‘Yeah, look them up. They’re big potatoes. I’m not surprised you were approached though. Joe does have a very symmetrical face.’
‘Giles said that too. Is that a thing?’
‘Aren’t all faces symmetrical?’ asks Emma. She hears a buzzer from her utility room and goes in to stop the tumble dryer. To my shame, I sometimes bring laundry here so I don’t have to hang wet sheets from my dining room chairs in the living room.
‘No, my face isn’t,’ says Meg. To prove a point she gurns at me. ‘Babies are strange things. Like when we did family shoots at my old job, they never wanted a skinny baby, they wanted something with chub. And as a magazine, we never went with ones with too much hair.’
‘Babies can have too much hair?’ asks Lucy. Her attention has moved to a pot of hummus that she spoons out with her fingers. Emma looks thrilled.
‘God, yes. But then it becomes distracting. Instead of looking at the baby’s outfit which they’re modelling, you’re looking at this insane amount of hair. Remember Tess, she looked like she came out wearing a toupee.’
Tess doesn’t look too impressed so jumps off her mother’s lap to find her cousins.
‘Plus Joe has the temperament, I know he doesn’t sleep but he’s a good baby. Like Eve would be an awful model,’ Meg adds.
‘But she’s gorgeous.’
‘With a complete mind of her own. She doesn’t do as she’s told. She’d be the set diva. She’d throw coat hangers at people.’
‘And Polly?’
‘She’s a drooler, snot city,’ Meg says, kissing the top of her sleeping head in the carrycot next to us.
Emma is busy folding some pillowcases for me. ‘My two hated the camera, far too shy.’
‘I’d say do it, B,’ Meg continues. ‘The money is decent for child modelling if you wanted to go down that route? Maybe go and find an agent first and get him on their books.’
‘Maybe…’ As glad as I am for the sisterly advice, Will and I haven’t really thought much more about it. It was a moment of fun but not really our scene.
Lucy comes over, picking Joe up and throwing him in the air.
‘Well, I look forward to seeing you in Vogue, little Joe,’ she says in a sing-song voice.
She struts up and down the kitchen with him in her arms, throwing her best Blue Steel expression and arching her hips when she gets to the end of the room. Joe does not look convinced but Lucy gets her phone out for some selfies.
‘Didn’t you model once, Luce?’ Meg asks her.
Lucy is our entertainer sister who’s done every job going alongside studying. She went to dance school, spent six months on a cruise ship, has been an extra and once did a two-month stint in Les Misérables but currently earns her bread and butter from performing at children’s parties which means she owns a lot of wigs and always has glitter in her bra.
‘It was hardly modelling. It was promo work for an Audi garage. I had to do the splits on a car bonnet to get the punters in.’
‘Lovely,’ says Emma.
‘Degrading. I was in my actual pants on the A316. Though that is how I met Gordon, the one with the big—’
‘You are holding my infant son,’ I say.
‘He can’t process things. He’s only interested in milk. If I tell you’ – she glances around for nieces then proceeds in her best Disney fairy-tale voice – ‘that I had sex for three months with a man called Gordon who had a knob as thick as a beer can then he will have no idea what that means.’
‘LUCY!’ screams Emma.
I keep Lucy close because as much as I love the older two sisters, the youngest has been good entertainment in these early days of motherhood. She occasionally comes to hang out or we meet here and dine off Emma’s better internet speed and satellite TV packages. I can also live vicariously through her tales of going to gigs and clubs and hear how she’s not slept and got her boobs out for reasons of fun and frivolity.
‘So, plans for the next few days?’ I ask Meg.
‘Oh, nothing much. Eat the contents of Ems’ fridge. I’ll have to hang out with Mum and Dad, museums and shite for the kids.’
‘And no Danny?’ I ask, referring to her husband.
‘No, he’s working and doing boring Lakeland stuff. He’s really got quite dull in his old age. It’s all walking sticks and mint cake. He’s bought a flat cap, you know?’
Lucy interrupts. ‘Flat caps are cool.’
‘He doesn’t do it as a style statement, he looks like the old farmer off Babe. Also, big news – his brother is coming home soon.’
