by Emma Gannon
When I arrive, her back door is already open. They never lock it. Apparently, people are nicer to each other in the countryside. They even say hello to random passersby—strange.
“Hi!” I yell, as I enter through a plant-filled conservatory and kick my sneakers off next to a pile of muddy rain boots.
“Oh, hello, love!” Bea smiles at me from across the kitchen.
I sit down at her big oak table, covered in Emma Bridgewater mugs and plates and scattered newspapers. Bea’s kids are all watching TV from a frayed sofa at the other end of the large kitchen.
“Tea?” Bea asks, flicking the switch of her kettle. I go over and give her a hug.
“Yes, please! So good to see you,” I say.
“Same! I’m so happy you’re here. How are you? Two sugars as usual?”
“Yes, please. I’m okay. What’s new?” I start eating a biscuit on a plate in front of me.
“See that woman outside the window?” Bea says, subtly pointing towards the window behind the kitchen sink as she pours the tea. “She’s just moved in next door; did I tell you about her? She’s brought up her kid as a vegan, apparently, and now the kid has rickets. It’s really sad.”
“Jesus—how does that happen?”
“Not enough nutrients, I guess.”
“That poor kid.”
“I know. I feel so sad when I see them; it looks pretty irreversible . . . I mean look, I don’t believe in reading parenting blogs or anything, but I think parenting is pretty simple, or at least instinctive.”
“I’m not sure, but that’s a bit of a cock-up, isn’t it? Giving your kid rickets.”
“Yeah.”
I pause for a moment. “How do you cope with it all, Bea?”
“What, love?”
“The endless pressures of parenting. All the potential mess-ups.”
“Well, at the end of the day I suppose all children need is love, education, a goodish balanced diet, and some fresh air—that’s literally it. It is hard, don’t get me wrong. But you get the hang of it,” she says.
This is the biggest difference between us. Bea is just naturally good at life. Good at running a household, good at organizing and planning and preparing. She enjoys it. She has never really understood why I find these things so hard in comparison. Perhaps I keep kidding myself that my friends and I are more similar than we actually are—than we were.
Bea just isn’t as highly strung as I am; she doesn’t get as fixated on things. She believes the answer to a problem is always solved in nature: a walk, a kick around a field, the petting of a soft animal. In Bea’s book, you embrace the madness of life and stop trying to control everything by keeping your life clean and orderly. You let the dog sit on the new sofa. You drink the expensive wine. You use your best moisturizer instead of just leaving it to gather dust in a drawer. This was one of my favorite things about Bea: her ability to just go with it, and get on with it. She was always the person who looked after me and swooped in with solutions when life was feeling too hard. Like the time I was feeling low for months at university because I was worrying about my mum (the first time she had told us she was on antidepressants), and Bea bought us a house rabbit! We called him Mr. Peterson. He chewed my wires occasionally, but he also would snuggle with us on the sofa when we felt sad.
We slurp our tea and hear the roar of a car engine outside: it’s Cecily. She slams her car door and walks past the kitchen window, bump first. We get up from the kitchen bench and race over to her, cooing.
“You are glowing,” Bea says.
“You really are. Wait . . . are you wearing UGG boots?” I say.
“Yes—hahaha, they are so comfy,” Cec bursts out laughing.
“You look a lot better than I did at this stage. I remember practically melting into the sofa—no one could move me. I’m so glad you could make it.” Bea kisses Cec.
“I didn’t want to miss our last sleepover before I’m chained to my new baby,” Cec says. She gives me a sideways hug.
“Thanks for traveling all the way here. You still got insomnia?” I ask.
“A little bit, god, it’s been awful. I’m feeling much better now, though—Bea, thanks for your recommendation on that sleeping app. What an idea! Celebs reading bedtime stories. I’ll tell you what, it’s really helped falling asleep to Matthew McConaughey’s voice.”
“Oh yes, it was a godsend when I was having Amelia. I was like a zombie I was so tired—and that was before she even arrived!”
“I honestly don’t know what I’d have done without your advice,” Cec says, sliding herself onto a stool.
They carry on discussing and comparing pregnancy notes. Their different symptoms, private jokes, funny moments, advice, and anecdotes.
I open my mouth to say something but realize I have nothing to add.
I’ve noticed that Cecily and Bea have gotten closer recently; they’ve been bonding via late-night discussions on babies. Cecily is currently in full-blown preparation mode. She is inhaling all the parenting blogs, magazines, and any “advice,” which people seem to love dishing out to her. She wants to make sure everything is done correctly. She has paid an obscene amount for an interior designer to Laurence-Llewelyn-Bowen-up her baby’s new nursery. It feels like a far cry from my carefree Cec, who used to dance around our student house in a thong.
We go to sit down in Bea’s spacious but messy living room, Moroccan rugs hanging on the walls, half-used scented candles everywhere, and cushions all over the floor from the kids making a den. Cec shows me a picture on her phone of the monogrammed blanket for Oscar Arnie Pinkington—aka OAP—and I can’t help but laugh. Everything related to the baby has been personalized with initials.
“Cec . . . sorry, but you’re naming your kid after a pensioner.”
