The Postcard

by Zoë Folbigg

Maya becomes aware of her thighs again, squeezing together on the sweaty plastic seat. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. She’s not been able to run as much as she’d like to since their trip started; it was hard to go out alone in India and in some places it didn’t feel like the right thing to do – and Pradeesh’s feasts – all of the food in India – have made Maya’s size 10 capsule wardrobe fit rather snugly. She doesn’t have any roomier clothes to relax into. Even James, tall and lean, is getting a little softer. Within the steamy confines of the mosquito net of their hostel bed last night, Maya definitely noticed a novel squidgyness on James’ hips that wasn’t there before.

  ‘OK, let’s do it. Poo Camp it is.’

  It can’t be as bad as all that.

  ‘Great, I’ll get Danni to book it all up and send you dates and details. It’ll be wonderful. Although rather you than me.’

  *

  At the counter, Maya opens her coin purse to gesture paying for her internet time. A bead of sweat runs down the back of her neck. The man behind the desk looks harangued in his cramped corner as he’s joined by his wife and a chubby baby wearing only a nappy.

  ‘Forty baht, miss.’

  A woman speaking English with a German-sounding accent walks in and asks for the vacant computer Maya has just finished with, and the man behind the counter turns and snaps at his wife. Or at least Maya thinks he’s snapping, but hopes for harmony’s sake it’s just a cultural peculiarity. The Thai woman walks around the counter and gently but determinedly places her baby into Maya’s arms so she can log in and start the machine for the German tourist.

  ‘Hi,’ the tourist nods at Maya.

  ‘Hi,’ Maya nods back awkwardly, unsure as to what to do with a stranger’s baby in her arms.

  She looks at the baby looking up at her. Maya thinks he’s a boy but isn’t sure why. He has a round face, shiny, inquisitive eyes and a tuft of hair sticking up from his crown like a garden gnome wearing a black hat.

  ‘Aren’t you gorgeous?’ Maya says, resisting the desire to blow a raspberry on his Buddha-soft belly. The baby and Maya both look at each other, mesmerised by the sight in front of them, and search each other’s eyes. ‘Aren’t you lovely?’

  The man behind the counter doesn’t engage with Maya, he’s just waiting for the forty baht, which now sits in Maya’s purse on the counter.

  The trickle of sweat runs under the clasp of Maya’s bikini top and down her spine as her eyes well up. The purity and beauty of the baby in her arms weakens Maya’s core, and she has to hold on tight, through fear she might melt into the floor and drop him. ‘You are just a treasure!’ she says, lowering her face in his hair as she kisses his head, inhaling his sweet scent and hiding her tears.

  The baby’s mother returns and nods gratefully as she takes him. He kicks his legs in joy mid-air as Maya feels the emptiness of the space he filled. She smiles and looks down, focusing on the money in her purse.

  Deep breaths.

  ‘Forty baht was it?’

  The man nods.

  Maya goes to hand over a note but pulls it back as she spots the freezer compartment next to the till. A happy distraction.

  ‘Oh, and one Almond Magnum please,’ she says, wiping an eye as she leans into the soothing chill of the freezer with a white love heart on it. Rummaging blind as she looks up at the ceiling, until she finds the comforting, familiar shape. She grabs one. Then she grabs another.

  Fuck it. I need a pick-me-up. And if we’re going to go to Poo Camp, we’re going out in style.

  18

  March 2016, London, England

  ‘Maya is SUCH a lucky cow – first the Full Moon party and now a luxe detox spa. In Thailand,’ says Nena, throwing the magazine on the floor. ‘I could so use that right now,’ she adds glibly under her breath.

  ‘I know, I read it before CrossFit.’ Tom is crouched in front of the shoe caddy in the hallway, putting his trainers back on a rack and searching for his fresh khaki New Balance kicks that are too nice to do exercise in. A patch of hair rises from above the belt of his jeans as he bends over and Nena looks over from the sofa through the open doorway with disdain.

  ‘When did you go to CrossFit?’

  Arlo pads into the room with a cuddly penguin and gently rests it on Ava’s shoulder. Ava is sitting upright in a bouncy chair, arms flailing at the colourful animals hanging in front of her, so she bats the penguin onto the floor and Arlo scowls. It’s Sunday, a weekend Arlo is spending with his dad, Nena and baby sister, and he’s chomping at the bit to go out.