‘Stuart?’ I ask.
Lucy cackles unattractively. Stuart was the brother I once had a drunken dry hump with, though Lucy also had her way with him, years later, at Meg’s wedding. His name is now used to taunt and ridicule me. I’ve never told anyone this but I actually threw up on his knob the evening we met.
‘Give him our best, won’t you?’ Lucy says, putting an arm around me. I hate them all. Meg reaches over to take her nephew from her, her face lighting up to play aunty.
‘God, he’s a gem. Is he sleeping much?’ asks Meg.
‘I have no idea. He just doesn’t keep to normal hours.’
‘They do that. You look rough.’
‘Meg, seriously?’ Emma signals from across the kitchen.
‘I’ve looked rough for years,’ Meg replies. ‘It’s what kids do, they drain all the good humour and youth out of you.’
‘I HEARD THAT!’ screams her other daughter, Eve, as she enters the room, and bundles herself into her mother’s lap for a giggle.
‘We made Mummy fun. She was boring before she met us,’ Eve says.
Meg shakes her head and looks into the distance, as if trying to wind her memory back that far. She wasn’t boring. But love, and her family, mellowed her out. It changed something in her for the good. Eve disappears and I hear the clatter of all my nieces’ footsteps on the stairs again.
‘And is it normal for Joe’s brain to be throbbing?’ I ask.
Emma rolls her eyes at me. ‘Explain throbbing.’
‘Like there’s a hole in his skull and you can see his brain beating,’ I reply.
‘That’s his soft spot,’ Emma explains. ‘From where his skull hasn’t fused together yet. It allows for growth. Don’t touch it.’
‘Do I have to cover it? Like with a hat?’
‘No,’ says Emma.
‘But it creeps me out. And the poo, is it still supposed to look like korma?’
‘Yes. Way to spoil our curry night later though,’ Meg adds.
Emma goes over to examine Joe. It’s what she does – she’s like a living medical Wikipedia page. She knows why his eyes are changing colour and why he stuffs his fist in his mouth. She takes him off Meg and I notice how easily he sits on her hip. How does Emma handle him like that? Meg is different though. She’s practical, hardy. Her intuition is more finely tuned, especially when it comes to her sisters. She studies my face like she’s counting every new wrinkle and worry line I’ve obtained over the last year.
‘Hang on in there, B. And I know what you’re like, don’t google everything,’ Meg says.
‘I don’t do that.’
Lucy interrupts. ‘You do. You were here last week and you asked Siri if babies can see things on screens because you were worried he’d be cross-eyed.’
Meg laughs and looks at me.
‘He’s not a dog. He can see in 3D.’
‘Well, I didn’t know that,’ I reply.
‘So, you were also saying before about heading out to some company party?’ Meg asks.
‘Yeah, on Saturday. Will’s boss is organising some social to celebrate a contract so if Emma could take Joe… well, that would be awesome. I may need thirty Red Bulls before I leave the house though.’
‘A date with my favourite nephew. That I can do,’ Emma replies.
This social was Will’s big chance to make an impression at work but in truth the sheer idea was exhausting and terrifying. When
he’d been headhunted by the avant-garde, boutique architectural firm he now works at, it was such a huge move for him professionally that I urged him to take it. But I do worry about the extra stress, time and pressure it’s adding to his life. I’m also worried about being by his side at this event when I’m finding it hard enough to string simple sentences together. Me. Beth. Will. Boyfriend.
‘You’ll love it. You need to let your hair down, have a date night,’ adds Meg.
‘You know what I need? A night in a Premier Inn on my own with a bath and a takeaway.’
Emma looks at me strangely, wondering when my standards changed.
‘Wow, your bar is low. We could do that here. We could role play. I can be on reception?’ Lucy jokes.
I laugh but truly, a good night’s sleep, some grown-up crisps and a Netflix binge would be the ultimate dream.
‘And what are you wearing to this thing?’ asks Meg.
‘Whatever fits and whatever I can squeeze my bosom into. Seriously, did your norks get as big as this?’
Meg glances down and reaches across to give them a feel. I don’t flinch as this is not new. Lucy comes over to join in the grope fest, as Joe’s curious eyes wonder what this conversation may be about.
