The Baby Group

by Caroline Corcoran

  ‘That was my shoulder,’ hisses the woman next to me at a man who had passed by in the aisle. She could have been me, I think. Not so long ago. ‘City wankers.’

  She looks at me in solidarity but I feel nervous of her wrath and also like a fraud. This doesn’t feel like my world any longer. Doesn’t she know that I am normally still in my pyjamas around now, singing ‘Row Row Row Your Boat’ or hanging up row after row of tiny socks while a child sleeps? I’m not a real commuter, I think. If only you knew.

  A surge of anxiety pulses as I think about how in an hour or so, I will be expected to do my job as Digital Marketing Manager. To be current in a sea of twenty-somethings. To run meetings. To dash out of the office to eat pancakes for brunch with a client.

  I will be expected to be the straight-to-the-point ‘this creative isn’t working for me, we need another option for first thing tomorrow’ version of me that I am not sure hasn’t been written over with toddler songs and baby babble. With photographing my turmeric latte for Cheshire Mama’s Instagram and calling that ‘work’.

  I feel a sensation in my stomach akin to a bad hangover.

  Oh, Poppy. My best mate for the last year. I’ve never spent as much time with anyone as I do with her, with those long walks in her pram, us dancing round the room to our songs.

  Just then my phone beeps and I leap on it because, almost definitely, it’s a message telling me that Poppy had escaped out of Ronnie’s back garden or is in an ambulance with a life-threatening condition, probably brought on by the trauma of being left behind by her mum.

  But it’s just Emma.

  She checked in last night too, even as she dashed from putting her son to bed to her weekly Slimming World meeting. I was what she had done with her spare thirty seconds and I felt touched. And guilty, because sometimes I think I don’t make enough effort with Emma. But I want to speed her up, and tell her to speak up. She gets lost, even in our small crowd.

  Gd luck today S, her message says. You’re going to smash it!!!

  I smile, picturing Emma bursting in to baby music class – where I’m normally headed on Monday mornings too – muttering apologies for her tardiness. Emma is ten minutes late for whatever she does.

  I smile at the thought of them all, my mum friends.

  Emma is thirty-five, only a few months older than me, and sometimes I forget that she has a husband. He doesn’t come up often but when he does he sounds uninvolved and removed from her and her baby’s life.

  Our virtually teenage (fine, twenty-nine-year-old) friend Asha messaged this morning at 5 a.m., up early to call her sister in Melbourne. Asha is tiny, less than five foot. She likes to question things and research them and come back to you when she has firmed up her arguments. She would never fight a cause unless she was an encyclopaedia on the subject. Even after wine.

  And finally there was Cora, communicating as always via a list of her favourite emojis, sent while I was at Ronnie’s. Cora, unlike Emma, likes to do everything fast, but especially talking, which she does tripping over her own thoughts, flitting to a different point, pulling a compact out of her bag to check her eyelashes but still speaking, then asking you quickly if her hair looks okay while also sending a text. Cora is a whirlwind; the kind of WAG I thought I might run a mile from when I first saw her stomp in in giant heels and faux fur to our antenatal class.

  The four of us met last year, when our babies protruded from our middles. When we sat in a room feeling increasingly panicked about things we hadn’t bought, learned or read, and to plan for a birth that could never be planned for.

  Emma and Cora sat together on the parents’ evening-style chairs, hands on bumps, already friends. While Ed and I came together, they massaged each other’s backs with tennis balls instead. ‘My other half’s at work,’ Cora said. Then she tipped her head in Emma’s direction. ‘Hers just isn’t into this whole thing.’ Then she’d rolled her eyes, while Emma’s cheeks reddened.

  ‘You know each other already?’ I asked, in week one.

  Everybody round Sowerton – where I had lived for less than a year – seemed to know each other.

  My heart sank. I had been hopeful for a fellow ex-city dweller to find some things in common with.

  But Cora nodded.

  ‘Em was in South Wales when she was a kid but after that, we both grew up round here, hon,’ Cora told me, leaning into Emma. ‘Same school, the lot. We’ve been mates for years.’

