In Bloom

by C. J. Skuse

  We had another funny phone call this morning. Elaine wants to change their number and go ex-directory. Jim says they’ll give up soon. This is the tenth phone call we’ve had.

  ‘If I answer they might speak?’ I suggested.

  Jim’s having none of it. ‘I’m not having you bothered by it. They’ll go away eventually. Let me handle it ’til they do’.

  My body has become an eyesore. My tits have overinflated and gone as veiny as Stilton. My nips should be in between Brioche buns. One of the mummy bloggers bangs on and on about the beauty of a pregnant woman’s body. ‘You’re creating life, being the incredible wonderful woman nature always wanted you to be. Embrace life, both yours and your baby’s!’

  I would imagine that kind of thing is much easier to say and mean when you’re a millionaire living in Martha’s Vineyard with an oil tycoon husband, seven maids and all the chia seeds your gullet can cope with. Unfortunately for the rest of us, it just sucks.

  I read this article on Aeon about the biological warfare of being pregnant. Apparently there’s this species of spider that allows her young to suckle blood from her legs until she weakens. Then the babies eat her alive. In mammals, it says ‘the foetus can also release its own hormones into the mother’s bloodstream, and thus manipulate her.’

  Interesting.

  I’m not manipulating you. You’re manipulating yourself. You’re crazy, Mummy.

  ‘You sure you want to pull on that thread, Foetus Face?’

  Texted Marnie this morning – no response. Haven’t heard from her since the Pudding Club picnic. God friends are weird.

  Elaine decided I needed to get out of the house so she took me for ‘a bit of retail therapy’. A coach crash on the motorway meant the roads were clogged around the retail parks so we had to sit in boiling hot traffic for an hour to make a two-mile journey. She wanted to go to Baby World, this massive aircraft hangar type place crammed to the rafters with every single thing you could possibly need to prepare for a new baby. She said it was time I started nesting. So she’s forcing me to nest. So there I was, sitting in the car, trying to get nesty to no avail. I kept wondering about the coach crash and how many were dead. I imagined them hanging out the windows.

  The minute she parked up she put the steering lock on – as she usually did whenever she or Jim went anywhere. Even that little action annoyed me. She was so bloody afraid of leaving anything anywhere, of going on holiday to anywhere other than that same crappy little hotel in the Lake District on the same date every October with Jim. Same room, same view, same cutlery. Ugh. I hated everything about her today. And I did not want to be thinking about what the baby needs right now. I wanted to think about what I need right now.

  Which was Sandra Huggins. On the end of my knife.

  The sheer amount of stuff inside Baby World was mind boggling. The only thing it didn’t sell was actual babies. I didn’t have a clue where to begin. Luckily Elaine had made an A4 list.

  ‘Right, first thing’s first, we need to order the cot… ’

  It was sweltering inside the store – air conditioning on the blink – and every aisle was rammed with young mothers pushing too-big buggies and families walking five abreast so nobody else could get by. Beside a bank of car seats, a woman was admonishing her child – a girl of about eight. She repeatedly yanked her wrist in time with what she was saying.

  ‘Why. Do. I. Have. To. Keep. Telling. You? Are. You. Stu. Pid?’

  The little girl was smiling and picking her nose. The woman let go of her, and the girl went straight back to what she’d been doing before she was so rudely interrupted – pulling a stash of squeaky giraffes from a low shelf. Immediately, the woman yanked the girl’s wrist towards her and repeatedly smashed her backside with the flat of her hand.

  ‘You. Won’t. Be. Told. Will. You? Stu. Pid. Little. Girl.’

  The kid was bored. Christ on a crunchy-assed cracker was she bored. I knew it. Why didn’t her mum?

  You know when you’re so bored you want to crawl on your back and rub your head into the carpet? That bored. I get that. Whenever I was bored as a kid I’d want to set fire to something, usually Seren’s clothes. Squeaky giraffes all over the floor was them getting off lightly.

  The woman smacked the girl again and the girl whined and then the whines turned into cries. I heard someone breathing too close to me and I snapped my head around, only to realise it was me. My breaths. I was raging.

