More Than a Feeling

by Cate Woods

  Karl’s said you’re ill – what’s going on, you okay? You better not wimp out of tonight x

  Shit – dinner with the girls! I completely forgot about our monthly catch-up tonight. Well, there’s no way I’m going to be up to that; I’ll have to cancel. But what on earth to say? My response needs to be composed with care – the date’s been in the diary for ages, it’s the first chance we’ve all had to get together since I started the job – but I’ve pickled so many brain cells with booze that I don’t have the ability to come up with a decent lie. In the end I take the easiest option: honesty, but just a hint of it.

  I found out that Luke and Sigrid are still shagging this morning and didn’t cope with it well. Can we talk later? Feeling terrible and need to sleep. So sorry xxx

  I press send and then turn off my phone. My relief at the prospect of being left in peace outweighs the guilt at blowing out my mates. Thankfully Jess is not at home when I get there, so I go straight to bed and pull the duvet over me, still burning with shame, and let sleep consume me.

  *

  ‘Annie? Annie, are you okay?’

  Safe inside my duvet cocoon, I become vaguely aware of voices nearby. Why are there people in my bedroom? What time is it? Oww, my head hurts . . . Then the memory of what I’ve done smashes into me like an avalanche.

  ‘Maybe she’s ill.’ That sounds like Claris; perhaps if I feign sleep, they’ll all go away. I breathe extra slowly and loudly, to indicate a state of deep slumber.

  ‘She’s faking it, clearly.’ Then I feel someone – probably Jess, because that was her voice – give me a shove. ‘Come on, Annie, we know you’re awake.’

  ‘Leave her alone! We should let her rest.’ I say a silent thank you to Claris.

  ‘What is that . . . ?’ Now I hear Tabby, and a rustling noise somewhere on the bed. ‘It looks like . . . ugh, a kebab – or what’s left of it.’

  ‘Gross!’

  ‘Right, bollocks to this.’ There’s a sudden blinding light – that even with my eyes shut makes me flinch – and a rush of cold air as the duvet is ripped off me. ‘Annie Taylor, what the feck is going on?’

  With a moan, I curl into a ball and squeeze my eyes open a crack. Standing around my bed are Jess, Tabby, Claris and Fi, who is holding my duvet.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I mutter – and then, hoping that being nice might help them take pity on me, I add: ‘Please.’

  Jess sits next to me on the bed. ‘What’s the story, babe? Fi told us about your cryptic phone message. What happened with Luke?’

  I struggle up into a seated position, my stomach lurching like I’m on a waltzer. I put my head in my hands to try to stop the spinning.

  ‘Why are you all here?’ I ask weakly.

  ‘We had a date, remember?’ says Fi.

  ‘And your phone was turned off,’ says Tabby. She is cradling her growing bump and looking at me accusingly. Despite my feeble state, I make a mental note to have a proper chat with her about how she’s getting on with the pregnancy; every time we’ve spoken lately it’s been all about my dramas.

  ‘And we were worried about you,’ adds Claris, holding out a glass of water.

  ‘So because Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain, the mountain has come to Mohammed,’ says Tabby. ‘We’ve also ordered a takeaway, although it looks like you’ve beaten us to it.’

  Everyone glances over at the remains of the doner spilling out onto the duvet, and my stomach churns again with nausea and shame, then I get a sudden, sickening flash of terror – where the hell is my baby? – and when my booze-addled brain remembers that Dot’s with Luke, relief hits me with such force I almost get whiplash.

  Jess leans towards me and sniffs, examining me with suspicion. ‘Mmm, I thought as much. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?’

  Claris looks worried. ‘Annie, what’s going on?’

  I sip the water, trying to get my thoughts in order. There is absolutely no way I’m going to be able to fib my way out of this.

  ‘I promise I’ll tell you everything,’ I say eventually. ‘But could I please have a shower first?’

  Fi nods. ‘Right you are. We’ll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes sharp.’

  *

  When I have finished recounting the day’s events, leaving absolutely nothing out, there is silence around the kitchen table. The pizzas are sitting in front of us, still in their boxes, untouched.

  Fi is the first to speak. ‘What, so you just . . . kissed him? Just like that?’

  I nod miserably. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Claris and Tabby exchanging looks.

  ‘With tongues?’ asks Jess.

  I close my eyes. ‘I think so.’

  ‘And there hadn’t been any flirty banter beforehand?’ Fi presses on. ‘Nothing that might have given you the impression he was interested in taking things further?’

  ‘Well, he was really friendly, but . . .’ I slump into my seat. ‘Nope, nothing at all. He was polite and nice and because I was drunk, I took it as a come-on.’ I drop my head into my hands with a groan. ‘Oh God, what have I done . . .’

  Again, silence. That is not a good sign. This is a group that is never knowingly lost for words.

  ‘Well, for me it’s the pickled egg thing that’s the worst bit of the whole tale,’ says Jess breezily. ‘Why didn’t you just have a bag of crisps? Or some nuts? That would have been the sensible thing to order in a pub. But pickled eggs, Annie . . .’ She pulls a face. ‘As for the rest of it, though – forget about it! The guy is probably boasting to his mates as we speak. You said so yourself, it’s not like he pulled away or tried to stop you, did he? I bet he was enjoying it. Lucky bugger, I say. Honestly, you’re making a huge deal out of nothing.’