  ‘Daddy, can we go to the park nowwwwwww?’

  ‘I’m just getting my trainers on, sweetheart. Can you go and do a wee?’

  Nena sighs. ‘The Haven it’s called. Oh, to be heading to The Haven, hey Arlo?’

  Arlo looks up blankly, then pads out to go to the toilet.

  Tom pulls up his jeans and brings his trainers into the room to put them on.

  ‘Are you coming, Nen? The blossom’s out in Clissold Park. Looks lovely.’

  Nena wants to suggest to Tom that he take the kids out. By himself. Give her half an hour to turn their bathroom into a haven.

  Why don’t you just go?

  When Nena does galvanise herself to get out of the flat, to wheel the buggy to Sainsbury’s, or take Ava to be weighed at the baby clinic, she always sees dads out alone with their progeny, proudly walking with papooses hugging their chests. It makes Nena feel annoyed, angry that Tom never instigates this or even makes such a suggestion. She thought he’d be more hands-on, especially given he’s done it before.

  Nena looks around the mess of the room, wondering whether to suggest he just go, or do the wholesome thing and join them. Nena sees Esprit magazine on the floor and Maya’s photo at the top of the column. The picture was shot in a studio in London Bridge before she left, but in it she already looks bronzed and happy and… dare Nena think it, smug?

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, Arlo needs to get out, the air will do us all good – the papers can wait…’

  The papers can wait?

  ‘Don’t judge me, Tom.’

  ‘I’m not judging you. I’m just saying, let’s get out, get some fresh air.’

  ‘You’re judging me for not getting out enough. You’re making me feel lazy.’

  Tom is too kind to say it’s Nena making herself feel lazy.

  Nena doesn’t like how she sounds; she doesn’t like the look of puzzlement on Tom’s bemused and confused face. This whole thing is confusing. They never argued until they became parents, and Nena assumes it must be her fault, because Tom’s already been through this.

  I’m not a natural.

  ‘I’m not judging you, babe. I just know you’re happier when you are out. When you’ve got some crisp sunshine on your beautiful face. Come on. I’ve packed the change bag.’

  For once.

  ‘Don’t be sad,’ says a little voice from the toilet, between tinkling sounds.

  Tom and Nena look at each other, a smile breaks the tension.

  ‘He’s right, don’t be sad.’ Tom offers his hands to Nena, which she accepts sulkily, and he plants a kiss on her lips. He can tell she hasn’t brushed her teeth yet today but decides not to remind her.

  ‘I’m not sad I’m just… knackered. I could so use some sunshine on my face!’ Nena chooses to ignore Maya, looking up at the room from the floor, and buries her head into Tom’s chest. ‘Some sleep. Some indulgence. I am so low on the pecking order, I need someone to rub my back. To feed me. And then I read that Maya’s biggest problem is she’s about to go to a spa for a week. I need to go to a spa for a week.’

  ‘OK, I’ll take the kids, you have a bubble bath. We’ll stop at Sainsbury’s and get roast stuff too, yeah?’

  Nena feels bad, yet relieved. ‘Is that OK?’

  ‘Of course it’s OK.’

  ‘I just wish you’d suggest it.’

  ‘I did suggest it! Look, I’ll go out – Arlo, grab your moon boots. Take as long as you need. We’ll go to the
park and the shops, you have a bath.’

  Nena lifts Ava out of the Jumperoo and slides her into her thick brown onesie with teddy bear ears, that’s laid out among the newspapers on the floor.

  ‘Her buggy’s downstairs, yes?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Nena lifts Ava, kisses her on the nose, and rubs Arlo on the head. ‘Have fun at the park.’

  Tom takes Ava and the change bag. Arlo stands on the doormat in his coat and boots.

  ‘Anyway,’ Tom says, gesturing to the zip on his quilted jacket so Nena can do it up for him as his hands are now full. ‘I read the column. That spa doesn’t sound like luxury to me. Self-administered colonics? Sounds like hell.’ He kisses Nena’s cheek. ‘Love you, have a nice bath. Have a rest, yes?’

  Nena nods. ‘Love you too.’

  She closes the door and stares at her hand pressed up against it. The relief that surrounds her, the awareness that this is the biggest joy she’s felt in weeks, makes her feel wretched.

  19

  March 2016, The Haven, Thailand

  Standing in the spartan surroundings of their double room, the spa host, a man called Moon, with a shiny round face and a shirt with tigers in different sizes all over it, gives Maya and James the skinny on the week ahead.

