Page 68 of So Thrilled For You

In contrast, Matt only messaged every few days, checking I was OK, but mainly checking I was watering the houseplants, and asking if a package had arrived for him. The coolness froze the blood in my veins. Matt had always been the warmest man ever. I tortured myself with how it had felt when we’d first met. That bashful, scrawny, guy, scratching his ear in our kitchen, laughing at a joke I’d made about Jigglypuff looking like an angry ovary. The way he held eye contact the whole time after Steffi came down in those tacky tiny pjs – not realising she was too obvious and too late. It had only taken an hour for us to fall in love, for him to know I was The One, he’d told me. Over and over. Year after year. As we delighted at ourselves, and our happiness, and how much suffering we’d both dodged by being lucky enough to find one another so early. Where had that Matt gone? Had I lost him forever? After months of complaining about how boring and comfortable my life was with Matt, I’d disintegrated it in one evening. Undone it, maybeforever. And I didn’t find this unknowingness as exciting as I thought I would now it was a reality.

I would never have enough time to make this decision, but life hurried me up. Work emailed to check how I was doing, and to politely remind me that if I needed any further time off I’d require a doctor’s note. The email arrived on Friday, I’d be expected back in on Monday. 72 hours to decide the rest of my life and still no idea what decision to make. That night I had dinner pencilled in with the Little Women. I thought I’d cancel, but I realised I’d come no closer to certainty by being a mad hermit for a fortnight, so, I dragged myself into the shower, into a jumpsuit, and onto the tube – blinking into the lights of the South Bank as I steered my way to Wahaca. We’d always met there in our early twenties, thinking drinking margaritas by the Thames was the height of London sophistication and living our best Carrie Bradshaw fantasies. It took half a decade to realise we were surrounded by tourists, and there were probably literally a million unique places to eat in the capital, but it had become our place by then. We revelled in the tacky sameness, and how Lauren flat-out refused to ever share her bowl of guacamole.

‘I need a drink,’ I announced, when I arrived, taking my seat between Lauren and Charlotte. ‘Don’t ask,’ I added.

But only Steffi and I ordered the classic margarita. Charlotte was on her last round of IVF and didn’t want to have any sugar since that makes implantation more difficult. And Lauren . . . well . . . after Steffi said,‘Shit, you’re not pregnant, are you?’ after Lauren ordered a mocktail, had shrugged, and said, ‘Well, I was going to wait until after the drinks had arrived, cheers Steffi. But, yes, yes I am.’ We’d all started screaming in shocked happiness. I was stunned. I didn’t even know Lauren had started trying. Icouldn’t believe someone was going through an even bigger life change than me right now. While Steffi and I squealed, Charlotte seemed less shocked.

‘We got coffee yesterday and she told me,’ Charlotte explained, sipping from her sparking mineral water. Her smile was wide and real. Strained, but there. ‘I’ve almost exploded keeping it to myself.’

I squeezed her hand and rubbed it. Reached out and took Lauren’s too. They were the best of us – these two. Lauren carefully telling Charlotte privately, to give her the time she needed to digest it. Charlotte, genuinely happy for her friend, despite the pain the news no doubt caused.

‘Shit, Lauren, I’m so sorry,’ Steffi said, hand over her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to ruin your big moment. It was just a thoughtless joke.’

I tried not to roll my eyes.

‘No, don’t worry. You weren’t to know,’ Lauren replied. ‘I was only going to tell you tonight that we’d started trying, but it’s happened really fast. Like, straight away . . . sorry Charlotte,’ she added awkwardly.

‘I’m so happy for you,’ she squeaked, leaning forward, her face a Cheshire Cat. ‘Honestly. No apology. My time will come soon.’

As the lights blinked on the water outside, and waves of tables arrived and left around us, we chatted until late, celebrating this seminal moment in our friendship group. One of us was pregnant. One of us was having a baby. That was so grown-up and huge. We’d all been playing at adults for years, me especially. Even on my own wedding day, I’d felt slightly like Matt and I were playing mums and dads in the playground. Like I was slipping around in a pair of grown-up heels I’d stolen from my mum’s cupboard,that my veil was fashioned by Andrex toilet tissue. When Lauren and Charlotte got married it was still hugely surreal, that these big adult days were our days now. These things we’d grown up wondering about were an actual occurrence. Marriage seemed so huge at the time, but now, downing another cocktail and licking the crunchy salt flakes off my lips, those wedding days felt nothing like Lauren’s news. She was pregnant. That meant she was going to become a parent.A mother!One of those tired-looking people sighing into a disposable coffee cup, pushing a kid on a playground swing as I jog past them at 6.30am. It was so grown-up. So unimaginably adult. And, as I tossed the lime liquid to the back of my gullet, I had my first clear thought in over two weeks.

