Page 37 of So Thrilled For You

I’d sighed heavily and looked at the large glass of red wine in front of me. Already it didn’t seem large enough and I’d not had a sip yet.

‘For a lesbian, you’ve got an extraordinary amount of patience for me droning on about my husband,’ I said, aware this was a conversation she’d endured many times over.

‘Hey,’ she held up her glass to cheers me. ‘Maybe I’ve got a vested interest.’ Her freckles scrunched together again as she smiled, and I found myself smiling back . . .

. . . The doorbell.

A flustered Charlotte squealing, ‘They’re here. People are arriving.’

My mum’s hands on my shoulder. ‘Wake up, honey. Your guests are arriving. You dropped off.’

The baby stirs inside me. My life falls back into focus. It’s my baby shower. The baby I’m having with Matt. It’s today. It’s 35 degrees outside. All my friends are coming. I’m in my parents’ new greenhouse home. It’s two years later. Everything has happened the way it should.

Woody’s crying on the wooden floor. Apparently the doorbell has upset him. Lauren bends over to pick him up. Steffi is ensconced on her phone in a squashy chair in the corner,trying to get away with as much scrolling as possible while I napped.

Charlotte’s greeting people at the door like this is her house. Multiple voices saying hello, gasps at the balloon arch. I feel the hot air drift in from the open door. My ears prickle as they listen out to who is saying hi and asking where to put their gifts.

There’s only one voice I want to hear.

Transcript: Inspector Simmons

interviewing Lauren Powell

Simmons: Notes from your GP say you’ve recently been suffering from symptoms of Post-Natal Depression?

Lauren: Have you ever googled the symptoms for Post-Natal Depression?

Simmons: Er—

Lauren: —Because if you then google the symptoms of severe sleep deprivation, they’re basically the same thing.

Simmons: Are you saying you’re not ill?

Lauren: No. Yes. I don’t know. I guess, what I’m saying is, I’m too sleepy for arson. I don’t have the energy to wash my hair more than once a week – let alone start a fire.

Simmons: But you’ve been struggling, haven’t you? With having a baby? The GP said you were requesting counselling.

Lauren: How is that even relevant?

Simmons: The baby shower might’ve been quite hard for you . . . all these images of motherhood, when you’ve been finding motherhood so tough.

Lauren: I was happy for my friend.

Lauren

I can’t stop staring at Nicki’s stomach.

It’s like one of those portraits where the eyes follow you around the art gallery, except, wherever I am in this ridiculous greenhouse party, there’s her swollen tummy, in my eye-line, churning my stomach as it strains out of its dungarees.

Every time I see it I want to cry. Or scream. Or run away. Or run towards her, hugging her, crying for everything that’s coming her way that’s too late to stop. My poor poor friend. And poor poor me. And poor poor all of us. I can see it now I’m on the other side – how motherhood is a banana skin we all trip up on. Everyone warns you it’s slippery, and the fall really hurts, but we distrust and dislike the whinging mothers that come before us – shut up, it’s your choice, woman – until it’s our turn to tread on the same banana skin, and over we go, ouch, flailing on the floor, our bodies piling high, warning the others behind us about the danger, but none of them listen and, ouch, here they are in the pile too, saying, ‘Why didn’t you warn me how hard it is?’

Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s just me? Maybe other mothers are fine, and happy, and don’t have a prolapsed mess where their vagina used to be, and I’m a selfish cunt who shouldn’t have had a baby and holy hell is it too late now.

That’s the biggest headfuck about motherhood – there’s no going back. There’s no trial period or refund with a receipt. You can’t possibly imagine how ridiculously hard it is, and when you do, it’s too late. You can’t go back to before, and,because of the ludicrous love you feel for your life-ruining baby, you wouldn’t want to anyway. Even though you would. But you’d like to keep the baby, too. Maybe suspended in some special fluid somehow, that keeps it warm and safe and fed and loved and alive while you can still be you. . . a womb, I guess. Nicki’s complained a dozen times since I arrived about how uncomfortable she is, and I’ve been feigning smiles and concerns and empathy, but, in my head, all I can think is,just you wait, my poor babe. Just you fucking wait. Pregnancy will feel like a dream.

Basically, I’m in the perfect mood for this baby shower on steroids. Can’t you tell?

There’s something about baby showers that makes everyone arrive punctually, and the twenty or so guests arrive in a frenzied fifteen-minute clump which almost breaks Charlotte.

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