by Emma Gannon
“Are you taking a present?” Zeta asks.
“Yeah, I’ve made some cupcakes. Not just any old cupcakes: they are vulva-themed and diaper-themed.”
I show Zeta the cupcakes, loaded with pink icing on the top with a slit down the middle with lips and a clitoris. I have also made a few that have icing on top resembling a soiled diaper, with realistic-looking chocolate for the poo coming out of a white iced diaper.
“They are disgusting,” Zeta screams, laughing.
I can’t wait to take them to the party.
I struggle to carry multiple bags onto the Tube because of all the cake tins, so—with a pang of guilt—I get the “Baby on Board” badge out of my bag again, to ensure that I definitely get a seat. It’s only fair to sample the travel benefits of pregnancy every now and again. Maybe. I spot a few people walking ahead of me as I get out at Barons Court Tube station. I know they’re on their way to Cec’s party because they look a bit posh. A man in chinos and loafers is carrying a huge card that reads: “Congrats on your new baby, don’t drop it!!!” There’s also a woman wearing a fascinator (what?), and a yummy mummy (said with an ironic tone) with a big yoga bag and a bunch of flowers who’s shouting at her son “Horace,” calling him to hurry up. Oh god, this whole thing is going to be hell.
At Cec’s, I hang up my coat, shaking out the rain. I slide into the kitchen wearing a red satin jumpsuit and slippery socks. The kitchen has been taken over by gold balloons that spell out “OSCAR.” Cecily’s dad, Todd, makes a comment as I enter the kitchen that I “look like Father Christmas!,” which I try my hardest to take as a compliment.
“What have you brought in those huge bags?” Todd asks me, peering over his glasses.
“Oh! Some cakes!”
“Let’s have a look.”
“I can’t really open the lid right now, Todd, they might topple over.”
“Come on, let’s see! I do love to see what you girls get up to in the kitchen.” I subtly shudder and try to ignore the casual sexism.
“Here.” I get out one of the plastic tubs.
“Are they . . . ?”
“Yes! They are, Todd.”
Todd nearly falls over backwards.
“Vaginas!”
He splutters at me before excusing himself to go and find his wife.
I am suddenly quite hot from the awkwardness. I place them down in the center of the kitchen island. I look around at a sea of bald men in blazers and middle-aged women in kitten heels. I know no one. Where are Bea and Isla? I can see Cecily through the kitchen crowd, laughing and mingling with family friends of all ages. She’s wearing a long black sequined dress with a small slit up the side. And there is a chorus of “Don’t you look good?” / “Wow, you’ve lost so much weight already” / “Where is your dress from?” / “You’ve snapped back” echoing around her. It’s true, she looks great. Cec’s husband, Chris, is holding Oscar against his chest with a muslin cloth over his shoulder.
“Hey, Chris.” I touch OAP’s wet, dribbling chin. He does look really cute in his dinosaur-patterned onesie, and it melts my heart a little.
“All right, Olive?” Chris says in his usual deadpan tone.
“How are you? Feel like I’ve been asking Cec how she is, but I haven’t had a chance to ask you yet!”
“Yeah, all good, thanks. Cec’s doing most of the work, to be honest, like she should be.” He does a wink.
“I’m sure you’ve been helping a lot.”
“Not really. Busy time at work; can’t leave the lads, I mean the team, dangling.”
“I see.”
“Cec’s been amazing, running around like a headless chicken. The silver lining is that she’s losing her baby weight quickly, at least,” he laughs heartily. God, he is such a dick. “I’ll be getting her back in the gym soon. She’ll have to keep up with my six-pack,” he says, slapping his stomach.
Chris is the worst, but somehow we always find a way to forgive him because he’s clearly not going anywhere, and Cecily does really love him. Unfortunately.
Phew, I spot Bea. She has just walked in with her army of kids behind her. Arnold is wearing a VR headset as a hat, Amelia has wild hair and a giant bow headband on, and Andrew is hitting people with a plastic lightsaber. I’ve never been happier to see them all.