‘It should be me.’

Ishould be the pregnant one. I should be the one who goes first. I’m the most mature. I’m the one who’s been with their partner the longest. I’m the one it’s expected from.

It was such a selfish and self-indulgent thought, and luckily nobody could hear it, but it had diamond clarity and was slicing me up as I leant in and listened to Lauren’s story.

‘ . . . Tristan basically passed out when he saw the test. I thought he’d be happy, but he went white and said he needed to go play tennis. I’ve been so sick since . . . sorry if I’ve been such a shit friend but, honestly, I’ve hardly been able to get out of bed . . . I can’t stop sleeping . . . I’m sick whenever I brush my teeth . . . got bruised ribs from all the retching . . . I’m due in October . . . still can’t believe it . . . excited now, obviously . . .

I can’t wait for you all to become aunties.’

Lauren kept stroking her stomach without realising. Her eyes were dewy, her skin looked insanely good. She was quite clipped in her responses, out of respect for Charlotte, and kepttrying to move the conversation on, but we wouldn’t let her – Charlotte especially. She was asking questions I’d never even thought to ask. ‘What will the baby’s star sign be? You haven’t been taking standard folic acid, have you? You need to get the tablets that are made from ground-up food otherwise it doesn’t absorb properly. Are you going to do hypnobirthing? It’s supposed to be amazing. Are you going to have a doula? Let me get you one–my present . . .’

Her manic determination to show how totally OK she was allowed me to sit back in my seat and let the crashing waves of realisation pull me into the tide. I wanted what Lauren had. I wanted a baby. I wanted a baby. I wanted a baby. I needed a baby. I needed a baby now. Yesterday. I needed to become a mother. To know what it feels like to have life grow inside me. To birth it, and raise it, and probably fuck it up but try really hard not to. To teach it how to ride a bike, to get a splodgy painting of a shit daffodil on Mother’s Day, to zip it up into one of those squidgy snowsuits when it’s cold with only their red chubby cheeks peeking out. I wanted this traditional, boring, obvious, clichéd path. Desperately. Hurriedly. Now. And, I realised, crumbling a tortilla chip to dust over my side plate, I want to have a baby in a traditional, boring, obvious, and clichéd way.

With a man.

With Matt.

Who I knew would be an incredible dad, which had always been one of the reasons I loved him. I always found it weird when women fancied men who were so obviously going to be shit dads. Steffi seemed to find them attractive, but I guess she has that freedom as she never wants kids herself.

By the time the bill was paid, I’d squashed my feelings for Phoebe like the tortilla chip I’d crumbled to dust earlier. Matt was no longer boring and predictable – he was safe – the best thing you want in a co-parent. Our ‘dull’ life was actually just a sign from the universe it was time for this next step. Phoebe tried to ruin something so important – tried to twist what it was into something that served her – and I was angry. I closed the gates, I pulled back my shoulders, I got my fucking shit together.

What the hell was I doing? I wasn’t alesbian! How ridiculous was that?

I walked miles home, through the dark, letting my love for Phoebe alchemise into rage. How dare she kiss me? How dare she try and use our friendship to get close to me and then make a move. Matt was right. If a woman had done that to him, we’d have thought she was a home-wrecking whore. Does Phoebe really get a free pass because she’s gay? It was underhand. It was deceitful. She took advantage of me. Of my innocence. Of my vulnerability – using our friendship and trying to use it to get me to fucking have sex with her. I didn’t even think of her in that way until she’d kissed me. And she made a move when I was drunk! Again, if she wasn’t a lesbian . . . And, not only was I thecomplete victimof this situation, so was poor Matt. We were both victims of this . . . predator . . . yes, that’s what Phoebe was . . . a predator.

I rummaged for my phone in my coat pocket as I marched along the Thames, anger keeping my toes warm in my slightly holey boots. She picked up on the third ring.

‘Oh my God, she finally answers my calls.’

‘Fuck you,’ I shouted with the conviction of a woman who’d drunk four margaritas.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Fuck you. How dare you? How dare you try and fuck up my life. How dare you try and stop me having a baby.’ I could hear a heavy bass in the background. She was out again. Drinking too much. Probably preying on someone.

‘A baby? What? Nicki? Are you drunk? Are you OK? Are you alone? You’re not walking home alone, are you? It’s gone midnight. Where are you?’

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