‘You’re old now,’ he said.
‘Piss off. You’re thirty in seven months.’
‘I love you so much. I really want to have sex with you,’ he yelled over the throb of the music.
And I knocked my head back and kept on dancing. Well, not really dancing. Just this wild prancing around with dancey spaghetti arms and Will did that move he does where he looks like he’s repeatedly tossing pancakes. We had sex back at our house share in Brixton. On the sofa. Our housemate, Georgia, caught us at it and shamed us all the next day by leaving a note on the communal fridge and asking us to sanitise the area. I look down at the little baby staring up at me, his chin moving up and down as he squeezes more milk out of me. That’s how you happened. I’ll save that story for when you’re eighteen. You were quite the birthday present, little one. He looks up, smiles for a moment and milk pours out the sides of his mouth.
Track Five
‘Daddy Cool’ – Boney M. (1976)
One of my favourite memories of Will is when we were sitting on the steps of the monument at Seven Dials in Covent Garden on one of our first dates. The weather was just starting to warm up so he bought me a drink and we sat outside and got to know each other. He liked that I drank beer, I liked how he took his parka off and draped it over my shoulders when the weather got a bit cooler. That would teach me to go out in just a denim jacket. The conversation was mainly peppered with musical references. We spoke about bands and festivals and I hit him hard with all my music trivia in an attempt to impress him. Like how Finland has more metal bands per capita than anywhere else in the world and how Lucy once went out very briefly (briefly equates to a day) with the drummer from The 1975. I loved the way he rubbed the back of his head when he was nervous, how he had dark brown eyes like chocolate buttons and how he gave me an architecture lesson about how the streets converged around that point in Central London, by taking out an old receipt in his satchel to draw the angles out. The drawing made me kiss him. He kissed back. It led to three men next to us telling us to ‘get a room’ jokingly. One of them shook Will’s hand and then told him he was ‘punching’, the other asked when the wedding was. It was date three. We both blushed and laughed. Will then took me for chips. We ate them outside, clouds of grease shining through the paper, licking the salt and vinegar off the nooks and crannies of our fingers. We talked about foods that one can batter. We agreed battered cheese should be a thing. He also told me he had recently come up with a litmus test when it came to dating women. He had started asking them what their favourite Stevie Wonder songs were. If they didn’t know who Stevie was then they were out on their ear. If any of them said ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ then he never called them back. He hadn’t asked me yet because he’d pinned quite a lot of hope on my answer so he didn’t want to be disappointed. ‘Golden Lady’ off the Innervisions album, was my response. He smiled. I was allowed to stay. Of course, I slept with him afterwards. I brought him back to the flat share I lived in. It was a hole. I remember the letter box was held together by gaffer tape and my curtains were old batik wraps. We had sex. Sex so loud that a housemate knocked on my bedroom door and said I was an awful human being as I was reminding him that it had been four months since he’d last slept with anyone. That was eight years ago.
Everything I liked about Will was dictated by how easy it was to be with him. Pre-baby, we’d be watching television and then one of us would suggest what was for dinner, the other would say takeaway and forty-three minutes later, one would be at the door, usually delivered by Sanj, who we’d come to know by name, which is why Will thought we always got free naan. We’d then open an extra couple of beers and pass out together on the sofa, only waking to switch off the telly. We both worked, we socialised, we travelled and we partied and we had moments where we’d fall out of gigs with his arms around my side, and we’d roam the streets of London searching for chips and things in batter.
Tonight feels different, however. The usual ease I feel to be by Will’s side is gone. I am his plus one at his company night out and I feel like an imposter. I stand outside this organic pub in Angel, looking through the window. Will is surrounded by about ten people and they’re immersed in conversation, looking earnest. Oh, architecture: gables and architraves and buildings and… stuff. He’s a different Will, one that doesn’t quite look like himself. He’s buttoned his shirt up to the top and just looks so serious, not the laidback kid who I’m used to. If the conversation is earnest then so is the pub. It’s all organic, sustainable, and uber woke, confirmed by the sprightly folk soundtrack and the high level of punters in hats. I could play hat bingo and get a house in seconds: beret, trilby, newsboy, flat cap and I think that might be a loser in a bowler hat trying to be ironic or possibly trying to get me into his circus. Lucy would have a field day with him.