  Even at first impressions they were a wonky juxtaposition. I looked at Emma, the pretty blonde with chubby cheeks who blushed when I spoke to her and couldn’t meet eye contact. And then at Cora, who’d told me that her wedding cost £60,000 and she has a nanny ‘just to help out’ about ten minutes after meeting me.

  I suspect it worked for Cora like those types of uneven friendships always do. She dominated and talked; Emma listened. Emma’s stories would never compete with her tales of Hunter, her WAG past. Like having a therapist, for free. And for Emma perhaps Cora made her life easier, found the baby groups they should go to, made the friends on her behalf, formed her life then sent her out an invite for it.

  ‘You’ve not been in Sowerton long, I take it?’ asked Cora.

  I nodded. ‘I’m from Manchester really. Chorlton. I work in town.’

  It seemed important that they knew. That they didn’t think I was just … you know, Sowerton.

  But Cora was nonplussed, checking her lipstick in a mirror, nodding vaguely.

  ‘Is it just us three?’ I asked our teacher, Cath, and she looked at her notes.

  ‘One more starting next week but that’s it,’ she confirmed. ‘We don’t get big classes round here. Not like in your cities.’

  She nodded at me.

  And I sat back and hoped that mystery mum number four brought some balance. Or wasn’t already mates with everyone else, at least.

  Then in week two, as I swigged Gaviscon from a bottle and Emma got out an emergency KitKat, Asha arrived, little and serious and dressed for the gym with a notebook. Her husband Aidan held her hand.

  ‘Sorry we missed last week,’ she said. ‘We were visiting family.’

  I heard her London accent.

  It wasn’t Manchester nostalgia, but it would do. I’d cling to a city transplant like a life raft.

  ‘Aidan grew up round here,’ Asha said when she introduced herself to the group, nodding towards her husband and I was glad to see another man too, for Ed. I smiled at Aidan. ‘Got me with the house prices, obviously. It’s been about a year now.’

  Cora wasn’t listening.

  ‘Let’s add your number to the group chat,’ she said, brusque; there was no option. But Asha nodded happily, squeezing her husband’s hand. This is what we’d all come for, after all. We could learn to change a nappy from Google; it was the mates we were paying for.

  So we swapped numbers and arranged, after our babies were born like painful dominoes, one after the other in the space of one week, to meet up.

  And we did. We had the same desire to pour the caffeine we hadn’t been allowed for months and now needed ferociously into our veins and so it became a regular thing, easy, us all heading for lattes, meet-ups, soft play as the babies got older. New baby lives curated by Cora, who shoved cards for her cupcake business into our hands, friended us on Facebook, asked questions, made sure our friendship gathered pace. And checking in too, after jabs, if our babies were sick, when we went back to work.

  I lean back against the train seat and sigh.

  My NCT friends haven’t been around long but they get it. They understand how my insides feel today. This isn’t theoretical to them, it’s close. Some have been there, some will be there, some just know how it would feel to be there because they feel a version of it when they lose sight of their child for a second at soft play, or drive away as they wave at the window at grandparents’.

  A full set of messages from my mum crew but absolutely nothing, I realise, from Ed. To ask how Poppy settled in, or how I’m coping.
<
br />   He’s so busy at work today, I reason. Give him a break.

  Instead I reply to my mum group chat.

  I can’t stop sobbing, I type. I feel awful. I hate this.

  It’s much more exposed than I usually am. Usually, I prefer to put on a together front. I’m told with that resting bitch face it can seem a bit cold, a bit superior. But at least people don’t think I’m weak. At least people don’t pity me. I am struggling to react normally to anything today though.

  Typing quickly as I’m at BMT, writes Emma. Baby music time. Everything has an acronym when you’re a parent. There’s no time for full words.

  Don’t do that! I reply. I feel terrible, distracting her from one of her days off with Seth.

