Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner

by Kristen Bailey

  ‘I sent you that meme about teaching the other day. I tagged you in it. Mate, I just don’t do babies. I thought I’d give you some space.’ He shrugs. People do this. They forget babies are quite small though, they don’t take up that much room. A simple hello would have sufficed.

  ‘That rapper thing was cool. I saw that on your Insta.’

  ‘Bit surreal.’

  ‘Seems like Will’s got into the swing of things too, eh?’

  ‘He has?’

  ‘He was out the other night with that friend of his I met once, Jason?’

  My mind goes blank. He never mentioned it? I’ve seen less and less of Will since that video shoot. He’s had long hours at the office and he creeps home past midnight; the only way I can tell is by feeling his weight balancing out the mattress.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  Sean gets out his phone and scrolls through Instagram, finding a picture of Will in a bar. It’s half his face but that is him. It was the day he went back to the office after the video shoot. The day I was promised noodles. Seriously? Sean reads my shock immediately.

  ‘You two OK?’ Sean asks.

  ‘Just… he probably said something and I forgot. Classic baby brain.’ I’m unsure why I feel the need to cover for Will but the staff room doesn’t feel like the place to air my worries.

  ‘That or the fact that we’re old now,’ Sean says, almost in disgust. For him, the ascent into our thirties meant we needed to start booking cruises and taking up relaxing pastimes like lawn bowls.

  ‘We’re not old. Thirty isn’t old anymore. Look at Tony. He’s like in his fifties,’ I say.

  ‘Fifty-seven; there was a cake in the summer term.’

  ‘I missed cake?’

  ‘Baked by Jackie in Drama so you didn’t miss much. You’re OK, though? Yeah?’

  I don’t know how to answer this. He doesn’t need to hear about my sore boobs, fatigue, feelings of severe imposter syndrome – and Will possibly lying to me about nights out. He just wants his mate back. He wants someone to sit and have coffee and staff room gossip with. We used to sit on this sofa and have a moan about teenagers, quote lines from films and plan big nights out. He even countersigned my passport.

  ‘Getting there. So how’s your love life?’ I ask.

  Sean’s love life is the stuff of legend and I miss his dating tales most of all. Living at home with his parents (and having no shame about that) means he pulls girls in clubs, brings them home and has no problem when the next morning his mum emerges at their bedside with a cooked breakfast.

  ‘I went on Tinder. Didn’t know what to write about myself. Sean, 30, likes food and films and cats. The animals, not the musical.’

  ‘And I bet you got… zero swipes?’ He puts a thumbs up at me. ‘What about Connie from PE, she seems nice?’ I say.

  ‘She uses a lot of highlighters. Very well organised. I’m not sure we’d be the best match. She only eats meat on Tuesdays and Thursdays so you know what that would mean.’

  I laugh. I do miss him but I don’t know how to tell him that.

  ‘We should go out soon?’ I tell him.

  ‘God yes… like I want to get totally bladdered. What are you up to at the weekend?’

  ‘I mean… lunch? Coffee? I don’t drink too much these days or survive nights out.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure.’ I can’t tell if he’s disappointed.

  ‘Oh, and I’m having a party in a few weeks. Lucy and Emma wanted to throw something for my birthday. It was supposed to be some civil dinner party but you know Lucy, it’s evolved into something bigger. Come along, bring some people? It’s fancy dress.’

  ‘I’m so there, mate,’ he says, animatedly giving me some strange fist bump. Joe still keeps looking over at him. I don’t think I know who you are. So here, have a hand that I’ve been sucking on and let me cover your sleeve with drool. Sean wipes awkwardly at the snail-like trails.

  ‘Yikes. Here, hold him for a second while I get some muslins out.’

  I hand Joe over and Sean holds him aloft like a cartoon monkey would a lion cub over the savannah. Joe seems to enjoy the aerial view. However, if Sean doesn’t know how he feels about babies, the next noise to come out of Joe is not going to help matters. That sound is part of my everyday now. It’s like a drain emptying its contents. Sean’s eyes open widely. That was a human sound? I stare at Joe.

  I’ve been saving that for the right time, Mum.

  Sean returns him to me in haste while that wonderful sweet smell of baby crap permeates the nostrils. You choose your moments, little man.