“How lovely is this?” Bea says, making her way over to me. “It all came together in the end! How are you, sweetheart?” She leans over to kiss me on the cheek.
She is wearing a large hat—big, white, and ruffly. It kinda looks like that Ikea lampshade, the one that everyone in the world has. It keeps poking me in the side of the head when she leans in to speak to me.
We take a glass of champagne from a silver tray and thank the waiter. This party is ridiculously fancy. It doesn’t feel like Cec’s kind of thing.
“Where’s Jez?”
“Working, of course. He is really sad to miss this, though. He sends his love,” Bea says. “Amelia, come here, let me wipe your nose with this tissue, darling!”
“Is it hard with him being away so much?”
“Yeah. It’s basically just me dealing with these three on my own, but, you know, I just get on with it.” Bea pinches Amelia’s nose with the tissue while she wriggles away. “It would be nice if he called or texted occasionally, though; it’s difficult to keep telling the kids that Daddy’s too busy to talk,” she says stiffly.
Bea is usually unflappable, but she seems a bit stressed out and hasn’t made eye contact with me. It feels like she’s not telling me something.
“Amelia, love, will you go and put this tissue in the bin over there?” Bea says, pointing to a very expensive tall bin in Cec’s kitchen. A bin that might also be a robot that cleans the house. One of those bins.
“When’s he next back? Would be nice to get together.”
“I don’t know, Ol.” she sighs, acting all defensive. “And how’s Jacob doing?” she asks, turning it back on me, desperately wanting to change the subject.
“Oh . . . um . . . well, actually—”
Isla suddenly pops out from behind the kitchen counter, interrupting us.
“Hi, gang!”
She’s holding a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and looking slightly manic.
“I probably shouldn’t be drinking, but I’m in between IVF cycles, and one or two can’t hurt—just don’t tell my doctor, okay?”
She seems to be holding it together, but I’m worried she’s going to find today hard with all this baby paraphernalia around her. Mike is working late, apparently, so I make a mental note to keep an eye out for her. In case she gets too drunk.
Cecily comes tottering over, trying to remain balanced on some very high-heeled, gold strappy sandals with zero support.
“Those shoes look very uncomfortable.” The words have left my mouth before I have a chance to stuff them back in.
“They’re fine, Olive,” she says abruptly. “Thanks for coming, guys.”
“What normally happens at a baby shower then?” I whisper to Bea. I almost feel like I’ve paid money to be here, and I want a performance.
“Olive, stop overthinking everything. Just muck in,” Bea says.
“Yeah, just mingling really,” Cecily says, having clearly overheard. “Try and have fun, Olive,” she adds snippily.
“I’ll try,” I reply, gritting my teeth.
The tension feels as if it’s growing—not lessening—between us. I suddenly need the loo or, at least, a little breather. All the guests are piling in now, and a lot of women are screaming and hugging and squealing in Cecily’s face. Eurgh.
On the way to the bathroom, I bump into Cecily’s mother, Tiff. Tiff is really quite something. Everyone knows Tiff. Or, should I say, everyone avoids Tiff. She’s loud, smells of Elnett hairspray, wears pearls, and has long red nails. She’s judgmental, rude, opinionated, p
olitical, un-PC, and extremely overbearing. Over the years, I’ve learned to humor her and take what she says with a pinch of salt. She’s always been slightly passive-aggressive and ghastly with her comments. Every time she came ’round to our student house, she would Febreze everything and bring her own blanket to sit on in the living room. Cecily’s family appears nice enough on the outside, but they are very controlling, and it has been difficult sometimes watching Cecily being cornered into making decisions that just suit her parents. Like the time they hijacked Cecily’s wedding and made her rearrange it and change the location to suit them. We all looked after Cecily when she was crying in our beds so many times during that stressful time. We knew deep down that she didn’t want to be a top-dog lawyer; she had been forced into that too. What she really wanted was to be an interior designer, and she would make such a great one. I hate it when people get stuck in career paths they don’t love because they want to impress their parents. I guess this is the only upside of having an emotionally distant mother—she never gets involved with my life choices.
