Time Out

by Emma Murray

  I researched it just to please him really, but I wasn’t happy with what I found out. ‘I don’t know, David,’ I had said. ‘It sounds like the sort of class where people get together after the baby is born just to bitch about their partners.’ But David pressed on with his argument and we compromised: I would book the class as long as he came along with me. I deliberately chose the fast-track course. One day of talking about childbirth and babies sounded more manageable than the alternative: a weekly class spread over six weeks.

  The meeting was held in our local church hall. It was all hard wooden chairs, chipped tea cups and broken biscuits. When David and I arrived, six of out ten chairs were occupied.

  Years of living in middle-class suburban London has taught me how to behave when walking into a room full of strangers at a formal gathering: nod politely, sit down, and wait for whoever is in charge to speak first. If you must talk, do so at a low murmur. And, most importantly, never look anyone directly in the eye.

  For the church hall scenario, David and I went for the classic ‘Hello’ whisper and, as expected, tight-lipped smiles were given in return. And so we sat, eyes downcast like little children about to be caned, and collectively waited in silence for our birth practitioner to come in and break the ice for us.

  Meanwhile, I took a sneak peek at my fellow mums-to-be and their partners. First impressions weren’t great. There was the ‘happy’ couple – he in chinos and an expensive-looking public-school-boy blue shirt; she in a floaty, flowery dress with wide sleeves. They sat hips joined, him stroking her neat baby bump, while she gazed at him beatifically. Naturally, I hated them on sight.

  Sitting next to them was another couple, who looked a lot younger than the rest of us. He in one of those broad-striped shirts worn by Essex boys and estate agents, frantically attacking the keypad of his iPhone; she with a gamine-style haircut, dressed in trendy dungarees with a cute orange T-shirt underneath. I reasoned that however nice they turned out to be, I couldn’t ever be friends with them by virtue of the fact that they both looked so young that I felt ancient.

  The remaining couple both wore thick black-framed glasses – he in tartan trousers, and she in a ‘vintage’ ragged pleated dress with a lace trim at the bottom. Nuff said. So, this is what I had paid good money for – a smug pregnant couple, a couple of tweens, and a geeky couple in bad clothes. Talk about slim pickings. I discreetly nudged David, nodding towards the group and raising my eyes to heaven. He frowned back; David has a real bee in his bonnet about my tendency to judge people on sight. I discreetly gave him the finger while pretending to scratch my cheek. Sometimes David is no fun.

  Moments later, the hall doors opened again. A woman entered, striding across the room with such authority that I immediately presumed she was the birth class teacher. A hush fell over the group. It was as if we could all instinctively feel a powerful force in the room.

  This new arrival was majestically tall. Where some women may stoop a little to compensate for their height, she did the opposite. For the first time ever, I finally understood the expression ‘walking tall’. This woman almost luxuriated in her height, as if there were no limits to how far her neck would extend to support her head. And she was pretty too. Mid-length, straight, blond-streaked hair swayed and framed her smooth face. A small pair of spectacles perched on the end of a slightly too-long nose, which gave her a strangely old-fashioned but sexy look.

  When this newcomer reached our group, she stood for a moment. We waited with ready smiles, exchanging ‘a-ha’ looks, bonded by the shared knowledge that our teacher had finally arrived. But instead, the woman sat down on the empty seat opposite me, without giving any of us a second glance. It was only then that I noticed her small bump – the only part of her that looked out of proportion to her super-fit body shape. The word ‘Amazonian’ did not do this woman justice. She could probably shoot out that baby during a spinning class and not even blink. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the baby was born with a decent set of pecs. I vowed to hate her immediately, mostly because she was probably my age and looked younger and prettier, but also because, unlike me, she clearly hadn’t been stuffing her face with Mackey Ds and pizza for the majority of her pregnancy.

  Just then, Michelle, our real teacher, rushed in, apologising for her lateness. She welcomed us to the class and cheerily ordered us to introduce ourselves and, as a breaking-the-ice tactic, to tell the group our guilty pleasures. So far, so cringe-worthy. We all did the polite ‘oh no, I couldn’t possibly’ thing until Floaty Dress raised her hand and waved her manicured fingertips at the teacher.

