I laugh in surprise but she can already see the tears collecting in the creases of my eyes. Joe looks up at her. We’re leading with that?
‘Can I tell you about it? Maybe then you can tell me about Will. Over some tea? I’ll get some food in.’
I nod. ‘Was it a big goat?’
‘No. But he was an angry bastard. And you thought I was a diva.’
I try to summon up a smile. She stands there looking so natural with Joe. He shuttles looks between the two of us. Real mum, fake mum. In some strange world, this would be an awesome eighties sitcom. We could all live together and share trainers. She puts a hand to my back, Joe in her other arm, and draws me into her shoulder. Was that a hug? Let’s walk back to the flat. I’ll tell you about Will. Every sad last detail. You can tell me about that goat too.
Track Twenty-Three
‘Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want’ – The Smiths (1984)
‘THEY HAVE FUCKING LEBKUCHEN!’ Lucy shouts out in excitement. Only Lucy would get that excited about an iced German cake, but then only Lucy would swear in a crowded forecourt in front of children. A woman tuts and Emma looks across, apologetic, rolling her eyes.
‘GRACIE, YOU LOVE THIS SHIT!’
I look over and Grace studies her phone intently. I tap her on the shoulder and she nods, confused. Christmas will be all the more special this year because she’s here, but it means she has to participate in the great British Christmas shopping frenzy. Presently, we stand in the middle of a high street that they’ve tried to turn into a cosy European winter market. Except it’s not. It’s all fake lederhosen and garden sheds decorated with cheap tinsel. Hangry people queue for fragrant hog roasts with a side of Diet Coke, and there’s a stall with a man selling phone covers and Tibetan-style coats and rugs.
‘Stop checking your phone,’ I tell Grace.
‘I shouldn’t be here.’ She stares at her screen, terrified, almost waiting for emergency calls about her girls. I notice that her screensaver is still a picture of Tom that makes my heart hurt.
‘No, I shouldn’t be here.’ I point to Joe swaddled into me while I drink mulled wine over his head like any responsible parent would be. She looks over at him and strokes his cheek, puts a head to my shoulder and exhales loudly. She wears the same fatigue as I do, but differently. Hers is physical – I think the girls are still a touch unsettled so she sleeps with them, sometimes on the sofa, sometimes on the floor with them wrapped around her, triggering her sciatica.
My fatigue is emotional. Will still keeps his distance, guessing from that one text that Sean and I are now an item. When I got back in from trying to chase him through the streets, I sobbed on Yasmin’s shoulder and then I texted Will to let him know the truth. I was clear and explained that Sean and I were not a thing. For him to have even presumed that was borderline insulting. Will didn’t reply. He didn’t get it. I ache with how ridiculous this is all starting to feel. Grace hears a phone ring and gets hers out again to double-check.
‘Gracie, Mum will know what to do if there’s a problem,’ I tell her.
‘I just can’t relax. Ems, is it like this all the time now? Is this what motherhood is about? Just a constant state of worry?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ Emma replies, as she watches Lucy buy her girls marshmallows on sticks without her say-so, ‘a never-ending circle of self-doubt and paralytic fear that something’s going to happen to them… But fun bits in between. You wait until the hormones kick in.’
Everyone’s experience of parenthood is just one big cautionary tale. Lucy returns to the table stuffing her face full of cake and offering it to us. Emma recoils in horror at having to share something covered in Lucy’s spittle.
‘We all came out of the same vagina, dear sister,’ Lucy announces, putting on a wise scholarly accent.
‘Charming,’ says Emma.
But Grace doesn’t refuse. Lucy’s right, Gracie does love lebkuchen and one of my favourite memories is when I found both of them under our dining room table one Christmas scoffing a whole box my mother had put aside for an elderly aunt. She stuffs one into her face and gets out a list on her phone. I smile. I miss Gracie’s lists.
‘So I need to find this Baby Annabell thing for Cleo, she saw the commercial and her eyes lit up.’
Emma salutes. She looks like she’s been through the doll adventure before.
‘And what do you girls want? Seriously? I have nothing for you,’ Grace says.
I shrug. I’m still bagging on getting my Premier Inn night away.
‘We got new nieces this year, we don’t need anything,’ Emma says.