  What are you going to do?

  ‘I’m going to wring that bloody woman’s neck.’

  Leave it. It’s nothing to do with you.

  ‘Who stands up for her, eh?’

  Not you. Don’t get involved.

  The smacks rained down.

  LEAVE IT.

  And then a thunderous punch boomed in my stomach. Like an explosion. A little bomb going off.

  ‘AAARGH the hell was that?!’ The entire shop swivelled its head 360°. I sat down on a toadstool, part of some small dining set.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said to no one and everyone. ‘Think it kicked.’

  ‘Oh god, what’s the matter?’ cried Elaine, careering round a corner with a stack of fragrance free wet wipes and a heap of pink bibs.

  ‘She’s kicking me. Ow! Shit, she did it again!’

  ‘The book doesn’t say to expect kicks this early,’ said Elaine, dropping the bibs and wipes and yanking Pregnancy 101 out of her handbag.

  ‘Well I’m not imagining it,’ I said, holding the front of my belly for fear of it splitting open and spilling out over the floor.

  Hurts, doesn’t it?

  ‘Do you want me to call an ambulance?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Just need to sit down for a bit.’

  She left me alone for a few moments on my toadstool like some kind of murderous elf, before there magically appeared a glass of tepid tap water. Holding it was a dark-haired boy cashier. He ticked all the symmetrical boxes and I think was legal enough to have sexual intercourse, so I developed a crush. I tried flirt-laughing when he started up a convo but Elaine salted my game with all her concern.

  The kicking continued and I continued to ‘Ow’ and Hot Cashier Boy got bored and went to flirt-laugh with some preggo Ariana Grande lookalike in the nipple pads aisle. I’m starting to get the feeling I may never see cock again. And my vadge will be toast by the time the kid comes out. Sex will be like ‘chucking a plum down Wookey Hole’ according to Nev.

  Glad to see you’ve got your priorities straight, Mummy.

  I downed the water – I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was – and managed to shake off Elaine, saying I needed some air. I walked around the grass verge of the car park until the kicking stopped.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I said. ‘Why are you kicking so hard?’

  I don’t like it when you kill people in public, Mummy. It makes me sad. I don’t want you to get caught.

  ‘I wasn’t going to kill her.’

  Your stomach acids were bubbling. It makes me uncomfortable. You’ve got to calm down.

  ‘What’s with you anyway?’ I said as I crossed the threshold of Halfords. A man wheeled out a brand new mountain bike with a receipt flapping on the handlebars and gave me The Look all people give me when they catch me self-conversationing. ‘Yeah I’m talking to myself, get over it.’

  Your behaviour is becoming increasingly erratic.

  ‘Out of interest, this Foetus Code of Practice you operate under – what’s the deal with Patrick? How come I had no side effects when I waited all day for him outside that sports store? When I drugged him? When I pushed him down the well? Hmm? Where were you then?’

  That was at home. It’s too risky in public. Too many people. Too many cameras. You WILL get caught.

  ‘I won’t.’

  You will. You’re not thinking straight. You’re getting tired again, slowing down.

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me how to fertilise eggs, all right? You have to let me make my own decisions. I know
what I’m doing.’ I sat down on a bench. Another joy of late pregnancy I’ve discovered – I can’t stand up for any length of time anymore.

  You want to kill all the time. I’ve seen your dreams. I’ve seen you studying Sandra Huggins’s payslip. I’ve been there when you’re waited for her in that car park where she works. You’re being too obvious. You love killing more than you love me.

  ‘Then how come I walked away from White and Nerdy? How come I haven’t killed Huggins yet? How come I haven’t stabbed anyone for months?’

  Because you do love me. Just not enough.

  I watched a couple going inside Baby Town – her with the big bump and slight waddle, him with Craig’s haircut. They were holding hands and stood aside as Elaine came out to corral me back inside.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Changing table. They can deliver in ten days.’

  Elaine took charge. I followed her lead, trying to look interested. We filled the trolley:

  •sleep suits (six newborn, six 3–6 months, six 9 months ‘cos we don’t know how big she’ll be when she’s born, do we?’