But I am trying. I am. I panic bought a floral wrap maxi dress and I’m wearing it with trainers and a row of gold chains Lucy lent me so I look like I vaguely used to be trendy. Does it flatter my figure? Who knows? But it contains me and that’s a start. I just need to remember to hold on to it on the Tube as it is floaty in every sense of the word and I almost took off like a parachute when a train pulled into the platform. Still, I came to support Will. I am here. But my mind is with Joe, my bed, the fact I don’t know who half of these people are. I also am very suspicious of Sam. Sam is the head director person whom Will has spoken about plenty but who I always assumed to be a man, probably because in between babies and sleeplessness, I don’t really process things with too much clarity. But no, Sam is a woman. And she’s the sort of woman I want to be when I grow up. She’s assured and confident, wearing a kimono-cut dress with gold shoes and she has that sort of natural minimalist make-up look that you know is really achieved with three products that cost the same as our monthly heating bill. She also calls me B which makes me wonder if she just initialises everyone to be super-efficient, or just because she’s the boss so she can get away with it. Will sees me outside and waves through the window. I excused myself to take a call and check in on Joe so I dive in my shoulder bag to find my phone and pretend to push some buttons, talking into it. Why has Sam got her hand on Will’s shoulder? Is she wearing a bra with that dress?
‘Hello? Hello?’ Oh flaps, I’ve actually dialled someone.
I look down at my phone and smile. I’m glad I fake dialled you.
‘Callaghan? To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Maccers.’
Sean McGill. In modern terms, my work husband. We both went to university in Warwick and bonded as we were South Londoners studying education because we weren’t sure what else there was to do in life. We always stayed close to each other through placements and work, we shared houses at one point, and as luck would have it, we ended up applying to Griffin Road Comprehensive at the same time. He’s a friend, we share mugs, we cover each other’s playground patrols. We had a drunken fondle at university once but that’s as far as it went. I love him like a brother and I also know far too much about him. He’s a bit geeky and a religious football fan. He now lives at home with his mother, who makes him a cheese sandwich every day for lunch and he kicks off when she tries to give him brown bread. Back when I was at work and I’d call him of an evening to check about school stuff, it was common to hear him marking but also playing Call of Duty, asking his mum if his chicken nuggets were ready.
‘I butt dialled you, mate. Sorry.’
‘No worries. How’s tricks? Are you out? You sound out? Why aren’t I there?’
It dawns on me that this is the first communication we’ve had since Joe was born. Sean has kept his distance. I get why. Every time he saw my pregnant bump in the staff room, he’d look at it like a strange growth, an alarming sign of the times that we were now proper adults. He didn’t even send a card; his mum did and signed his name in it.
‘I am. Will’s work thing. First time since Joe was born. Currently outside the pub trying to figure out how to make conversation again.’
/>
‘How’s the little one? How’s motherhood treating you?’
Like its bitch, but I don’t say that out loud.
‘It’s all good. How are things at Griffin Road?’
‘Same old. It was parents’ evening last week and I had at least five kids I have no recollection of ever teaching. Jane Kelsted is preggers.’
‘That’s good.’ Since joining this school three years ago, Jane had been obsessed with getting pregnant to the point where most of the staff room knew her fertile days.
‘But it’s dull without you. I have no one to make me tea. Please come back. Bring the baby. We’ll give him to the ladies in the library and he can ride the book trolleys all day.’
I laugh but feel immediate pangs of sadness. I do miss Sean. I miss the anecdotes about his failed attempts at finding love and how he’s fallen asleep teaching kids about tectonic plates. Once upon a time, I’d share moments on pub pavements with him, someone I actually liked. Instead, I’m surrounded by strangers.
