Page 23 of So Thrilled For You

Nicki:

Mate, I’m so so sorry. A friend organised today. She’s really into Pinterest. I had no idea.

Phoebe:

No worries. See you later.

Mate x

I wince, just as my alarm goes, informing me it’s time to peel off my stomach mask. It leaves a layer of goo across my bump and I try and rub it in, resorting to wiping my hands and the backs of them too in order to soak up the excess. Their little foot pokes out at my touch and I smile. ‘I’m scared to leave thisroom,’ I tell my bump. ‘What has Charlotte done out there? What if she’s installed an actual shower?’

When I emerge, I see everything through Phoebe’s eyes and turn neon with embarrassment.

‘Oh, wow, Charlotte. You’ve . . . er . . . been so busy.’

‘Nicki! How was the sheet mask? Did it work? Was it lovely? I hope you rested.’

Phoebe’s scornful eyes take in the transformed space. She’s not recreated a womb out of crepe paper, but she’s come close. Blue and pink balloons decorate every corner. There’s a giant poster of what looks like a vagina, with a stack of sticky sperms to one side. Lined up against a wall is a queue of teddies, with their legs up in the air, nappies to one side of them. Baby photos of me litter every available surface that isn’t covered in food. There’s the cupcakes, but also fruit platters, tiny sandwiches covered in cling film, biscuits, bowls of crisps – all of them somehow baby blue or baby pink – even the sandwiches. The pink ones must be ham, butbluesandwiches? What the fuck are in those? I cross my arms, imagining Phoebe taking in all these details.

‘It was great. Umm . . . this place looks . . . How did you do all this by yourself?’

‘I wasn’t by myself. Your mum helped.’

Just then, Mum comes through carrying a giant piece of laminated cardboard adorned with what looks like a picture round of celebrity babies. ‘We’ve got a system,’ Mum says, staring adoringly at Charlotte, like she’s her rightful daughter. ‘It’s been great.’

‘Charlotte. This is so much. I can’t even . . .’

She comes over and tries to hug me again, even though it was a total fail earlier – like a Smurf trying to hold an egg.

‘It’s OK. You’re welcome. I wanted to do it.’

And I know I sound like a totally ungrateful bitch, especially with everything Charlotte’s been through, but I can’t help but think this cornucopia of basic is nothing to do with me. Or for me. It’s about Charlotte.

But would I be thinking this way if I didn’t have my Phoebe goggles on? The lens I’ve not worn over my eyes in over a year. Which is the last time I saw her.

Until today.

I’m seeing her today.

Lauren

Woody refused to feed before we left, so is now, predictably, screaming like a banshee on acid in the back of the car.

‘Shh, darling. It’s OK. It’s OK. We’re almost there. Almost there.’

I’m not sure why I’m lying to my pre-verbal infant about our journey time, which is still fifty minutes away, with Google predicting traffic on the A23, but I lie on nevertheless.

‘Almost there, my baby. Almost there. Can you not play with Sophie the Giraffe? No? Oh, you’ve dropped her down the side. Ouch. You’re hurting Mummy’s ears, darling.’

A car honks me as I indicate into the right lane, and Woody startles and screams. Ear-piercing, can’t concentrate, feel like your whole spine is being ripped out, screams. A scream that I know won’t be satisfied by anything other than my breast.

‘OK, OK. Don’t cry darling. I’ll find somewhere. Shh shh. Oh babe.Babe!’

The shrieks are so loud I’m half expecting a whale to come beach itself here in South Croydon. I indicate off the main road and start frantically scouring the residential streets for somewhere to pull over. It’s all permit-only parking and speed bumps to enforce the 20mph limit. Woody screams like each speed bump is a personal violation as I thud over them, swearing under my breath, sweat pouring from my armpits, my cortisol levels turning half my body into pre-cancerous cells.

No parking spots. My boobs start leaking with each cry. I wish breast milk could just stop being so fucking sentient.

‘I’M TRYING TO FIND A PARKING SPACE, BE PATIENT,’ I find myself screaming at my own breasts, who ignore me, and bloom milk through both my ugly, sagging feeding bra and lacklustre navy dress of shattered dreams. Finally, eventually, there’s a space. One that requires a reverse park, which I somehow manage despite the tirade of abuse ringing in my ears. I consider risking not buying a ticket, but this is Croydon, and I’ll definitely get clamped and towed with Woody still attached to my breast in the backseat, so I make him wait for ten minutes longer as I have to download a fucking parking app and pay five pound seventy for my twenty-second stay. I open the back seat, yank him out, and he buries himself into my neck, inconsolable and red and hands grabbing, and here it comes again. The maternal guilt. Wave after wave of it, crashing over me as I yank down my front and let Woody rummage for what he needs. There’s calm silence as I get the weird tug of my let-down and he guzzles, his pudgy hand reaching for my finger, then squeezing it and releasing it, his eyes fluttering shut.

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