  ‘Hi, my name is Tania,’ she said in a posh, all-girls boarding-school accent. ‘And my guilty pleasure is eating full-fat yoghurt.’ She burst into giggles, with a hand covering her mouth in faux embarrassment.

  ‘That’s totally true,’ her husband (turned out his name was Giles – of course it was) responded, laughing in an equally trust-fund accent. ‘She ate a whole tub last night.’

  Tania punched Giles in the arm playfully, and we all had to pretend to smile at this hideous stage show. I started to feel a bit sick.

  As Tania had taken both the ‘guilt’ and ‘pleasure’ out of the exercise, I found myself hastily revising the one I had in mind – masturbating to erotic fiction when I was supposed to be working. So instead I just said, ‘Watching spoiled rich kids on reality TV.’

  It was Gamine’s turn next. Her name was Odette and she and her boyfriend, Claude, were from France. As we were all about to learn, that was about as far as Odette’s English was going to take her. It appeared that Claude was equally clueless. All credit to Michelle, she spent a few patient minutes trying to explain to Odette what she meant by a ‘guilty pleasure’. Finally Odette got it, exclaiming, ‘Ah, oui! Le chocolat!’ which was also lame but at least relevant.

  Geeky mum-to-be introduced herself as Maddie, and she told us in a heavy Yorkshire accent that her guilty pleasure was watching kids’ movies. I stifled a groan. There weren’t going to be too many laughs in this group.

  And then it was Amazon lady’s turn.

  ‘My name is Bea,’ she said, in a strong South African accent, ‘and I like to swipe right when I’m taking a bath.’

  I was the only one to burst into uncontrolled laughter. Bea looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. Suddenly we were co-conspirators in this dull situation. Things were looking up.

  An awkward hush fell over the group for a few moments. I noticed Tania and Maddie exchanging raised eyebrows, while poor Odette looked totally befuddled. ‘Wat deez zees mean?’ she asked, hands raised questioningly in the air. Michelle shook her head quickly as if trying to erase the image of a naked Bea ordering sex from a cyber menu. Completely ignoring Odette, she thanked everyone for ‘sharing’ and then busily launched straight into her spiel. In hushed tones, she reminded us all of the ‘gift’ we had been given, eyes watery and twinkling as she described the beauty of childbirth, otherwise known as ‘the most special moment of your lives’, and how much she envied us for our magical lives ahead.

  As Michelle wittered on about caring for the baby – she demonstrated nappy-changing using a hard plastic doll with entirely smooth genitalia – I drummed my fingers on my bump impatiently, and smiled as I got a big kick in return. Even my unborn child was bored out of her half-formed skull. When was Michelle going to get to the drugs? That’s all I wanted to hear about: the pain relief during labour.

  And then, as if on cue, Bea’s deep voice rang out in a tone that meant business. ‘Can we talk about the drugs now, please?’

  Michelle paused for a moment, her frown line deepening, and with barely controlled impatience, replied, ‘Yes, of course. I will be covering pain relief in the second part of the day.’

  Bea looked at her watch. ‘Is there any chance we can cover it now? I can’t actually stay for the rest of the class.’

  Our eyes met again, and I gave Bea a slight nod. I couldn’t take much more of this rubbish either.

  Ba
rely trying to hide her irritation, Michelle described the different types of natural pain relief: water birth, hypnobirthing, massage, aromatherapy, etc. I allowed myself an undisguised yawn, earning a dark look from Michelle in return. David gave me a look that said, ‘Stop behaving like a naughty child and pay attention,’ and I wrinkled my nose at him in response. When was Michelle going to get to the epidural? And then suddenly, our teacher clapped her hands and announced a tea break.

  What?

  As everyone started to rise from the chairs, Bea spoke up.

  ‘I think you have forgotten to talk about the epidural,’ she said in a voice that could cut through granite.

  Everyone sat down again.

  Michelle looked awkward. ‘Well, epidurals aren’t for everyone,’ she said, wringing her hands. Both Tania and Maddie nodded their heads vigorously at this.

