Page 17 of So Thrilled For You

‘Happy baby shower,’ I squeal when she opens the door, putting the cupcakes down again so I can hug her.

‘Charlotte. Wow, you’re early. I’m not dressed yet . . . sorry.’

‘You’re huge,’ I squeal again. ‘So huge.’ Hugging her is proving to be quite difficult. Nicki is almost six feet tall and the most pregnant I’ve ever seen anyone. My head essentially lines up to the top of her bump.

‘Cheers, Charlotte,’ she raises both eyebrows as I pull away.

‘You look gorgeous, of course,’ I add. ‘Glowing. Perfect. Your hair! Your skin!’

She genuinely grins then. ‘Thank you. I feel like a gross fat sweaty whale, but I’ll try and see myself through Charlotte eyes. Wow, those cupcakes look amazing. Did you make them?’

I nod and wave her away as she tries to lower herself to pick them up. ‘No no. I’ll get them. Wow. Air con. Amazing. I was so worried.’

I pick up the tray and follow Nicki into the main living space. She moves slowly, her hand on her lower back. Does she have pelvic girdle pain? She should go to an osteopath. I know a great one in Richmond. The cool air feels amazing and the cupcakes practically sigh in relief.

‘Yeah, the air con is essential. My parents bought a portable unit. It’s only on in this room, and means we can’t have the big windows open, but it will hopefully stop everything melting. I’ve been standing in front of it the last ten minutes,’ she smiles again. ‘It’s why I’m not dressed.’

‘Perfect. This is just perfect.’ My eyes dart around the room, making calculations about what to put where. Wow, this view. The whole back wall is solid glass and there’s sprawling fields wherever you look. They’re mostly dull and brown but the sight still makes me want to burst into a rendition of ‘Jerusalem’.The air con unit hums aggressively in the corner, a giant tube running out of it into the glass doors. It ruins the aesthetic slightly – maybe I can cover that with some bunting? I spot the peony wall. ‘Oh, fab! The flowers are here,’ I say. Why have they put it there? In the corridor, so there’s no space to take photos? ‘Do you love them? Aren’t they the best?’

‘They’re . . . there’s a lot of them.’

‘Your baby issolucky to be born in peony season. Did you plan it?’

‘Oddly enough, no.’

‘You’ll be able to give them peonies for their birthday every year.’

‘I guess. Not sure a baby is going to be that bothered by flowers though. Er . . . what are they for?’

I put the cakes down on the charcoal countertop and bounce over to check it out in more detail. ‘For photos, Nicki! It’s going to be such a lovely backdrop. I’ve got some props too. In my car, along with some other stuff.’

‘Props?’

Why does she sound suspicious?

‘You know, just silly things. Some cardboard storks, nappies, dolls, etc. It’s going to be hilarious.’ People always think photo booths are cheesy until they’re actually in one – then you have to basically yank them out. You can’t go wrong with aphoto booth, that’s what I say. Flower walls too. Scorn all you like but they have a siren call.

Did Nicki just shudder? Surely not? She went wild at the photo booth in my wedding. We got given a copy of the pictures and I think Nicki was in at least 75 per cent of them. She waddles over to the air con and stands in front of it again, putting her hands out like she’s warming them in front of a fire. She lifts her top up, closes her eyes, and lets the air attack her bump. I can’t help but look at her stretched stomach with the popped bellybutton.

‘Sorry, give me a moment,’ she says, eyes still closed in bliss. ‘I swear I have to do this every ten minutes to stop my foetus boiling inside of me. The baby’s going to come out fucking . . . poached if this weather continues.’

‘I’m going to get stuff from the car before it all melts.’

‘Do you want some help? My dad’s around here somewhere being useless. But he knows how to carry stuff.’

‘That would be great, thanks. I don’t think I’ve seen your dad since your wedding.’

‘He’s the same. I’ll go find him. Give me another second.’

I gasp quietly as I see the baby move beneath her skin. I expect tears to sting, but none arrive. In fact, I get a thrill. In eight months’ time, if everything goes OK, my stomach will look like that. My body will be stretched, my face doughy, my ankles double their size. I will be at my own baby shower, which will be very difficult to organise as I’ve used up all my manifestation ideas on today.

It’s too hot to wait for Nicki’s dad, so I run back outside, the heat feeling even heavier compared to the air con of the glass house. Just as I’m trying to fit as many baked goods onto mytiny arms as possible, a car pulls up, and out comes Nicki’s mum carrying four giant bags of ice.

‘Oh my, Charlotte. How are you?’ She greets me with a wide smile. ‘Wow, those all look amazing. Do you need any help?’

‘Hello Mrs Davies. Yes, that would be great.’

She swings all the ice into one hand and loads two cupcake trays onto her other arm. I don’t know why Nicki whinges about her mum and how ‘stressful’ she is. She unpacks my car in five minutes flat, and, even during that time, devises a ‘system’ for what goes where. We’d just finishing floating the dummies when Nicki’s dad comes downstairs wearing the most ridiculous pair of shorts. ‘I’m here to unpack the car,’ he announces, like he’s bringing actual cavalry.

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