  •vests, bibs, cardigans (three), hats (four), socks (two packets of six), muslins (‘for dribble and sick’)

  •four packs of nappies (newborn)

  •a changing bag with little clowns on it

  •environmentally-friendly wet wipes

  •a breast pump (ugh)

  •two boxes of humungous breast pads (ugh ugh)

  •pregnancy pillow (‘Sleeping on your back decreases the flow of blood to the baby so it’s best to lie on your side’)

  •two nursing bras (Sizes – Humungous)

  •two bottles with various sized teats

  •two bottles of sterilising fluid plus bottle brushes

  •Baby Mozart CD (because ‘she can hear everything now and we can train her to be clever’)

  •Infant Milk Starter Pack x 6 bottles

  •a Moses basket (‘so she can sleep right next to you’)

  •cot sheets and cellular blankets

  •newborn papoose

  •a nasal aspirator – which SUCKS BOGIES OUT OF A KID’S NOSE

  •a pram with pram blankets

  •a small plastic bath

  •baby oil (had no idea that had a use for actual babies)

  •a rear-facing car seat

  All the stuff! Bits and pieces and packets and boxes and bags. All totally overpriced but if I didn’t have it all, the baby wasn’t going to survive. I NEEDED all of it. I had to KNOW what to do with every item when the baby needed it. That was my job now. But it was too much. Elaine could have removed every item from that trolley and replaced it with bags of crisps and I wouldn’t have cared. I couldn’t find it in me. It wasn’t there.

  ‘I don’t want to do this,’ I mewed, entering my pin in to the machine.

  You’d rather I died?

  ‘No. I just don’t want all this. All this responsibility. All this change. It’s all about you now. What about me?’

  Those days are over, Mummy. You’ve got to roll with the punches.

  ‘Do I?’

  Monday, 29th October – 25 weeks, 1 day

  1.People who call into the 10 Minute Takeover on Radio 1 and request the same damn songs we hear 24/7.

  2.The man who reads the news on local TV – clear your goddamn throat.

  3.People who ask you how your weekend was – nobody truly gives a shit.

  Jim was acting strangely before he and Elaine left for the Lake District. He was hovering in the kitchen. Wiping surfaces that didn’t need wiping. Rearranging fridge magnets. Shaking crumbs out of the toaster. I got the impression he wanted to talk.

  I wondered if it was because of this morning – his dressing gown had come undone as he was making the porridge. I’d got an inadvertent flash of cock and balls and my eye had stayed too long. That happens sometimes – I lock on to a target and won’t lock off. Visible cock bulge is one such target.

  ‘Rhiannon – I wondered how you might feel about us taking Tink with us? I know she’s your dog and you’re her primary carer—’

  ‘Go for it,’ I said.

  His face brightened. ‘You know we’d look after her, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. She loves you, Jim. And she likes new places, new sniffs.’

  ‘I wanted to do something different this year. We always go to the same hotel, same room, same hiking group, same pub-lunch every day. If Tink’s with us, we might be inspired to try different things.’

  ‘I thought you liked the sameness?’

  His voice lowered, though Elaine wasn’t even in the house. ‘I suggested Jamaica, Hawaii, Barbados, cruises. She’s always wanted to go up to Edinburgh and see the castle. I suggested the sleeper and a hire car and then we could work our way along the west coast for a couple of weeks. Not book anything, just… be a bit free.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose it’s best to keep things simple this year, I don’t know.’

  We both watched Tink outside, dragging a two-foot dried bull’s cock up the lawn. ‘It’ll still be a nice rest. A change of scenery for you both.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind us taking her? It’s two whole weeks, love.’

  ‘She’ll have a ball. And sometimes you’ve got to do what’s best for someone else, haven’t you? Never mind how it makes you feel.’

  As soon as the words left my mouth I knew I wasn’t talking about Tink anymore. And I knew what I had to do.

  *

  I was sitting in the silent lounge waiting for an important call when my phone finally ding!ed in my pocket. Only it wasn’t the message I was expecting. It was from Lord Byron, one of my fish. Rich guy. Lives in a house so large it has eaves – proper Tudor eaves and gold-framed portraits. I’ve seen them in the background of some of his photos.