  ‘Well, an epidural may not be for everyone but it is certainly for me,’ Bea countered, looking hard at Michelle.

  ‘And me,’ I squeaked, bravely siding with my new friend. If we were going down, we were going down together.

  Bea shot me a grateful glance and I instantly felt rewarded for my courage.

  Michelle sidestepped any further discussion by recommending that Bea have a ‘little think’ about the epidural, and Bea simply scowled back at her. Flustered, and clearly forgetting about the tea break, Michelle moved on to Tania.

  ‘Soooo, let’s talk about breast-feeding,’ Michelle said in a high nervous pitch. ‘Tania, what are your thoughts? Remember, there is no right or wrong answer.’

  Bullshit.

  Tania flicked back her hair in the manner of an American high-school cheerleader who has just humped the quarterback, and said, ‘Of course, like any mother who wants the best for their baby, I am all for breast-feeding. I actually can’t wait. Oh, and just to let you know, I have engaged a doula for the childbirth AND I’m having a water birth. No drugs. Au natural for me.’

  I had never hated anyone more.

  Maddie and Odette (once Michelle had explained to her what breast-feeding was by grabbing her own breasts) agreed that breast was best, and then with a big deep breath, Michelle turned to Bea.

  Bea smiled pleasantly and answered, ‘I have zero intention of breast-feeding.’

  I looked at her open-mouthed. She was the bravest person I had ever met.

  Tania went for the jugular first. Didn’t Bea know that there were greater health benefits for breast-fed babies? Didn’t she know that breast-feeding was the best gift a mother could give to her baby – the chance of life-long immunity to illness?

  Without waiting for Bea to answer, Maddie joined in, thus pledging her allegiance to Tania. Didn’t Bea know that a breast-fed baby has less chance of suffering from allergies? Or that it’s the best way for a baby to bond with its mother?

  Bea sat with her head cocked, as though she had heard it all before, and when she was finally allowed to speak, she said simply, in a slightly amused voice, ‘I believe that everybody has the right to make their own choices. What I choose to do about breast-feeding is simply my own business, and nobody else’s.’

  After she said that, I felt the beginnings of a girl crush creeping up on me. When you’re at a certain age, it is so much harder to find someone with whom you instantly feel any sort of affinity. I just knew Bea and I would hit it off, and I couldn’t wait for the tea break to come so I could take her off into a corner and make her my new best friend purely on the basis of slagging off the other judgemental Jennies in the class.

  But just when I thought the break was finally going to happen, Maddie opened her stupid big mouth again.

  With a quick adjustment of her thick-rimmed glasses, she said snootily, ‘And what about the father of your baby, Bea? Does he not get a choice?’

  Bea went from sanguine to angry in a nanosecond. She whipped round at Maddie and replied angrily, ‘The father of my baby lost his choices when he started fucking someone else when I was six months pregnant.’

  Jesus. Nobody knew where to look after that.

  Shaking her head impatiently, Bea gathered up her coat and bag, and, much to my dismay, marched straight out of the church hall.

  I thought I would never see her again.

  4

  London, Now

  It has been three hours since my chat with Bea and, despite her encouragement, I’m still not sure what to do about the motherhood book. I should probably talk to David about it, although he’s been so distracted with work lately that I’m not sure what good it will do. I glance at the clock and my heart quickens when I realise it’s almost six o’clock. David will be home in ten minutes! Over the last hour, I have managed to prise Anna away from her iPad long enough for us to make pizza together (pizza bases bought, not made from scratch – fuck you, Organics!) and every available surface is covered in tomato sauce, grated cheese, and half-chewed pieces of pepperoni.

  Anna has also taken the time to venture into the freezer and busily scattered the contents of a giant bag of frozen peas all over the white wooden floor. Immediately I go into frantic mode. Skating over the thawing peas, I deposit Anna on the wipe-clean kitchen chair and give her back the iPad, which she greets with a squeal more appropriate for a long-lost family member. Then I race around like a lunatic, sweeping up the peas, hastily cleaning surfaces, and slotting all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher out of sight.