“Oh, Ol, you overthink these things,” Cec says, snatching her phone away grumpily.
“OAP, though,” I snort.
“Piss off.”
Bea giggles behind her cup of tea.
I burst out laughing some more, and Cec rolls her eyes before her face softens into a smile. She’d picked his name before she’d even conceived. It was always going to be Oscar.
“I can see you’ve left the price tag on—£75 for that? Ouch,” I say.
I can’t help thinking that you could get a cheap flight to somewhere sunny in Europe for £75. That is a lot of money for a miniature blanket that will soon be covered in sick and shit.
“I want everything to be nice for him! It’s his first muslin.”
How did our lives diverge so quickly? Every tiny moment of OAP’s babyhood is going to be scrapbooked and diarized and Instagrammed to within an inch of his life. The first time Oscar touches his thumb and forefinger together! He’s so clever! The first time Oscar does a smelly poo! The first time Oscar screams the house down! The first time he eats a bogey!
“It’s so weird, being pregnant now and immediately getting all this attention, you know,” Cec says. “I feel like Mother bloody Teresa or something. People talk to me on the Tube! They stop in the street to let me walk past; people actually smile at me. In London! Can you believe that?”
“Must be quite nice,” I say, running my fingers through the front strands of my hair.
“It is, but it’s also a bit sinister. Without a bump I’m just someone else to elbow out of the way and stamp on, and now suddenly, for a few months, I’m a radiant goddess who can do no wrong.”
“Yeah, I noticed that too. I still keep my ‘Baby on Board’ badge in a drawer in the kitchen to remind me of those times when I felt like a superstar,” Bea agrees.
“Me too,” I say jokily. They both ignore me.
“At least it’s one good thing about being up the duff. I am hating that I can’t wear my own clothes at the moment, though. I’ve been wearing this same gray dress for weeks. It stinks. I do miss my ol
d wardrobe,” Cec says, pulling at the fabric of her dress.
Our phones beep in unison. It’s Isla messaging the group chat to say she can’t make it. We had kind of anticipated that, as she’d not been replying much when we were organizing timings. She says she’s feeling poorly, which might be true, but we all know she’s been really down for some time now. The crux is that she and her boyfriend, Mike, have been trying to get pregnant for a couple of years, and she’s now trying IVF. She’s been keeping herself to herself, and doing her classic self-defense maneuver of withdrawing from everything and everyone. At university, she would withdraw quite often, bolting her bedroom door and putting loud music on. We used to slip handwritten notes under the door, asking gently for her to come down for a cup of tea and a cuddle.
All cozied up on the sofa with more cups of tea spread out on a tray on the ottoman and blankets over us, we arrange to video call Isla instead on Skype. As the call connects she appears, propped up in bed wearing a black beanie and dark kohl eyeliner. Her dark, thick bangs looking greasier than normal.
“You okay, love?” Bea asks, tilting the screen of her MacBook so we can all see and turning up the volume.
“Hi, guys, I’ve felt better. Sorry to miss out on tonight. God, I miss drinking wine. Thank you for understanding. What are you all up to?”
“Oh, not much! We miss you,” Cec says quickly, leaning back on the sofa in her pajamas, holding her protruding bump.
“I miss you guys too. I have major cabin fever. But it definitely feels good to be resting and just having some time to reflect. Cec, how are you feeling?”
“Good, thanks. The nausea seems to have subsided. Bit uncomfortable now, though.”
“I bet. So soon, though! Exciting,” Isla says, forcing a smile. I can tell it’s taking a lot for Isla to ask Cec about her bump so chirpily.
I turn the laptop slightly and poke my head into frame. “What’s going on, Isla? We could have cheered you up if you were here.” Bea looks at me, frowning. I return her stare as if to say: “What? I’m just asking.”
“Oh, hi, Ol. It’s our IVF—the first round, it hasn’t worked . . . my body hasn’t responded very well to it.” Isla looks down at her lap. “We’re going to give it another go, but, well . . .” She trails off.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Oh, Isla, love,” Bea says.
Isla puts her head in her hands and starts crying.
I sit there wishing I hadn’t asked—I hate seeing my friend in pain—but, then again, she needs to talk to someone about this, and we’re her best friends. She’s been keeping everything so quiet.
We all feel like we are trying to do an impossible thing: comfort someone through a screen.
“It’s okay, guys. I just need some . . . time, to wallow. Alone.”
“Of course you do,” Cec says.
“Darling, you can’t beat yourself up about this,” Bea says. “It’s not you.”
“It feels so . . . personal,” Isla says. “Like my body is betraying me.”
“But it’s not your fault. I have plenty of friends who have had such positive results from their second or third time. I know it’s expensive, but please don’t lose hope.”
“Thanks, Bea,” Isla sniffs.
Bea and Cec seem to know exactly what to say to Isla in these scenarios. I feel helpless and muted. How can I not know what to say to one of my best friends?
“What have you got planned for tonight—something relaxing?” Bea asks softly.
“Nothing. Mike is just cooking a lasagne.”