  LordByron61: I’m wearing my big boy nappy to my conference like you told me to. It is such a thrill!

  Sweetpea: I’m so happy for you.

  LordByron61: Oh Sweetpea you are so wonderful my darling. I can’t tell you what it means that you don’t think I’m too strange for you. My conference is in Weymouth. You once told me you live along the coast, yes?

  Sweetpea: Yes.

  LordByron61: So could I see you? Could we play together at your house?

  Sweetpea: Have you carved the flower yet?

  LordByron61: I will do it for you today, I promise. And then you’ll tell me where you live?

  Sweetpea: I’ll tell you where I live, I’ll be here for you and I’ll do anything you ask of me. If you carve the flower into your skin…

  LordByron61: Oh my darling that would be fantastic!

  I received a picture message about two hours later when I was in the garden, pruning the hedges – a grey-haired, pink thigh, scratched up and scabby at the edge of a perfectly carved flower. Not a sweet pea – he’d gone rogue and done some kind of tulip. Not a bad effort. His conference was clearly over for the day – in the photo I spied hotel toiletries by the sink.

  Sweetpea: You’re such a good boy. Sweetpea is going to have fun with you.

  LordByron61: It hurt so much but will be worth it when I get to see you. I love that you have a kinky side too Will you feed me later? I would love to suckle your teats.

  Sweetpea: I thought you wanted a playmate, not a mother?

  LordByron61: I want both. I have two outfits you can wear – nurse and a romper suit like mine but pink. I’ll bring them both.

  Sweetpea: Whatever floats your buffalo, I guess.

  LordByron61: I’ll bring my sippy cup and all my toys. What’s your address?

  *

  There’s one thing worse than hearing Cubicle Fart in a Ladies’ restroom and that’s going in straight after another woman and getting their arse-warmed seat. Ugh. I’d take my own toilet seat with me everywhere if I could.

  Claudia had taken the day off work especially to meet me. She sensed on the phone that I ‘needed a friend’. Not that she was a friend, mind you.

  We met
in The Roast House – an independent coffee shop in Periwinkle Lane near the Gazette offices. I can handle the smell of roasting coffee beans now, but I still can’t drink it. Me and AJ had met there once for sausage sandwiches – no, that’s not a euphemism. I got the impression that the baby wanted to feel close to her dad in some way other than lying on the soft earth above his decaying remains. She’s weird like that.

  She started kicking the moment Claudia walked in.

  ‘Oh my god!’ I said, my bump radiating pain. I was sucking in breath so quickly my teeth went cold.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’ said Claudia, face loaded with alarm.

  I clutched my bump, blowing out like a windsock as the jolts hit me – heels and fists, heels and fists. ‘It’s fine. Baby loves kicking me.’

  She smiled, sliding into the booth. She’d put on weight – the sleeves of her jacket strained at the shoulder. ‘Such a wonderful feeling I imagine. How are you getting on, Sweetpea? You look fantastic – absolutely blooming!’

  ‘Yeah I’m okay,’ I squirmed as frogs continued to jump in my lower portions. ‘I’m piling on the timber like a log truck though. And I never thought I’d have to sleep in a bra. It’s been a real game changer.’

  ‘I bet,’ she smiled.

  Tell her.

  Apart from weight gain and a switch to a plum lipstick, Claudia hadn’t changed – still the three neck moles, still the veiny feet in too-high stilettos, still the coffee breath and split-endy hair and permanent Resting Bitch Face.

  ‘How’s life at the Gutsache?’

  ‘Good,’ she laughed, fiddling with the serviette under her mineral water. ‘We all miss you.’ Hmmmm. ‘We’ve lost a few members of staff recently. Gina the receptionist left… ’

  As predicted.

  ‘… and did you hear Daisy’s gone as well?’

  ‘Daisy Chan?’

  ‘Yeah, she got a job at the Manchester Evening News and moved up north. Ron was fuming after investing so much in her.’

  I smiled. ‘So she lasted less than a year then? What a waste.’