  ‘Mate, did I do something wrong? Did I break him?’ Sean asks, panicked.

  I laugh. ‘No, he just crapped himself, like babies do.’

  Sean’s face reads shock and confusion. ‘Oh. Well, that’s beyond my pay scale. Go forth and do your mum thing.’

  ‘Will do. Go be a teacher. And, Maccers, don’t be a stranger.’ We then share a look I can’t quite describe. A baby has come between us, hasn’t it? ‘Come to that party.’

  ‘Try to stop me, Miss C.’

  He salutes me as I gather my belongings hurriedly before anyone else in the staff room can shame my infant son for the smell. Right, where does one change a baby in a school? Do I go out to the car? The sports field? I’m pretty sure there are no change tables in this place so I duck into a girls’ toilet, trying to work out the logistics before I meet with the headteacher. I hear hushed voices go quiet as I enter but hey, I’m not in teacher mode. Not yet. You kids should be in your first lessons. I pretend to ignore them and find a space on the floor to change Joe, unfolding my change mat and laying him down with all the grace associated with my lack of co-ordination.

  You rascal of a baby, this is not good. I see the dark yellow shadow of something against his jeans and try awkwardly to remove his clothes. I’ll have to burn them. I don’t know if I even have enough wipes. Maybe I can dangle his little baby butt in the sink and rinse him down. I tussle with bags and nappies, struggling to find a change of clothes for him. Did I recharge this bag with new clothes? I bloody hope I did, or Joe will be presented to the head of my school swathed in a scarf like Gandhi.

  Finding some wipes, I clean the worst off my hands. Loo roll, that will help. I hook Joe over my arm and grab a whole roll, throwing the used wipes in the loo, and flush. No. That was a bad move. A really bad move. They’re not flushing, are they? I look down the toilet. Please don’t. I close the lid and pray silently to the toilet gods as I return to Joe. Now is the perfectly perfect time for a stream of urine to arch over me and my clothes.

  ‘Aaaaargggh…’ I half mumble, looking up at him as he smiles at me. But such fun, Mum. Look how high I can whizz, it’s like a fountain. ‘Why can’t you do this at home? You little…’

  But before I can possibly swear at my baby, a hand appears behind me offering a stack of paper towels. Looking up, it’s Imogen from my form room.

  ‘You alright, Miss?’ Her expression reads both horrified and scarred. I use one of the towels to protect Joe’s modesty.

  ‘Thank you, Imogen.’ I glance over but see the shape of the other shoes hiding in the cubicle. They’re boys’ shoes. She notices me looking.

  ‘I can see you. You can come out.’ The lad shuffles out quietly. ‘Harvey.’

  ‘Are you going to tell on us, Miss?’

  Both of them look down at me as I try to be an adult, change my infant son, all while hiding the piss patch that’s appeared on my dress.

  ‘I need more paper towels, Imogen. Like, just hand me the whole stack.’

  Imogen looks at me curiously.

  ‘I’m going to assume you two weren’t in there discussing Macbeth?’ I tell them.

  Harvey giggles nervously.

  ‘Are you dating?’ I ask.

  ‘We are,’ Harvey replies. I like how he says that so definitively. For a boy who’s normally so quiet, of this much he was sure. I like the way it makes Imogen smile too. Joe starts kicking his le
gs about and I try and wrap him up in paper towels like a mummy to absorb the worst of the mess.

  ‘Well, that is cute but time and place, kids. Nicer venues to court a lady than the school toilets too.’

  I think back to a time when not so long ago, my boyfriend milked me in a public loo. My boyfriend. Such thoughts lead me to think of that nugget of information I learned about Will from Sean and it fills me with a deep sadness. Did he lie to me? Harvey and Imogen still stand there awaiting their punishment, watching as Joe puts his hands all over the messy nappy by his side.

  ‘Joooooooeeeeee…’

  Harvey bends down and starts to help me wipe the floor and walls down. How can someone so tiny make such mess?

  ‘Go to your first lesson. Never speak of this – especially to the caretakers because I may have blocked a toilet. If I hear some rumour circulating on Snapchat that Miss Callaghan’s baby shat like Etna all over the girls’ loos in the east wing then I’ll tell your heads of year. Deal?’