“Hello, darling!” Tiff air-kisses me and nearly suffocates me with her intense levels of hairspray. She has quite a lot of red lipstick on her two front teeth.
“Tiff! Lovely to see you,” I say, my faux smile appearing again.
“How glorious does our Cecily look?” Tiff remarks, looking over at Cecily in a self-satisfied way.
“So gorgeous. Just like her mother,” I smile, and then realize I’m clenching my teeth again. My level of sarcasm has suddenly become risky.
“So, do you think you’ll be next?” Tiff says, sipping her champagne, hand on hip.
“Sorry?” I decide to play dumb.
“You know, next to have a baby!” exclaims Tiff, flapping the hand that wasn’t wrapped around a champagne glass.
“Oh . . . Ha! Who knows!” I reply.
“Go on . . . have a baby,” Tiff whispers smugly, leaning in to touch my arm and fluttering her eyelashes with delight.
“Maybe one day,” I squirm.
“Oh go on!” she replies.
Oh yes, Tiff, of course, because you have told me to, I will get on it, tomorrow!
“Oh, you’d look just divine with a bump, darling. Having babies is just glorious. I loved being pregnant.”
“That’s nice to know.”
“It sounds silly, but I really recommend it, darling. Also, you know, I don’t want to sound like a nag, but the clock is ticking for you girls. I was thirty when I had Cec, and honestly? It was way too old, really.”
“Well, I—”
“You don’t want to be a geriatric mum,” Tiff interrupts loudly. “Well, actually, you probably already are, I suppose!”
Isla appears behind me and hands me a glass of champagne. “You look like you need this!” Isla says, smiling at me.
“Thank you,” I say, relieved to see her, saving me from this conversation.
Tiff fake-laughs and enters the conversation again with gusto. “Isla, hello, darling!” Tiff air-kisses Isla. “We were just talking about babies! What are your thoughts, hmm?” Tiff says, taking another sip from her wineglass.
“Babies are cute, sure!” Isla replies, looking at me for support.
“Do you think you’ll have one?” Tiff asks, leaning in to Isla.
“Um . . .” Isla looks awkward.
“Er, it’s not really an appropriate question, Tiff,” I say.
“No, it’s fine . . .” Isla says.
“No it’s not, Isla,” I say firmly. “It’s not something she wants to discuss, Tiff. In fact, it’s not really something I want to discuss with you either.”
“Oh goodness. I see!” Tiff squawks awkwardly.
Cecily notices us with Tiff and knows to come over and try to save us. “Mum, what are you saying to the girls?”
“Oh, nothing much, darling. We’re having a lovely time. Lovely champagne, this is.” Tiff turns to Cec to change the subject: “I do worry about how you’re going to raise your little one in London, Cecily. London is so . . . polluted, and grubby, and Oscar will need some proper fresh air to run around in. I don’t want my grandchild being raised in such a polluted city. Hardly any green spaces!”
“Oh, Mother! I’ve told you. Loads of people have kids in London. London is fine. More than fine. Lots of parks. Keep your voice down too, please.”
“I have plenty of friends brought up in London,” I say. “They turned out all right.”
Tiff nervously laughs. “Let’s hope Oscar becomes very streetwise then. Lots of crime here. Druggies,” she lowers her voice, “lots of stabbings.”
“Mum . . .” Cecily rubs Tiff’s arm gently. “Please. Life is great here.”
Tiff gets distracted by her husband, Todd, who has just accidentally dropped a glass and is shouting Tiff’s name loudly, an angry vein popping out of his head.
We sip our drinks, and I am about to open my mouth to ask Isla if she wants to sneak off for a cheeky cigarette when a woman appears out of nowhere and introduces herself to us all.
“Hi, girls, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Tiff. I work with Cecily. I’m Jool.” She puts a hand out for us to shake. We do so, limply. “Apologies for butting in, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, and, you know, woman to woman and all that, Isla, I want to say it also annoys me when people ask presumptuous questions about my situation. Gosh, it makes me angry that people are so insensitive.”