‘Bloody hell, girl, is that all milk? You haven’t got your refill under control,’ Meg says.
‘I’m a 38G.’
‘I never went bigger than an E,’ says Meg.
‘I was a D,’ Emma chips in.
‘Those are porn boobs. I reckon you could balance things on them,’ Lucy says. ‘There’s a club I worked at once that had a lady who did that. She served champagne off her rack. Girl got TIPS.’
We all look at Lucy curiously.
‘It’s not natural. I feel very off-centre,’ I add.
I scan down as Meg reaches over to hold my hand. Having both recently had babies, we’re both suffering from our bodies being in some sort of postpartum limbo but she doesn’t seem to care. Maybe she’s just had the time and experience of her other pregnancies to channel any despondency she has about the situation.
‘Flash me, your bra must be huge,’ says Meg.
I lift up my top, tentatively.
Lucy laughs. ‘That could fit on my head.’
Meg, however, notices my arm clutching my stomach and rolls her eyes at my hesitancy. ‘Oh, give over.’ She lifts her shirt up to reveal rolls of flesh, stretch marks scattered across them like silver waves.
‘Do the stretch marks ever fade?’ I ask. ‘Mine are dark red, I look like a tiger.’
‘Own them. They’re your new warrior stripes. We’ve just produced life. Give yourself a break.’
We sit here with our guts out in our sister’s kitchen. Emma and Lucy don’t even baulk, but also don’t join in for which I’m glad as I know they both indulge in weekly exercise.
‘It’s just how it is for the while. It gets better,’ Meg says.
‘So this is the status quo, knackered and flabby?’ I say.
‘Well, yeah. Just get some high-waisted jeans that suck it all in. And big floaty dresses are good. The wrap dress is our friend. You can hide all of that.’
I look down. I’m wearing a giant T-shirt with extremely elasticated leggings. It’s all about the comfort, less the look.
‘I’m just worried I’ll look crap at the weekend. I don’t want to let Will down.’
‘You won’t. You’re fun. People like you. You’re the nice sister.’
‘What does that make you?’ I ask Meg.
‘I was thinking about this the other day when I was watching The Walking Dead. I’m the ringleader spokeswoman, then you have Ems and Gracie who are the “sensible” ones telling us our plans are stupid. Don’t go there, that’s insane, safety first.’ Emma doesn’t disagree with this appraisal. ‘Then Lucy is the fun one keeping spirits up with sarcasm and joy and you’re the heart, the one we all come to for hugs and empathy.’
‘That’s nice. That person always gets eaten though.’
‘And turns into a zombie.’
Meg pulls a face, rolling her eyes back, tongue hanging out. Joe laughs only because he’s so familiar with it but he gives me a look. How come everyone’s allowed near the boobies but me? Surely they’re mine? I smile back at him.
‘Give him over, Ems, he’s due a feed,’ I say.
I adjust myself and prop some cushions up behind me. I have yet to master the slick magician style manner that most have when feeding their kids without being noticed so I just plonk my tit out in the middle of the kitchen. Lucy’s eyes read like an asteroid has just hit the room. Emma hands Joe over and he suckles for his life, like this might be his last meal. This part, at least, always feels useful, though it does have a milking cow element to it. The older sisters watch intently and I wonder whether they’re assessing the technique.
‘I bet Will’s loving the bigger bangers though, eh?’ says Lucy, casually.
I smile awkwardly. ‘He’s a bit scared of them. They’re unpredictable. And you never told me the milk comes out like that, through lots of different holes,’ I say, pointing at the older sisters.
Lucy looks horrified, staring down at her own boobs.
‘Like a sprinkler,’ I tell her as she tries to work that out. ‘And the pressure when they’re full is immense. No one told me about that either.’
‘It’s fun though, eh?’ says Meg.
‘Like how?’ I ask.
‘Like on a good day’ – she gestures to a glass by the sink – ‘I could hit that.’
Lucy’s eyes light up but Emma shakes her head indicating that I won’t be doing a demonstration in her shaker kitchen. Meg is reading my face though. Given my revelation that Will doesn’t know what to make of my boobs, she clocks what this may mean.