  They both smile.

  ‘And before you go…’ I think of Will again. What advice to give two young people who want to spend every minute of every day with each other? Who are still bathing in the warm bask of first love? I want to tell them to enjoy it, have fun, absorb all those cheeky texts and messages. Be present, be grateful, be spontaneous.

  ‘Use a sheath.’

  Holy balls. I just said that, right? They both try to hold in their giggles. That was an adulting fail on all accounts.

  ‘We will,’ mutters Harvey, confused but still surveying the carnage.

  ‘We’ll see you after Christmas, Miss,’ says Imogen.

  They both nod and scamper out of the bathroom as Joe lies there looking at me. Don’t worry, Mum. What they’ve just seen here was contraception enough.

  Track Eleven

  ‘Shallow’ – Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper (2018)

  What is an awful thing to do in a relationship? Like the pinnacle is probably violence, murder and abuse, but something like bigamy would rank up there too, wouldn’t it? Some serial affair that went on for decades that spouted extra children and layers of deceit. Maybe a different sort of lie? Gamblers, addicts, perverse political opinion. I know someone who dumped their boyfriend because she discovered months down the line that he was a flat earther. He was so adamant that this was a truth that she threw a mug at his head because of his stupidity. We all have our deal-breakers. I once dumped someone at university who referred to his penis as a meat Calippo. These thoughts go through my head on the train as I think about what I did this morning. I had a sneak peek on Will’s phone. We can call it a moment of hormone-addled lunacy but the truth is I was worried. I haven’t been able to confront him about the fact he’d met up with Jason that night and why he didn’t tell me. The day of my school visit, he came home. We had pasta for dinner and I did the typical Beth thing of not grating enough cheese. We spoke about school, I described how Joe exploded like a dirty bomb, and went through details of my meeting with my head, Alicia, who patted Joe like a farm animal and made my molars hurt with boredom as she described the new prospectus to me and the different fonts she’d chosen.

  But I couldn’t ask him about that night. It was an easy enough question but in the back of my mind, I knew he’d kept it from me for a reason and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to hear what that was just yet. So, we shared a family bar of Dairy Milk for dessert and we watched a few episodes of Ozark in silence. The moment he fell asleep, I looked through old WhatsApp messages and texts. I then put the phone back on the dresser and lay there staring at the ceiling thinking about the infinite bad possibilities of what could be happening. On the train now, I look down at Joe, whose eyes dart in time with the golden autumnal scenery dashing past the window. I don’t think your father is a bigamist. I don’t think he thinks the world is flat. But there’s a feeling that makes me wonder if he hung out with Jason so he didn’t have to hang out with us – and that is the worst feeling of all.

  We’re on a train today on our way to see Giles, who wants to discuss our future in baby modelling. I haven’t thought as far as Tuesday to be fair, Giles. But it felt like a good excuse to get out of the house and delve a bit further into what this could entail. The video was fun if absurd and there was money at the end of it, so it feels good to invest in Joe’s future and save up for trainers and tertiary education. We’re meeting for brunch which is probably the main reason I accepted this invitation as well. Brunch is my favourite meal of all the meals simply because it’s an excuse to eat breakfast without having to wake up too early. It was a stock meal for Will and I as people with weekend social lives. We used to pour out of bed, have eggs and Bloody Marys, swap sections of the Observer, and friends would join us and we’d compare the size and horror of our hangovers. I ask myself where those friends are now and I realise they’re far away enjoying their boozy brunches alone, without the risk of a baby spoiling things. No one needs a hangover and the extra work of having to a find a highchair.

  As we pull into Wimbledon station, I scan my phone and a text sits there from Will. I open it and it’s a picture of someone on the Tube wearing a dress with a giant owl sweeping down the front. I think there are feathers to the arms. You knew that would make me smile. I send an owl emoji back. He replies with a lemon. I kiss the top of Joe’s head and put my phone away. To doubt you, to think you’d lie to me or do anything to hurt me is just stupid. Almost as stupid as me thinking that I could carry Joe on the train in a carrier. Why did I think a carrier was a good option today? I had visions of Joe swaddled against my bosom, all secure, bonding skin-on-skin. I was fooled. You know what happens when you have to get off a train and are carrying a baby bag and a baby and are trying to remember what pocket your wallet is in? You sweat like balls. I am going to look like I’ve jogged here. I traverse the commuters and make our way through the barriers to find Giles waiting for us on the other side: the epitome of cool in a peacoat and turn-up jeans, a style that I think Will has been trying to emulate for years.

