’t get me started on what the hell’s happened to my nipples which now resemble mauve dinner plates. They droop inelegantly, resting on my bulging stomach, harvesting little ponds of sweat underneath them. Honestly, the never-ending grotesqueness of pregnancy and I haven’t even dislodged my ‘mucus plug’ yet. Is it the heat making me sweat, or this message? I never thought I’d hear from her again. I’d got used to that. I’ve mourned our friendship. WHY is Phoebe coming today? Who the hell invited her? She MUST know I’m pregnant for fuck’s sake, she’s used the words ‘Happy Baby Shower’. Why would she do this to me?

Baby kicks beneath my skin as the cortisol pumps into their placenta. ‘Shh, it’s alright. Sorry. It’s alright.’ I rub their foot through my stomach, trying to calm myself down as much as my baby.

I’m initially in shock but the rage arrives shortly after and I push myself off the bed, pacing to get it out.How dare she?What’sWRONGwith her? I’m pregnant. Doesn’t she care how pregnant I am? It’s been a pretty jarring experience, getting pregnant and realising just how little the world gives a shit. I’ve been stunned by the daily battle to get someone to give me their seat on the train to work, even in this heat when I’m so visibly huge. I guess it’s naive to expect strangers to care about my delicate condition, but Phoebe—

‘Nicki?’ Mum calls from the kitchen, her voice bouncing through the glass of the house, jolting me from my phone. ‘Are you awake, darling?’

If I wasn’t, I would be now.

‘I’m up,’ I call back. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Everything’s fine. Just wondering if you want a cup of tea?’

‘OK then.’

I sigh and glance down at my phone again, trying to arrange this into my projection of how the day was going to go. Phoebe is coming to my baby shower. Phoebe the albatross. I’m finally going to see her again. I should tell her not to come . . . Surely it’s for revenge or something? At least Matt’s not going to be here. Maybe she’s decided to not totally nuke my new life and only contaminate a small part of it. I step into some really giant pregnancy knickers and tell myself she’ll know Matt won’t be coming today. Maybe this is a peace offering rather than an unpinned grenade. Maybe we can move on from what happened and let go of all the animosity?

Maybe it will be nice to see her?

I allow myself that thought as I stuff myself into my stretched silk kimono. The shock’s settling down now and I recalibrate the day, inserting Phoebe into the celebrations. It could actually be quite lovely? A great way of finding peace before the baby arrives? Plus, it’s a guilt-free way of seeing Phoebe again. I didn’t invite her. I’m innocent and yet I get to see her and smooth things over. Create a different ending to our doomed friendship. That would be nice. By the time I meet Mum in the kitchen, I’m actively looking forward to her coming, and finally, therefore, to the day itself.

‘Morning darling, how did you sleep?’ Mum’s elbow deep in their new fancy sink, Marigolds on, scrubbing a non-existent stain on the deep, stainless steel bowl.

‘Hardly at all. I think I peed seven times.’

She laughs. ‘I remember it well. Still, honestly, try and enjoy this last month of your body keeping your baby alive. It’s much easier with them on the inside than the outside.’ Sheunsheathes her hands and zooms straight to turn on the kettle, plopping a teabag into a mug for me. She pecks the top of my head then re-gloves and gets out a bottle of spray bleach and starts attacking the gleaming countertops.

I struggle to get myself up onto the stool at the breakfast bar. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ I tell her. ‘Being pregnant is really hard.’

‘Hmm.’

Her hand blurs over the countertop, raking up non-existent dirt, just as the kettle sings. Without blinking, she’s handing me a steaming cup of herbal tea.

‘It really is,’ I repeat, wanting a bit more sympathy. ‘Honestly, the list of things that’s wrong with me right now . . . Insomnia, pelvic girdle pain, the heartburn. Counting the kicks each day and worrying the baby’s dead and deciding whether to go to maternity triage for a scan . . .’

‘We never had scans in my day,’ Mum interrupts, already on her knees with a dustpan and brush. ‘Your generation knows too much. We didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl, let alone if they had Down’s syndrome or whatever. You just got pregnant and nine months later, you got a baby and it was what it was.’

I cradle my mug with both hands and inhale the steam to ground myself.

‘Did you not worry there’d be something wrong with me?’

‘No, why would there be?’

‘Did you not count the kicks each day?’

‘I didn’t have time, Nicki. I was too busy working.’

‘I work too.’

‘Yes, well, God knows when you fit in all this fretting. We just got on with it.’ I feel my temper flaring, and, sensing it, she jumps up and dumps the dust into the bin, and starts attacking the skirting boards.

‘Mum, the house is already spotless.’

‘We’ve got babies crawling around today, we must be super careful. Now, are you sure there’ll be enough food?’

‘Charlotte said she’s organised catering. Just relax. You’ve done enough by letting us host it here.’

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