“Nice. We’re just gonna curl up and watch a shit film, can’t move much . . .” Cec says, holding her back.
“Cool. I’d better go now. Food’s ready, actually. Have a good time, though, guys. I miss you,” Isla says, sounding forced. She hangs up.
“Poor Isla,” I say.
“I feel terrible for complaining about how uncomfortable I feel in front of her,” Cec says, rubbing her bump.
“Don’t be silly,” Bea says, snapping her laptop shut.
We snuggle back into the sofa. “So, guys . . . I . . .” I take a deep breath, gearing myself up to get a few things off my chest. The breakup with Jacob has been swirling around in my brain, and now seems like a good time to get their advice, or at least a little pep talk. Round two.
“Aw, I just felt a kick!” Cec yelps, stroking her bump with both hands, her mouth curved upwards with glee.
“No way!” Bea rushes over. “Let me feel!”
“Come and feel this, Ol,” Cec says, laughing.
She lifts up her sweater, revealing her soft, silky skin. I place my palm on her tum alongside Bea and feel a little upwards push.
“I think it’s a foot,” Bea says, smiling.
I smile and stroke her belly, feeling unexpectedly bottled up.
Later in the evening, we settle down to watch a Drew Barrymore film on Netflix, and Bea gets out a bottle of red from her fancy wine cabinet. I end up drinking mine and Cec’s share. It goes down so easily these days. Bea has ordered us so much takeaway pizza, and the boxes are spread out all over the floor. Jeremy, Bea’s husband, is looking after their kids in the next room, but Arnold keeps wandering in to show us his new LEGO set, and six-year-old Amelia wants to play her violin to us. No offense, Amelia, but you’re not very good. Arnold, the three-year-old, wanders in and hands me a Lord of the Rings action figure that has some sort of dried crust on it. I love you, I think, but please don’t touch me with your snotty face and hands.
I’m glad I don’t have a hangover; otherwise I wouldn’t have survived. Bea shoos the kids out of the room, and we are alone again.
“When do they go to bed?” I ask.
“Ha, by 8 p.m. normally, but it changes.” There is a noticeable strain in Bea’s voice. “It’s so nice when Jeremy is home because I get to hang out with you guys all night.” I get the sense that when Jeremy is around, he “owes” Bea—he can be quite absent. I pour Bea and myself more red wine.
“So, guys,” Cec says, clearing her throat. “Can I read you my list of ‘the worst things people have said to me while pregnant’?”
“Of course,” Bea says, intrigued, turning down the sound on the TV.
“I’ve got a list typed out on my iPhone, and I add to it every time something annoys me,” Cec says.
“Go on,” I say, glugging down some more wine.
She clears her throat, smooths down her bob, and puts her glasses on.
“Right. Are you all listening? Here’s the first one. People coming up to you and just saying, wow, you’re big. Are you sure you’ve just got the one in there?
“Number two: when people text me just saying ANY UPDATES?? Like, obviously I will tell people when I’ve given birth.
“Three: Is that all? You look so much further along!
“Four: How much more do you weigh now?
“Five: Are you eating for two?
“Six: Good luck! My labor was absolutely awful!
“Seven: Better get all the sleep you can now!”
I squirm. Before having pregnant friends, I’d definitely been guilty of saying such things. I’ve been that person who touches a stranger’s bump, rubbing my hands all over it and going, “Ooh, it’s sooo weird, isn’t it?” Cec has made me realize that it was technically akin to reaching out and squeezing someone’s boob without asking. Definitely encroaching on personal space.
“So, that’s my list,” Cec says, leaning back and rubbing her belly. “But I’m sure I’ll add to it. In general it seems that being pregnant means being stared at and touched more than usual. But then also sort of ignored by men because you’re off the table too. Like one big oxymoron?”
“I felt that too! Like, obviously it’s not great to be sexually objectified, but also I kind of missed it,” Bea says.
Cec starts
yawning loudly. “Right, guys, I think I’m gonna hit the hay. Me and Oscar need our beauty sleep.”
“Okay, night, Cec. Come on, let’s fill these up,” I say to Bea, waving my wineglass at her. “Seeing as Jeremy’s got the kids, eh!”
“Ah, I really shouldn’t, Ol. I’ve got to take them to football and swimming tomorrow morning,” Bea says, now also yawning. “Sorry . . .”
She hugs me goodnight and asks me to turn out the lights in the hallway when I come up. I hear their footsteps upstairs as they brush their teeth. I grab another bottle from Bea’s wine cabinet and tuck it under my arm, then nip outside for a cigarette. I stand outside Bea’s porch in pajamas, rain boots, and Jeremy’s big coat, watching the patterns of the smoke coming from my mouth. As I inhale, I feel a gnawing unease. A sense of loneliness settling over me. I want to hear about how Cec and Isla are feeling, I really do. Isla’s been struggling for months now, and I’m worried about her. But I also want to tell them about Jacob—the exact reason why he and I broke up. I want to tell them how I’m really feeling. I wanted them to stay up past 11:00 p.m., for god’s sake. Everyone else seems to have exciting or important news, while my only update is that my relationship has come to an end.