  It’s fine, whole class is car crash, she replies. Everyone’s on phone. But P will be having the time of her life! Ronnie is great. In a week this will feel normal. It’s just today that’s weird. Firsts are always weird.

  Thank you, I reply. Emma’s emotional intelligence on messages is special. I must make more effort to chat to her as much in person.

  The train pulls into the station and I shove my phone in my bag, take a deep breath and join the throng to step off.

  Thanks to Emma, I am feeling ten per cent less likely to sprint back to the countryside to sling Poppy over my shoulder and leave work forever.

  And somewhere under the rubbish tip of anxiety, I realise, there is a tiny bag of something approaching excitement. I will drink a mint tea today at my desk, slowly instead of chucking coffee down my throat like a pill. I will go into a meeting where people will respect me and somebody junior will be a tiny bit intimidated by me and ask me questions to which I will – hopefully – know the answers. I will reapply lipstick in the bathroom because I will always have thirty seconds to spare and hands that have no other responsibilities to tend to.

  I will eat real food, not a child’s cold leftover sticky pasta shoved in as I stack an overfilled dishwasher. I will go to shops on my lunch break and make small talk that isn’t about weaning but about a date somebody went on and the film they saw, or the risotto one of the social media managers ate on a much-Instagrammed break in Puglia.

  There were pluses, weren’t there. I needed to hold on to them tightly today.

  I make a mental note to message the NCT girls too and tell them what a difference their support made this morning. But the message never gets sent; the sentiment never gets shared. Because it’s less than an hour later that something blasts into my world that ruins my relationships, my life and my mind and which I am not sure I can ever find a way back from.

  2

  Scarlett

  4 May

  My feet ache as I walk into my building; they have had a chilled-out time on their year-long commuting break and they are mad as hell about getting back to the grindstone.

  ‘Scarlett!’ says our giant Aussie Charlie on reception as I walk through the revolving door. ‘First day back?’

  I nod, bouncing from one foot to the other and unable to keep still with nerves.

  ‘How’s the baby?’ he says, standing up to high-five me. ‘Congrats. I’ve got three. You’ve got fun ahead.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie,’ I reply.

  I’m twitchy. Now I’m back at work, I want to be back at work.

  ‘Get on, yep, get on.’ He nods. ‘Get there on time so you can get out for the nursery pick-up, right? All different now. Go!’

  He shoos me towards the lift and I dig out my pass, call it and wait. In a few minutes I will see Felicity and the thought calms me. Felicity is my boss but also my mate. Felicity came to my baby shower; I went on her hen do. She’ll talk me through what’s happened in the last year, give me the low-down on the new people and we’ll drink coffee and eat the fancy donuts and everything will be easier because of our relationship. And because of the donuts. Calm, Scarlett. This will be okay.

  The lift opens and I catch sight of one of the finance guys, Jared, walking past. I know everyone in this building – it’s the best and worst thing about a business that values team-building away days and boozy Friday lunches highly – but Jared a little better than most; Ed was in his department when he used to work here.

  That’s how we met, Ed and I, at work, or through both spending lunchtimes in the gym next door.

  On rare Manchester sunny days, we’d meet outside and go for a run together instead, sprinting the last one hundred metres, competitive with each other. Then Ed got offered a job at another company and took it, both of us thinking that was probably sensible anyway, now we were spending most nights at each other’s flats. Jared got promoted. He and Ed kept in touch, meet for a pint regularly. But as I wave at him from the lift, Jared keeps his head down. Mustn’t have seen me.

  Eventually we get to my floor and I step out, straight into a waiting Felicity.

  I fling my arms around her even while I know it is unprofessional.

  ‘Flick!’ I exclaim, relieved, and she hugs me back hard.

  ‘Good to see you,’ she says and I pull out and look at her.

  ‘You look amazing,’ I say because this, for unknown reasons, is how you reacquaint with female friends. I love your earrings. Your shoes are hot. Where’s that lipstick from? Et cetera, et cetera. Start with the pawing of the new coat and the stroking of the cashmere, then you’re ready to move on to real subjects.