  You see, David and I live in the type of house where socks never go missing and no UFOs (unidentified frozen objects) live in the freezer. In fact, nothing is ever mislaid, and everything is very clean. Every wall and surface in our tiny terraced house is so white, I sometimes have a sudden urge to put on sterile rubber gloves for fear of getting anything dirty.

  Just as I close the dishwasher door, I hear a key turning. David’s home. I tell Anna loudly to go and say hello to her daddy, but she sets her little mouth in a firm line and turns up the volume on her iPad. Sighing, I go to meet David in the hallway.

  David walks in and wipes his feet (twice on each side) and then turns to close and lock the door behind him. He kisses me briefly but distractedly on the lips, his eyes scanning the hallway, searching for anything that might be out of place. As he picks up a tiny bit of muck off the floor, he asks me how my day has been. Shit, I want to tell him, but I can’t because, as I’ve learned over the years, David is absolutely useless until he has ‘settled back in’ after a hectic day at work. Sometimes I feel I’m the modern-day equivalent of the 1950s housewife but without the nice dress, the make-up and the cooking ability. And so I wait.

  I wait while he takes off his shoes and places them carefully on the mat. Then I watch him as he takes off his light jacket and flings it on the bottom of the stairs, which never fails to wind me up. For a man so fastidious, how on earth has he not learned to hang up his fucking coat? Sometimes I find myself measuring David’s behaviour by flashes of annoyance. For example, David dropping his coat on the foot of stairs rather than hanging it in the coat cupboard. Flash! David picking up a few groceries for me but then leaving the shopping bags just inside the front door, rather than going the whole hog and putting them away in the kitchen. Flash! David folding the laundry but leaving Anna’s clothes for me to put away (‘I don’t know where all her stuff goes!’). Double flash!

  I hate feeling so irritated by these little things, and I do my best not to bring up how much they bother me, but the problem is all those flashes tend to build up into one big catastrophic flash, and then the fireworks begin. Don’t get me wrong, there are flashes of love too: David who always wants to know about my day, without giving much thought to his own; David who tries so hard with his only daughter, even though she carelessly rejects his affections time and again; and David who always takes my side during debates with difficult clients or rows I have with rude people (like the ones I always have with those arseholes travelling solo, who insist on using the wide Tube gates, the only ones accessible to people in wheelchairs, carrying suitcases, and wheeling bug
gies). Yet lately these flashes of love have become clouded by the flashes of annoyance, and it’s exhausting.

  I follow David into the kitchen and watch his futile attempt to give Anna a kiss on one of her flushed chubby cheeks. Over his shoulder, I see Anna is fully engaged on the iPad, watching one of her favourite videos, which involves other children opening small pieces of plastic. David’s chances of a good reception from her are nil but, in a way, I admire him for persevering. As predicted, before David can make contact, Anna gives him ‘the hand’. Wounded, he raises his head, and looks to me for support. I shrug. Although I admire his efforts, frankly, he should know better than to try to go near Anna when she’s on the iPad. It’s like trying to cuddle a lion when it’s mauling fresh kill.

  Sighing, David walks over to the fridge and takes out some cheese.

  I choose this moment to fill David in about my call with Harriet and the book on motherhood.

  ‘And then Anna bit me…’ I say plaintively, finally finishing offloading my tales of woe.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he says, through a mouthful of cheese. David always eats cheese when he comes home from work – another part of the ritual.

  I lift up my top to show him the teeth-mark.

  ‘Wow, that’s a new low,’ he says, glaring at Anna. ‘Still, her teeth-marks are pretty straight; hopefully she won’t need braces,’ he adds thoughtfully.

  I glare at him in turn.

  ‘What is she now? Irrational nutcase-turned-cannibal?’ he says, noticing my fury and very sensibly backtracking.

  Ever since our daughter has ‘turned’ from angel of the universe/daddy’s girl to crazy psycho with intent, David has become increasingly frustrated and mystified by her behaviour. Suddenly, she doesn’t want her daddy any more – it is all about Mummy. This suits neither of us as I am more than happy for him to do bath time and story while I do the nice quick and easy ‘night night’! This new development has caused endless tension and stress at bedtime when Anna screams her lungs out if her daddy so much as glances in her direction.