‘You are coming back, right?’ he asks.
‘Of course.’
I’m supposed to return in the new year but the thought alone is exhausting. There’s so much to prepare. I need to find a decent breast pump, finalise childcare and remember how to spell my name.
‘You alright, mate?’ he asks, hearing my low spirits.
‘Tell me I’m fun and interesting.’
‘You’re fun and interesting. Go knock ’em dead. Do you need any jokes to break the room?’
‘Your jokes? No thanks.’
He laughs. ‘Enjoy, I’ll catch you laters. My dinner’s ready. COMING, MUM! Love you, Callaghan.’
The line goes dead and returns to a screensaver of Joe. My little boy looks up at me. Speaking to Sean brings all my thoughts and guilt-laced emotions about returning to work to the forefront. I could bring Joe into school and feed him in between lessons, keep him in a drawer. If we passed him through every department for a five-minute cuddle session, that would see me through most of the days. A tap on my shoulder gets my attention. It’s an impossibly tall blond man with a very severe haircut but excellent taste in Japanese graphic T-shirts.
‘Do you want a smoke?’
I was introduced to this man half an hour ago. Balls. My mind is like a sieve. Oh, he’s Magnus with the shocked-looking baby.
‘I don’t. I just came to check on my baby,’ I say, waving my phone in the air.
‘Oh, the adorable Joe.’
‘You have a baby, yes?’
‘Agnes. She’s two months.’
‘Is she sleeping much? Ours doesn’t sleep.’
‘No, she reminds me of my teenage self. Party all night, sleep all day, eat everything,’ he says.
‘Did you poo all over the sofa too at that age?’
He laughs but sees my gaze caught by Sam and Will through the window. She’s incredibly tactile with him and my boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind.
‘Don’t worry about Sam, she’s like that,’ Magnus says. ‘She likes to pet her newcomers. That was me once.’
‘What is she like, as a boss?’ I ask.
‘Oh, she’s an architectural genius. I’ve known her for years but her genius comes with sharp edges. She likes to wield her power, work us hard. She hasn’t got to where she’s got by playing nice, if that makes sense?’
I am not sure what to make of that statement so nod politely. I was never very sure what an architect did when I first met Will. I just thought they built stuff, thought maybe he could build us a house out of shipping containers like on Grand Designs. He was passionate about it; he would get angry at poor design and work his arse off to reach deadlines. We always had nice pens in our house, too.
Magnus puffs hard on his cigarette. I gave up smoking three years ago but man, sometimes I just like to hang around the smell. The scent of a youth filled with cheeky cigs on the pavement, trying to look cool and feel better about the world.
‘What’s rillettes?’ he asks me.
‘I have no idea.’
‘I’m eating one. Can I sit next to you in case it’s something weird like the French word for a tongue or a kidney or something?’
‘Only if I use your shoulder for a nap?’
He shakes my hand. ‘This also saves me from having to sit next to Philip.’
‘I’m sorry, who?’
‘He’s the one with the thin moustache like a lost pube and the slacks and vest.’
We both glimpse him through the window. I think that’s a monocle attached to him. Will he get that out to inspect the food?
‘Oh, and I need to tell you something. This is awkward but I am going to touch you. Is that OK?’
He says his words hesitantly. I mean, we’ve just met. Does he want a hug? We’re both exhausted new parents and I’m up for some bonding if he wants. I put my arms out to tell him I’m ready. He looks at me curiously, reaches up for my armpit and quickly tugs down, handing me the price tag in his hand. I hug him anyway.