  ‘So, have a cleansing dinner tonight in the restaurant from our pre-cleanse menu – you have been eating clean for the past two to three days, yes?’

  Maya looks at James guiltily. Last night they went to a Full Moon party on the beach around the bay two boats away and washed pizza and doughnuts down with SangSom and Coke, which they sipped from a bucket through straws. A look between them says Moon doesn’t need to know this.

  They nod.

  ‘Yes. Eating clean,’ they chime.

  ‘So, at 7 a.m. you’ll have your first bentonite clay shake; herbs at 8.30 a.m.; another shake at ten.’

  ‘Oh goody,’ says James, not completely on board with this whole thing. When Maya returned from the beach hut with the news that they were going to an intense detox spa where they would have to do self-administed colonic irrigations, James could tell she was trying to polish a turd by talking rapidly about how luxurious it would be. But he just about came around to the idea of a challenge.

  ‘After your 1 p.m. shake and herbs, you’ll have a lymphatic flush juice, another shake at four, and then straight into the colonic session in… here.’

  Moon opens the door to the bathroom for the ‘ta-da!’ moment. His big reveal. It’s what hardcore Haveners come from all over the world to experience: set up against the toilet is a bench, propped on an upturned bucket, leading on a slight decline to a toilet seat. Next to the high, wall-mounted cistern is a tall hanging structure on wheels, that looks like a cross between a triffid and a saline drip, from which hangs a huge bag of dark brown liquid. From the bag, a tube drops almost to the floor and is fastened with a bulldog clip. Luxe clinical detox this isn’t.

  Moon points to a cup next to the sink, with two plastic tubes standing inside, like toothbrushes. ‘One with pink sticker for the lady; one with blue sticker for you, sir. Our staff will set up and clean away after each colonic flush – you will take it in turns – but make sure you use the right tip every time, or you exchange bum-bum germs.’

  Maya burps up what feels like a little bit of sick mixed with SangSom, and wonders if she should run to the toilet, but it’s right in front of her, making her feel worse.

  ‘Those plastic tubes. In the toothbrush holder. Are they the…’

  ‘Anal inserts, yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And we keep our own anal inserts?’ coughs James quietly, so no one else might hear.

  ‘Oh yeah. Reusable. We think of the planet here. But you use your own, each day. We clean and return it back to cup for next day.’

  Where will we put our toothbrushes?!

  Moon enthusiastically hops and straddles the wooden board and lies on his back. His tiger shirt drapes beneath him a little. ‘Staff will have put your tip onto the tube, resting on the colema board, so all you have to do is remove pants and edge down onto the tip.’

  James and Maya stand aghast and horrified.

  ‘Edge, edge, edge, until… bingo!’ Moon mimes the action through his clothes. ‘Then release clip to let the coffee solution fill you up. As your tummy swells, it might cramp a bit. It feels a bit like you need to…’

  ‘Shit?’ asks James.

  ‘That’s riiiiiight,’ smiles Moon. ‘Hold organic coffee solution in the bowel until you can’t take any more, then…’ With his two hands, he gestures an out-pouring.

  Maya holds her hand to her mouth.

  ‘When all done, have a look! The basket in the toilet bowl catches the bits if you want to look at them. Then tip them in the toilet and flush away. Ta-da!’

  Moon seems to be a man who loves his job, but he’s very earnest about it and doesn’t seem to see the funny side in his-and-hers poo tubes next to the sink.

  ‘What should we expect to find in there?’ James asks nervously.

  ‘Oh, you know. Sludge, some leafy matter, sweetcorn, an old boot…’

  ‘What?’ Maya gasps.

  ‘I’m just joking. About the sweetcorn anyway.’ Moon laughs, and James almost manages a smile too. ‘Same thing for five days. No cheating. No food. Just clay shakes, lymph shakes, herbs and broth. Meditation and yoga will get you through.’

  All Maya can think about is last night’s pizza and how she hopes that might get her through. It was a dirty pepperoni of dubious meat provenance, bought from a little takeaway shack at the back of the beach, but, in hindsight, it tasted good. All the more when she compares it to the herbs and broth to come.

  ‘I give lectures every evening over vegetable broth and wheatgrass shots, it’s a good time to meet fellow fasters and exchange ideas.’