‘I mean I could do with a NutriBullet,’ Lucy says. Emma elbows her for giving Grace more gift stress. ‘Or a gift card I suppose.’
Do I need another gift card? Probably not. They’re tainted to me now.
Grace types away furiously on her keyboard. ‘And Violet, Iris?’
‘Pyjamas. Any. They grow like grass so buy big.’
Lucy rolls her eyes. ‘Or if you want them to be excited on Christmas day and not think you’re boring, they also go shit crazy for glitter gel pens.’
Violet’s eyes light up when she hears that and she bundles herself into Lucy’s arms. ‘Aunty Lucy, when can we have our surprise too?’ she asks.
Emma looks at Lucy suspiciously. The marshmallows were more than enough in her eyes.
‘I may have booked us into the grotto over the way in ten minutes.’
‘But Luce – shopping. I have to get back to the girls,’ Grace says.
‘Come on, for the little ones? Joe’s never met Santa. He won’t know who he is, how will he know to add him to his list?’ Lucy replies, dramatically.
Violet looks horrified at the thought. ‘Please, Aunty Gracie?’
Grace looks as thrilled as I do but nods reluctantly.
Lucy points over to the shopping centre and we start weaving our way around people armed with bags like it’s a competition to see who can fit as many as they can in one hand, they march and queue, and I see a grown man who looks like he’s sobbing outside a GAP. Inside the shopping centre, it’s all Christmas themed and every conceivable spare space is lined with a bauble or fairy light. It’d be magical were it not for the kid in front of me on the floor throwing some sort of tantrum. A father scoops him up and fireman lifts him out of there. I’m going to ring Santa when I get home and tell him what a little twat you’ve been. Grace and I look at each other in horror.
‘MISS C!’ I swing my head around. A group of youths approach Emma, Grace and me.
I have no idea what passes for fashion these days but they’re in a selection of trackpants, leggings and puffa coats accessorised with chains, AirPods and bum bags worn on their shoulders. I smile broadly. ‘Harvey, Imogen…’ There’s a whole gaggle of them so I don’t introduce them, but Emma and Grace look terrified. Imogen and Harvey still look to be an item with the way her hand seems to be wrapped around his waist and I’m glad they’ve upgraded their dates to the local shopping centre – it’s a step up from the school toilets. I really hope these two are behaving themselves.
‘Oh my days, that baby is still like the cutest. Lads, it’s the Special K baby, innit? This is the baby. We saw him in that video too. That’s so mental,’ Imogen announces to the crowd.
Some of the children in the group who haven’t met Joe before are falling about in shock, snapping their fingers in response to the information. As if on cue, the little man’s eyes spring open. Some of the kids clap.
‘These are my sisters, Emma and Grace – and these are some of my kids from school. Christmas shopping, are we? I like milk chocolate, no candles or crappy signs saying, “World’s Best Teacher”, please.’
They all laugh. It comes as a surprise to my sisters, who’ve not seen me in a classroom before. I guess to the outside world, a group of fourteen-year-olds has become something to fear, some loud brazen, attention-seeking group of know-it-alls out to cause trouble. I can vouch for this lot thoug
h. Fifteen years ago this was me too, without all the chains and with an iPod Mini and a wine-coloured velour tracksuit.
‘I’ve got you after Christmas, Miss. I think some of us are in your class,’ Harvey mentions, grinning. I nod at him. ‘Can we take a selfie, Miss? Can we Snapchat you?’
‘Only if you use good filters,’ I joke.
Grace stands there laughing while they all gather around me, girls pouting and boys trying their best to look double hard. Joe is completely unbothered as the crowd descends upon us.
‘YEAH, MISS C!’ one of them shouts.
Emma holds the top of her handbag close.
‘Be good, kids. Have an excellent Christmas.’
They all laugh and move on, chanting my name as they walk through the shopping centre. Grace and Beth give me strange looks.
‘Miss C?’ Grace mimics in their strong London tones. ‘That was not the sort of teaching I thought you were doing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at you, Miss C with all the cool lingo, getting the teenagers to listen,’ Emma says. ‘Just, you know, guiding the next generation to greatness. And you were worried about being a mum.’
