Page 10 of So Thrilled For You

‘You say she’s sorting travel cots for the babies. I’m doing what I can about the heat but there’s so much glass . . .’

I smile and glance around at the vast see-throughness of their outer walls. ‘There is, indeed, a lot of glass.’

‘Your dad said it would be lovely to have all this light in the winter, but we forgot about summer. It’s so hot.’

‘I mean, you did decide to move into a greenhouse.’

I can’t manufacture much sympathy as I still haven’t quite forgiven my parents for selling my childhood home, especially without consultation. Dad just casually dropped it into conversation,‘Oh, we got an offer accepted on the house today,’ like it was an old sofa they’d put on eBay and not the container of all my childhood memories. I’d burst into tears and Mum had called me ‘selfish’.

‘You know your father has always dreamed of living in the countryside. Honestly, it’s not like you visit much anyway.’

It’s worse she defended him when I knew she didn’t want to sell either. Mum had carefully curated the perfect retired life. Every day of the week, she’d have a ‘Biddy Walk’ or ‘Silver Swim’ with a local friend, before getting coffee and talking about their grown-up children or physical ailments. Now, to make Dadhappy, she was a 30-minute drive away from that life. Not even an easy 30-minute drive, but one on winding countryside lanes which made her anxious. But she toed the party line, and said how excited she was to embrace village life, for views over the downs, and have a vegetable patch – which seemed like an additional chore to be honest. I wept packing up our old house, my foetus only the size of a cherry tomato back then. The baby would never see my childhood bedroom, would never take their clumsy first steps in the same garden I did. And, if it wasn’t all symbolic enough, Mum dumped five giant boxes of crap onto my lap and said, ‘this is all yours’. And, through morning sickness, I’d had to spend two weeks figuring out what leftovers from my formative years I could fit into our tiny two-bed flat.

‘Clutter just doesn’t work in the glass house,’ she’d said. ‘Sorry, Nicki. You have to find room at yours.’

I rub my stomach through my kimono and promise my baby that I’ll cherish every piece of GCSE artwork, every outfit that might come back into fashion, and every book they’ve ever loved. Cherished memories aren’t ‘clutter’. The list of the things I plan to do differently from my own parents is longer than the terse silences between them. I will be less stressed, more present, I will validate my child’s emotions, I will showcase a positive experience of an equal partnership—

‘Did Charlotte say she’s bringing ice? I worry we don’t have enough ice.’ Mum’s eyes widen as she decides on her latest catastrophe, j-cloth still in hand.

‘She’ll bring ice. It’s Charlotte.’

‘Maybe I should drive into town, just in case?’

‘There’ll be ice.’

‘I’m going to go.’

‘Mum.’

‘You’ll thank me later.’

Mum vanishes before I can even message Charlotte to ask, and I hear the car start in the driveway, roaring over gravel. I sigh, trying to erase the contamination of her anxiety. I told Mum providing the venue was more than enough. No need to worry about anything else. But she insists on malfunctioning anyway. I pick up my phone and read Phoebe’s message again. I should reply. It will be awkward if I don’t. It already is awkward. At least, if I reply, it pushes those horrible messages up and off the screen. My pudgy hands hover over my phone, awaiting instruction for the response, but it feels like every button is a landmine. I stroke the crack in the screen and punch something out.

You’re coming? Who invited you?

That sounds confrontational. It must’ve been Charlotte who invited her anyway. Obliviously.

Wow OK. It will be lovely to see you.

I wince and delete that too. Imagining reading it through Matt’s eyes.

I can’t pretend this isn’t a huge shock, Phoebe. I wish you’d warned me.

No, too aggressive again. Despite everything, I want Phoebe to like me. I delete for a third time and drum my pudgy fingers against the marble countertop. A giant hacking coughcomes from the bathroom. Dad’s up. What is it with men over a certain age and their supersonic morning coughs? Matt’s developed one too, during his first piss of the day, and I swear we’re only a hop, skip and a jump from skid marks in baggy y-fronts, and him growing giant grey nose hairs. Dad shuffles out of the bathroom, scratching himself.

‘Morning Poppet,’ he greets me, ruffling my hair on his way to the coffee machine. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘What’s sleep?’

He laughs. ‘Your mother was the same when she was pregnant with you. Up every hour with her bladder . . .’ He swings open a cupboard door and retrieves a mug, pours coffee, and misses a bit, spilling over Mum’s freshly cleaned counter tops. Oblivious, he takes a deep slurp, and then bashes the mug down again, creating a fresh brown circle. ‘...I remember it so well. I can’t believe it was 32 years ago.’

He perches on the stool next to me, slurping and grinning at my bump, decorating the table with coffee circles like it’s a potato press. ‘Where is your mother anyway?’ he asks. ‘I can’t hear her worrying about anything.’

We laugh conspiratorially. ‘She’s convinced herself we don’t have enough ice, even though Charlotte has probably couriered in our own personal iceberg. She insisted on going to town anyway.’

‘Sounds like your mother. If there’s a stress to be had.’

‘She’s been up since five, cleaning . . .’ I look at the decorated kitchen top.

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