  Maya knows what James is thinking. He has no intention of meeting fellow fasters and exchanging ideas. It all sounds ghastly to him. And Maya doesn’t want to see the contents of her own basket, let alone talk to a stranger about the minutiae of theirs.

  ‘What if I don’t want to talk to anyone, Moon?’ Maya asks.

  ‘Not even your husband? That fine too.’

  Moon leaves the room with a smile and wishes Maya and James a nice evening.

  As the door shuts, Maya puts her head in her hands.

  ‘Oh, baby! What have I done?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answers James, trying to sound upbeat. ‘But we’re here now. We’d better make the most of it.’

  Maya can’t believe it. Two years ago she was pining for this stranger on a train and now she’s roped him into joining her in self-administered coffee colonics in their shared bathroom. She doesn’t know whether to do a silent fist pump or run away, fast.

  20

  March 2016, London, England

  Nena slumps back on the bench overlooking an empty tennis court in Clissold Park and lifts Ava out of her pram. Ava’s cheeks are plump and Nena rests her lips on them, seeking comfort in the kisses she peppers her brown and pink face with. A man in a hat passes by and does a double take: with the baby’s back to him, Ava’s brown woollen onesie with little ears on the head makes it look like Nena is clutching and kissing a teddy bear. He gives Nena a wry smile, but she doesn’t notice.

  ‘Come on, baby, time to wake up or you won’t sleep tonight.’

  Ava is unmoved and her eyes drop again as she rests a full cheek onto her mother’s shoulder. Nena would like to let Ava sleep for longer, it’s so much easier when she’s asleep, but she can’t face another 10 p.m. bedtime or another five times getting up in the night.

  Nena sighs and takes in the view. Parents and pre-schoolers play on swings, slides and a wooden balance beam with ropes and pulleys. The children look so old to Nena, so big, and such a world away from Ava. Nena can’t imagine Ava being strong enough to sit up in a swing, or being able to walk the balance beam. Or talk even. Or life ever being easier, despite the fact Arlo is a very easy-going five-year-ol
d. She just can’t see past the fog, the fatigue.

  The boredom.

  Nena wonders if any of the other mothers in the park feel as bored as she does. She wonders if their days fly by in a flash of nothing to speak of, no anecdotes to tell their partners. Whether the other mothers understand what it’s like to be so in love yet so bored all at once.

  One mum pushes a blond boy with red cheeks and a line of snot from one nostril, glimmering in the cold sunshine, on a small reinforced swing. At the next swing, a dad with swarthy skin the shade of Nena’s pushes a girl with curly hair. In-between pushes, the mother of the blond boy smooths down her own ponytail self-consciously, while she tries to act cool talking to the handsome man. Back and forth their banal questions fly, rhythmically, animatedly, about baby groups and nursery choices and how little Theodore loves sushi.

  They don’t look very bored, Nena thinks, seeing a spark in the hot dad’s eye.

  She looks like she’s enjoying motherhood more than I am.

  The repetition. Back and forth.

  Nena nuzzles into Ava’s bear suit while she resolutely sleeps on her shoulder.

  ‘Nena? Nena from Nena’s Tiny Dancers?’

  Nena looks up, not in the mood to chat or sign an autograph, at a woman with birdlike features and a buggy. It was a mission to get out today, to leave the flat. She did it to get off her arse and feel proud of herself; she didn’t do it so she could have a selfie taken with a CBeebies fan.

  ‘Or should I say, Nena Oliveira from Bateson Hall! Remember me?’

  Nena looks at the woman properly and her face relaxes with relief. ‘Emily Snatch!’

  She smiles. ‘I’ve not been called that in a long time. May I?’

  Emily Snatch was actually called Emily Slaith-Newsome, and she was the sweetest girl in Bateson Hall. She was the flatmate who would field calls Nena and Maya didn’t want to take, buy The OC boxset for everyone to watch, and who would stand over Nena with a glass of water and a Berocca when Nena was dry-wretching after a big night out. At university, Nena and Maya found the name Slaith-Newsome such a mouthful, among a crowd of other Emilys in their halls of residence, that Maya came up with the moniker Emily S-N. Which Nena soon evolved into Snatch. It didn’t suit the girl with the pearl earrings and stripy Oxford shirts, but it appealed to Nena’s sense of humour, and Emily Snatch didn’t seem to mind. She really was nice.