I digest that for a moment. The great thing about teaching is that I get to hand them back to the parents. Hell, if all I had to do was crack jokes and take selfies, the last months would have been a cinch.
We head for the super sparkly floor to the top of the centre where Lucy and the girls wait for us by some animatronic bears baking cookies to high-pitched chipmunk voices singing Christmas music. Grace looks at me in alarm while Emma laughs, almost cackling.
‘Welcome to my world, girls,’ Emma says, drily. ‘It’s not Christmas anymore. It’s working how to get your kids to believe in Santa, and Christmas Eve rituals whereby I have to skip through my garden and sprinkle glittered oats on my lawn for the reindeer.’
She almost looks pleased that she has more people to now share in this trauma. Before you thought Christmas was a cute couples’ activity with alcohol and Love Actually. Now it’s this fresh hell.
‘Lucy,’ Emma whispers, ‘their dad is taking them to Harrods in a couple of days. This might be really embarrassing.’
‘No, it won’t,’ she says, shimmering with as much excitement as the little people. ‘You just tell them that Santa has lots of representatives. It’s what Mum told me for years and I believed her.’ We all did, and were mercilessly teased about it at secondary school.
‘Hello, welcome! I am Elfie the Elf.’
Grace tries hard to hold in her laughter. Elfie, mate… you could have chosen a better name. But I also vaguely recognise Elfie as one of Lucy’s drama friends who was possibly dressed as Britney Spears at my party, confirmed when Lucy goes to hug him.
‘You know Elfie!’ cries Violet, in wonderment.
‘We go way back,’ Lucy says, pushing them in. ‘What sort of shite name is Elfie?’ she mutters.
‘We’re all called Elfie. Have fun!’ he says through gritted teeth, obviously overtaken by the spirit of Christmas. I put my thumb up at him and we’re led through a strange grotto of gifts and more animatronic bears, a hideously lit Christmas version of a house of horrors.
A curtain is suddenly drawn back. ‘HO! HO! HO!’ the voice rings through the room.
Oh dear. It’s budget Santa. I see Emma shake her head at Lucy, and Grace and I try to hold in our laughter. I mean, there are enough old men in the world to try and at least hire someone of age. He looks like he’s in his thirties, wearing modern framed glasses and I can see dark chest hair under his suit, and a beard that looks like it’s made of an old sheepskin rug. He’s also in black Nike Air Force 1 trainers. Violet, being Violet, doesn’t seem to care and runs into his arms but Iris studies him intently. He’s not even fat. I’m carrying more weight than shopping centre Santa. I am wondering whether it’s the right choice to taint Joe with this.
‘Please can I have some glitter gel pens, a Hatchimal if that’s OK and maybe a cuddly Dalmatian?’ says Violet.
Lucy looks over at Emma to confirm that she was right about the glitter pens but the Dalmatian seems like new information.
‘And how are your reindeer? How many do you have again?’
‘Eight?’
‘NINE!’ Emma shouts, coughing.
‘Oh yes, I forget Rudolph sometimes.’
‘How can you forget your own reindeer?’ asks Violet.
‘In the same way that Pops sometimes forgets our names,’ Lucy says, glaring at him. ‘Beth, Joe’s turn.’
I nod, Grace helping me unbuckle him from his carrier so I can put the baby on Santa’s knee. Joe sits there but turns to look up at Santa and I see his expression immediately. Who in the holy titbags is that, Mum? Up close, he smells like cheese and onion crisps. Grace stands there dancing, trying to get Joe’s attention while Lucy tries to take a picture. He’s not convinced. I don’t trust this man. Joe’s bottom lip is out. I’ve never seen him so scared so I grab him before he goes full wail. He wraps himself around me. Don’t ever make me do that again.
‘I don’t think I want to, Mummy,’ Iris says. I don’t blame her, but then Lucy heads to Santa’s side and urges us over.
‘Come on, girls, one picture. Please. We can get it put on a mug for Mum for Christmas. Iris, could you hold Joe for five seconds?’
She loves Joe so it’s no-brainer and another ‘Elfie’ in the room takes Lucy’s phone. Lucy is brazen so goes for the lap, which takes Santa by surprise. She’d better behave herself because no one likes a Santa with a boner.