  ‘Yay! Baby Joe and his Mama Bear Beth!’

  This is a new nickname. Is this a reference to my body hair or my size? I’m not sure how to respond. Should I growl? He’s going to notice that I’m wearing that maxi dress again, isn’t he? This is my version of ethical fashion, wear something to death until it’s falling apart.

  ‘Hey! It’s Giles!’ I can’t think on my feet to come up with a suitable nickname in return.

  ‘Is he always so cute? It hurts my eyes.’

  He reaches over and strokes one of my son’s cheeks. Joe, who seems to know when compliments come his way now, looks over and smiles. This is part of your power now, eh?

  ‘How are you? I am so glad you could make it,’ Giles continues.

  ‘It was kind to be asked. And to be fair, I’m a sucker for brunch,’ I tell him, though conscious that it sounds like I’m here just for bacon.

  ‘Aren’t we all, lovely? So, a slight change of plan – we were initially meant to be meeting in a café but the other person here today offered her home. It’s literally around the corner, and I thought it’d be more comfortable for Joe?’

  ‘Oh, yeah sure.’ That person had better brew coffee strong enough to strip paint. I smile politely. Giles is right though, this may mean less baby juggling and I appreciate the gesture.

  ‘She literally lives down here. I’ve never been to her house before but…’ He studies the maps app on his phone. We’ve turned away from the main busy high street on to a residential road where the houses start to stretch into the sky and the frontages are sleeker and more contemporary. I am going to assume we’re going to see a director or possibly someone famous. I hope it’s someone cool like Phoebe Waller-Bridge. Maybe she wants to cast Joe in a film or give him a long-running role in a sitcom. He’d be a sitcom baby. Like the baby in The Hangover.

  ‘And here we are.’

  I glance at the modern font of the house number and the ivy hanging over the custard yellow door. Whoe
ver lives in a house like this definitely gets their milk delivered too as they have a wooden holder for the bottles. I buy my milk from the petrol station on the corner of our street. This is all lifestyle goals on steroids. Giles rings the bell and the door swings open. Oh, bollocks. Seriously?

  ‘Yasmin, hey!’ Giles says politely.

  ‘Hi, guys, come in!’ She gives me a smile. If you can call it that; she has that stony resting bitch face thing going on that makes me question the sincerity. I guess the last time we saw each other was in that corridor where she was going full tongues snog with someone who wasn’t her boyfriend. She’s in a slouchy cashmere jumper, showing off the straps of her vest, cropped leggings and bare feet. I suddenly feel overdressed. A chihuahua runs up to my feet and starts barking.

  ‘Down, Dicky.’

  Dicky? Small dogs like this scare me. My worry is that I’m going to trip over or tread on them. He scurries around my feet and gets lost underneath my maxi skirt. I have visions of him climbing my leg like a tree. I am lucky she bends down to retrieve him and picks him up, cradling him in the nook of her arm. Look at us with our respective babies. I glance around the hallway. Sleek concrete floor, check. Cylindrical copper light fittings, check. Full nude photo of her by the door, crossed leg and a bended knee blocking her foof, check.

  ‘Do you want to leave your coats here?’

  I nod as she slides a door back. It’s an actual cloakroom that houses at least thirty different pairs of shoes, baskets full of maps, sunglasses and keys. This is the difference between the rich and the poor, they have space to put everything. I keep all my trainers under my bed and my sunglasses at the bottom of handbags.

  ‘This is a beautiful home,’ Giles mentions.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies. She may as well have said, ‘I know.’

  When do I mention that I live in a garden flat with woodchip walls and dodgy plumbing? I turn to see another picture of her and her boyfriend in a field, looking all intensely loved up; he’s standing behind her, his hands acting as a bra. Will would need much bigger hands if we were going to pose like that. She leads us through a door and into a kitchen/diner space punctuated by steel girders and a glass roof. I stare up like some tourist admiring the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.