It turns out rillettes is a chunky pâté. Magnus was happy. I had a homemade Scotch egg that was locally sourced, fed on grain and coated in more than just breadcrumbs – maybe some sort of extremely healthy seed. In any case, I was so hungry by the point it arrived that I picked it up and ate it like an apple. And I thought what an idea it’d be to batter a Scotch egg and serve it with chips. Naturally, I’d tell Will but he’s sitting at the opposite end of the table while I’m with Magnus to my left and Joyce, the office manager, to the right. Joyce likes a velveteen moccasin, she has a cat called Chunk and played it safe with the soup of the day which was green and cold and not what she expected.
‘I remember when my two were babies. Seems like yesterday,’ she says. Except they’re nineteen and twenty-two respectively, moved out and are living in Kent, but I don’t argue with her about the concept of time.
‘Will is so proud to be a dad, you can see it at work. He’s got pictures up of Joe all over the place. He really is a sweetheart.’
Joe or Will? I want to ask without sounding needy if there are any pictures of me but I like the idea that photos of Joe stare at Will all day, that he gets to spend some time in his son’s company. It’s been an odd evening. I haven’t minded being with Magnus and Joyce but this has not been the evening sold to me. I wanted some quality time with Will. I wanted to feel relaxed. But I only managed a few sips of wine before I really felt it go to my head and I am clock watching thinking about Joe. I dropped him off at 6.30 p.m. and filled him to the brim with milk at Emma’s but ideally, we need to leave here at 10 p.m. for me to be able to feed him. It’s 9.57.
‘Excuse me, I just need to absent myself to the loos.’ I try and locate Will but his end of the table is empty. I find my way to a quiet corner of the pub and text Ems.
How is he?
He’s fine. He just took a bottle.
He never takes a bottle.
Usually because you’re nearby and he can smell your boobs. He’s had another feed and then I’ll get him down for another nap.
My shoulders slump. Joe was going to be my excuse for us leaving.
Should my boobs hurt? They’re getting quite hard, almost painful.
Express?
Where?
Anywhere? Meg once expressed into a Fanta can at a Take That gig. I used to do it at work. I even expressed into a paper cup once in the staff room. It’s that or clogged milk ducts and abscesses and then you will know real pain.
You’re both feral.
This is your life now. Just get on with it. And Joe is fine. Take your time.
I stare down at my phone. The pub hums around me. I want to go home. The gents door opens and Will emerges, followed by Philip, who pats him on the back and carries on through to the restaurant.
‘You OK?’ Will asks, coming over to put a hand around me.
‘I think? I was worried about Joe.’
His expression changes immediately. ‘Do we need to leave? Is he alright?’
‘He’s fi
ne. Ems, as usual, has it all under control. She’s just told me to decant my tits in the sink though so they don’t go humungo.’
He chuckles but sighs with relief. ‘What a night. Thank you for being here, for humouring everyone. I do bloody love you.’ He stumbles as he makes that declaration.
‘How drunk are you?’ I ask him.
‘Drunk enough so I’m fun and breezy and don’t punch Philip in the monocle.’
I bring him in for a hug and he clasps me tightly. This is what I miss: long hugs in dark corners where he whispers funny snippets of nothing into my ear. The ladies bathroom door is behind me, and he puts his head through tentatively and pulls me inside. Oh. We’re doing that? I’m so not prepared for us to have public-space sex. Not to mention it’s the first time we’ve had sex in forever too.
‘Dude. Now?’
‘Hell, no. But if you’re squeezing your boobs in a sink then I’m not missing out on that.’
I laugh. Needs must. I push the fabric of my dress to one side and unclasp my bra as he locks the door then comes to stand next to me, smiling at me through the mirror. I hand him my bag. This is a perfect date night activity. It’s what all new parents do. I can do this. I can milk my tits into a sink. I have to lean forward slightly, angling the nipple over the basin and squeeze. As is the case with my milk supply, the first squeezes are a relief and shoot out across the porcelain before they peter out into a dribble. This must sound like I have an extraordinarily unpredictable bladder to anyone outside. Will can’t stop laughing.
‘If you get your phone out, I will smother you with these things,’ I say.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 7