‘So I hope you’ve all been good girls?’ Santa asks jokingly.
‘No, Santa, no,’ Emma replies, sternly. I look over at Grace, who cackles and I smile, hoping that’s the look the picture caught.
‘Thank you, Santa,’ Lucy says, getting up. I think he winks at her. He’s very generous and gives us all a free gift that feels like crayons. I will use mine well. Joe looks at Santa again as he waves goodbye. Nope. Get your crap beard away from me, freak.
The next stage of this experience is gingerbread icing and we’re led to a large room with folding tables, posters of snowy scenes and blow-up reindeer. It’s just how I imagined the North Pole to look. We let Iris and Violet loose with all the other kids, armed with tube icing and sprinkles, and take stock for a moment to trade photos and digest what we’ve just seen.
‘How much did you pay for this?’ asks Emma, rolling her eyes.
‘But look at this picture,’ Lucy says. ‘I know Meggsy’s not in it but look how happy we all look.’ We peer over her phone and she’s got a leg in the air like a showgirl. She shares all the photos with us and my fingers hover over the picture of Joe looking bewildered, but still trademark cute. I forward the picture to Will. It’s Christmas, after all. And this is our son. Even after all that’s happened, look at this mega baby we made together. The image pops up in our WhatsApp chat and I notice an old message featuring a lemon. Don’t tear up now, Beth. Not now.
‘Did Beth tell you about Yasmin King from school?’ Lucy says, munching through a gingerbread snowman. ‘They’re besties now.’
I roll my eyes. ‘We are not.’
All the sisters wait for the story to distract us from the wail of children. Yasmin ended up staying after Will left. She heard my stories about Will, I showed her the letter and a photo of Sean, and she made me tea. Proper tea with caffeine. She let me cry, held Joe and observed. I wasn’t sure if it was because she cared or whether both of us had some innate understanding that we both needed each other at that moment but she stayed for another night. She ordered us rice and dumplings and she stared at Joe a lot, obviously hoping that looking into his eyes might help her locate the sense of motherhood she was desperate to find. I’ve since texted her to check in and she does the same, but I also text our aunt Melanie for the same reason and I don’t think she’d call me a bestie.
‘You know I think we all had the wrong measure of her. She may have grown up, even changed. She’s a
ctually quite lonely, and generally defensive because she doesn’t know who her real friends are. I also reckon half of what we heard about her was rumour,’ I say.
‘Like what?’ Emma asks.
‘Remember the sanitary pad on the locker incident?’ Everyone nods. That horrific story hung around school for years. ‘That wasn’t her. That was Amy Laslov who orchestrated it and pinned it on Yasmin. She also didn’t sleep with Mr Baker though she says he did flash her in a store cupboard and she threw a tenon saw at him and that’s why he walked for a term on crutches.’
The sisters listen intently.
‘I spoke to Deena about her, my old school mate,’ Grace says. ‘What about the rumour that she’s got some condition where she has no body hair?’
I look at Grace bizarrely. ‘She has hair on her head?’
‘No, I mean she’s got no hair anywhere else. Like all the boys said she was as bald as a Barbie.’
‘She stayed at my flat. Why would I know if she has body hair? I wasn’t exactly looking.’
‘Maybe she’s always waxed down there?’ Lucy adds.
Emma looks horrified. ‘Who waxes down there at such a young age?’
‘I don’t even wax, I shave. And I didn’t even do that until my twenties,’ Grace adds.
‘With the orange Bic, right?’ Lucy says. ‘The one that was in the bathroom on the shelf.’
‘My orange Bic?’ I say.
‘I always thought that was Meg’s?’ Emma adds.
My sisters and I descend into giggles as we realise what we all used the orange Bic for, hoping our own dear Dad never used that thing on his face. Lucy escapes for a moment to stop Violet eating the sprinkles via spoon like cereal.
‘But she’s keeping that other bloke’s baby?’ asks Grace.
‘Looks like it. His name’s Harry Banstead. Complete shit.’
‘And we’ll assume the wife doesn’t know?’ Emma adds.
I shake my head. Emma looks deep in thought. Recently, she’s also had to disentangle all the lies her husband told her over the years and we’ve seen how painful that’s been for her. I pull her in for a hug.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 27