  ‘Nice shirt,’ I add. ‘And thanks for the welcome committee.’

  She smiles but it’s close-mouthed.

  ‘Come with me,’ she says. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about. We’ll grab a boardroom.’

  The goose bumps are worse than the ones I had without a coat in Sowerton this morning. A boardroom means we need privacy; our office is open-plan. So what is it? Redundancy? Can they do that when I’m on maternity leave? Or is that the point – I’m not any more, so they can?

  But I can’t ask because Flick is marching off now, past the beanbags, towards the room I presume she has booked, a hand on my lower back to guide me there too. I quickstep to keep up, new trainers threatening blisters.

  On the way we pass my colleagues, ten or twenty of them.

  ‘Sara!’ I say, excited to see a long-term desk buddy. But Sara just smiles awkwardly and ducks her head.

  Freddie doesn’t look up at all.

  Sanjeeta rummages in a drawer.

  I think about Jared.

  Something odd is happening.

  ‘Is the company folding?’ I whisper to Flick, half-laughing. ‘Why is everyone being strange?’

  She doesn’t answer but ushers me into the room and shuts the door, flicking on the lock.

  The trainer situation dictates that I sit down immediately. Flick stays standing.

  ‘Firstly,’ she says. ‘Welcome back.’

  She gives me the only genuine smile I’ve seen since I walked in here. ‘It’s lovely to see you. I’m sorry I’ve not made it over in a few months.’

  I look away awkwardly. She visited when Poppy was small. It was about nine months ago. She was one of my closest friends.

  ‘Well, firstly too it’s nice to be back,’ I say. ‘But I think we had better get to secondly. There’s a disconcerting vibe in here?’

  Flick nods, seriously.

  And then she does sit down, and jiggles her mouse to make her computer come alive.

  She clicks onto something, then looks at me.

  ‘I need you to steel yourself here, Scarlett,’ she says.

  My stomach lurches. Redundancy, then. I think about the size of our mortgage and regret following Ed’s lead despite my nerves and maxing ourselves out on our four-bed pretty listed building on the winding country road in our idyllic Cheshire village. How long will it take me to find something else? How big will my pay-off be?

  ‘Go on,’ I say, needing the conclusion as I try to do sums with no facts.

  She sighs. Clicks again.

  ‘I was sent a link to this in the early hours of this morning by somebody I don’t kno
w,’ says my friend, my boss. ‘And so was everybody else on the team.’

  I nod.

  ‘Right,’ I say, searching her face for clues about where this is going. But Felicity cannot meet my eyes.

  ‘It’s a sex tape,’ she says.

  My eyebrows shoot up. Jesus. That explains why everyone is in a strange mood; my return isn’t the headline this morning. A sex tape!

  ‘Whoa,’ I say. ‘Do you know why you were sent that?’

  Flick doesn’t say anything else. Instead she wipes her dark-rimmed glasses on her expensive blue silk shirt to – I’m sure – try and steady hands I notice are shaking.

  But then she composes herself.

  ‘I didn’t open it at first because it was an unknown link. But I came in early and asked IT to take a look at it, because of the title.’

  I nod. Yep. We are always being told to be careful what we open. Makes sense.

  Flick bows her head, as if in prayer.

  ‘I did send a memo to everybody, to tell them not to open it,’ she says, looking tortured. ‘I tried to act, as fast as I could. But it wasn’t fast enough, evidently. They’d either already looked or they were too curious and ignored me.’

  I reach a hand to her then.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault. They shouldn’t have done that if you told them not to look at it.’

  Would I have looked, though, I wonder? A sex tape isn’t normal Monday morning fodder.

  Flick’s prayer ends and she looks at me.

  ‘Scarlett,’ she says. ‘The video clip was titled with your name. You’re in it. It’s your sex tape. You and … two men.’

  I laugh at first, in disbelief.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ I say.

  But then I look at her screen, from a chair where I usually sit with a cup of coffee in my hand looking at the Google Analytics and I freeze with a memory of something that happened in a different time, to a different me.