‘You’ve not done it, have you? Since…’ she says.
‘Meg, we’ve not done it since I was too big to get off the floor without help.’
My sister shrugs and I sense it may be the same with her.
‘I don’t think my bits are ready,’ I say.
‘How so?’ asks the doctor sister.
‘I’m scared he’ll put it in me and everything will fall out.’
‘I don’t think that’s how it works,’ replies Meg.
‘It can. I read about it on the internet,’ I say. ‘You can have a prolapse. All sorts can fall out.’
Emma shakes her head at my Google Medical School factoids.
‘Yeah, that can happen if you’re old and had multiple babies, lost all your tightness and not done your pelvic floors. You are doing your pelvic floors, right?’ says Emma.
I nod. I do five in a row to make up for it.
‘But Ems, the first wee I had after giving birth was an emotional event.’
‘That is a universal thing,’ she says with some gravitas.
‘Neither of you kept me informed. You didn’t tell me my nipples would grow to the size of brazil nuts. You just kept telling me to buy muslins.’
‘Which was also useful advice,’ says Meg. ‘Like how bad was that tear?’
‘Second degree,’ says Emma. I never really understood what that meant but Lucy’s grimace and crossed legs is what we’re all feeling.
‘Like I never looked, I didn’t want to scare myself but he was a ten-pound baby so you can imagine the damage.’
‘Crap, so did it look like a dropped lasagne afterwards?’ Lucy chirps in.
Meg cackles in laughter but Emma stares at the youngest in wonder.
‘I hate you all.’ I carry on. ‘But you know, Will and I are both knackered and I just don’t feel hugely sexual at the moment. Will’s also not about as much.’
‘Work?’ asks Meg.
‘Kinda. He still likes a drink after office hours too.’
‘While you stay at home with the baby?’
My sister doesn’t seem too impressed but that seems to be her raison d’être. As the eldest, she enjoys holding our collective spouses and boyfriends to task when they misbehave.
‘He’s allowed a social life, to decompress.’
Ems pipes in. ‘But what about moral support? Next time he does that, please ring me or Luce and we can come over with a takeaway or something.’ Lucy nods and drapes herself off my shoulder, kissing the top of her nephew’s head. I pout at the sincerity of the gesture.
‘You’re still hot, Beth. Just got more cushion for the pushing, you know?’ says Lucy.
‘Nice.’
Meg and Emma study me intently. They fell into motherhood so easily, like it was simply the next step in their womanhood. Their babies came and they clutched them to their bosoms and knew what every burp, cry and gurgle meant. It’s their true superpower. It arrived the days their babies were conceived. I feel like I’m still waiting for my powers to come in the post.
‘Maybe we can have a dinner party for your birthday?’ Emma suggests, trying to cheer me up. It’s about a month away but the thought alone is exhausting. Thirty-one. It’s such a nothing age. It’s miles away from forty but marks some depressing ascent into being an adult. Dinner would be very grown up, even civilised, but dull. I know Emma. There’d be matching placemats, a bread basket, and she’d whack on some Norah Jones.
‘YES!’ cries Lucy.
‘Maybe?’
‘Just nothing like your thirtieth,’ Meg says, nostrils flared from recalling the horror. Even Emma stares into the distance like she’s still not over the shock. Lucy and I just look at each other smugly. It was my last fling with youth and it was epic. There was a sensible element – afternoon tea with my parents – but after that it was a frigging free-for-all. Gracie was here. But so was her husband, Tom, who’s since passed away. It was just before his diagnosis so we went out like some motley crew without a care in the world. We wreaked havoc in a Mexican restaurant where Will drank tequila shots and licked salt off my cleavage. We got Emma so drunk that we lost her and Meg found her passed out in front of a betting shop sleeping next to a tramp, using his Labrador as a blanket. Meg and Ems flaked on us after that but us young ’uns and a group of my friends went on to an electronic music festival in Victoria Park. Yes, that festival. I think about scattered flashes of pastel light across my sister’s faces as we jumped in time to the beat of the music. We danced so hard. Will was abnormally sweaty as he came in to hug me.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 6