“Thank you,” Isla looks at me in a panic. Her face saying it all: Who is this woman? Why is she talking to us?
“You know, it took me ages to get pregnant, just in case you wanted any consolation or to hear any stories that ended well. Years! I was getting gray hairs, wondering if my baby would ever arrive.”
“Thanks, but it’s a long story,” Isla replies politely, her cheeks turning pink.
“Thing is, you just need to think positively.”
“Jools—”
“It’s actually just Jool.”
“Whatever. Thanks for your help, but that’s quite enough,” I say. “It’s not always helpful to share advice, that’s all.”
“Wow, tough crowd. I was just trying to help,” Jool says. “I had problems too. But everything changed when I changed my attitude. You should start manifesting. Start a mood board. It starts with you.”
Isla and I roll our eyes. Jool sighs at us in a patronizing way and then wanders off in search of a canapé. We go to the loo so we can reapply our lipstick and then wander back to find Bea and Cecily.
As I walk through the kitchen, I overhear Jool say to someone that “time away from her kid for a poo and scroll on Instagram Stories feels like a holiday in the Maldives,” and that’s the icing on the clitoris cake. We need to get out.
“Can we go outside for a sec?” I ask Isla.
“Happily,” she says, grabbing her scarf from one of the kitchen stools.
We go out into the front garden, streetlights twinkling. She declines a drag on my vape and wraps her scarf ’round her shoulders to stay warm.
“Where’s Jacob by the way?” Isla asks innocently.
I suddenly feel really hot. I have got used to ignoring it, bottling it up. I’ve now started to dread one of the girls actually asking me any real questions about what happened. Because I know I’ll be forced to look in the mirror.
“That’s kinda what I’ve been wanting to tell you about.”
“Oh?”
“We actually broke up awhile ago.”
“Fuck . . .” Her eyes dart around, not knowing what to say. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Well, it’s not. But everyone has so much else going on . . .”
“I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do, Ol?”
“Not really. Just the occasional chat and hug is good,” I say, sucking on my vape.
> “Ugh, Olive, I’ve been so distant lately.”
“I understand,” I say, exhaling my flavored vapor.
“I’ve been so focused on one thing. You know, I’ve just had the worst cramps all night and haven’t really told anyone. I just feel awful.”
“You should go home if you don’t feel well. I can break it gently to Cec.”
“Do you mind? Sorry, I just suddenly don’t feel good at all.”
“It’s totally fine,” I say.
“Can we carry on this conversation ASAP? I hope you’re okay, Ol.”
We hug and kiss each other on the cheek. And, just like that, she leaves. I’m left standing alone. A million things unsaid stretching between us. Once, Isla wouldn’t have just left—she’d have tried harder. She would have sat on my bed and chatted it through with me. But we have different things going on now.
I go back inside and tune in momentarily to the background noise of everyone milling around. When did Cec become friends with these awful people? There is a man with a giant moustache who is bragging about how his darling son just got into their private school of choice.
“It is £30,000 a year, so of course they made room for him! Ha ha ha! You can get whatever you want with the right amount of cash, am I right?” He cackles smugly. I notice his logo’d T-shirt reads: “I LIKE TO PARTY. EVERYBODY DOES.” Then he starts slagging off state schools. I shudder at the thought of ever having to dig around for “The Perfect School” for “The Perfect Child.” The competing. The pompous rich people. The catchment areas. The pettiness. The potential for crippling disappointment. The constant Keeping Up With The Joneses. The Insta-Mums with their perfect marriages and perfect houses and perfect postbaby bodies. Yuck.
I really want to get out, or maybe even do an Irish goodbye, but an old school friend, Rose, has spotted me through the milling crowd and is making a beeline for me. Oh god, I really need to devise an exit strategy, quick. I should have just left with Isla.
“Olive!” She reaches out to hug me. “It’s been years, how are you! I thought you’d be here.” She sort of falls into me, instead of a hug—Rose has clearly had a few rosés.
“Rose, hi! I’m great, thank you—you look well!” I say, remembering to smile without gritting my teeth this time.