  ‘Jess, he’s a client.’ I look at Fi imploringly. ‘Be honest, how bad do you think this is? Am I going to get fired?’

  Jess hoots with laughter. ‘Oh come on, there’s absolutely no way he’ll phone the office to complain. Can you imagine? “I’m afraid to say your lady photographer just forcibly kissed me, leaving me in a state of considerable distress.” He’d be laughed off the phone!’

  ‘Well, he’d be quite within his right to complain,’ says my sister.

  ‘Tabby, please, I feel bad enough as it is . . .’

  ‘But just imagine if it was the other way round and he forced himself on you?’ she goes on. ‘Wouldn’t you make a complaint? Because I know I bloody well would.’

  There’s nothing I can say to that, because she’s absolutely right.

  ‘Look, if he does phone the office to complain,’ says Claris, ‘which I’m quite sure he won’t, you can just explain the situation with Luke, and how you were in shock over it. They’ll understand.’

  ‘But that’s the other thing,’ says Tabby. ‘From what you’ve told us, Annie, it doesn’t sound like Luke is sleeping with Sigrid again.’

  I turn furiously to my sister. ‘How can you defend him after everything that arsehole has done!’

  She reaches for my hand. ‘I’m not defending him. He’s been a complete bastard and, believe me, I won’t ever forgive him for what he did to you.’ She gives my hand a sisterly squeeze. ‘But what he said to you today made sense. He’s certainly proved that he’s desperate to win you back – why would he be bothering if he wanted to be with Sigrid? I really think he’s telling you the truth this time. It certainly didn’t warrant you going out and getting shit-faced.’

  Jess grabs the bottle of wine and tops up all our glasses. ‘This goes right back to what I’ve been saying all along, that you should dump Luke and move on. You’re coping brilliantly without him and you clearly don’t trust him – just get rid of the loser, he’s dead weight!’ Then she pulls the nearest pizza box towards her and takes a slice. ‘So, was he hot? The American, I mean.’

  ‘Jess!’ Claris shoots her a now-is-not-the-time glare.

  ‘Come on, we’ve got all the woe-is-me crap out of the way.’ She leans towards me with a wicked grin. ‘Now f
or the good bit.’

  I can’t help but smile. ‘Yes, he was,’ I admit eventually. ‘Very hot. And he knew his Streisand songs.’

  There is a mass eyebrow-raise around the table. The girls know just how much this would appeal to me.

  ‘No excuse though, is it,’ I add miserably.

  *

  Before I go to bed that night, I turn on my phone. As well as all the concerned messages from my friends earlier in the day, there’s one that Luke sent this evening. It’s a photo of Dot, smiling gummily and clutching a new teddy he must have bought her. This is my first night without her and I suddenly miss her with a fierceness that knocks the breath out of me. My baby. Just staring at the picture makes my heart ache, literally. After a while I manage to drag my attention away from the photo – although not without kissing the screen first – and read the message Luke has sent with it.

  Goodnight, Mummy! Dot went to sleep very happily and now I’m here lying missing you, as usual. Please let me know what I can do to make things right between us, patatina, so we can be a family again. It’s all I want. Sleep well, beautiful xxx

  19

  Today is Dot’s first swimming lesson at Little Splashy Quackers. The local leisure centre offers baby swimming classes for far less than here, but I was won over by the Splashy Quackers’ website with its cute underwater photos of babies happily wriggling about in their ‘purpose-built pool heated to a balmy thirty-four degrees’ and their claim to be ‘south-west London’s premier baby swimming experts’. For the money they’re charging, I’m expecting Dot to be able to swim a length’s butterfly (without armbands) by the end of the first lesson.

  As with any new activity that involves transporting a ticking time bomb from A to B, I have given myself an extra hour to get to the pool to allow for poo-explosions, unscheduled feeds and the origami-like intricacies of the baby buggy. As it happens, however, this morning is one of those rare occasions when Dot doesn’t throw any curveballs, and we arrive at the pool with time to spare and smiles on both our faces. I can’t work out why I’m feeling a bit strange – sort of floppy and heavy – until I realise that it must be because I’m actually quite relaxed.

  While Dot lies on the changing mat, cooing happily and playing with her toes, I wriggle into my swimming costume, attempting to expose as little porridge-textured flesh as possible. Glancing around the communal changing room, I’m relieved to see that I’m not the only one who’s had the idea of wearing a t-shirt over their costume as an extra layer of modesty, although one freak is actually wearing a bikini – and not one of those sporty ones with the sturdy straps, but the kind that’s four teeny triangles tied together with dental floss, of the sort you might see on Love Island.

  All the mums and one brave dad gather by the poolside as the previous class finishes, and we’re all doing that thing where you covertly check out everyone else to decide who you might be friends with (not Bikini Woman, obvs). The bold ones are already striking up conversation, but I hang back, glad to have Dot to focus on. I really have no idea when I got so shy; once upon a time I would have already been up front organising the post-swim cocktails . . .

  ‘Hi there, everyone! I’m Meredith and I’ll be your instructor on this beginners’ baby swimming course.’

  We all turn to look at the beaming Meredith, who has a broad South African accent – ‘Welcome to Luttle Spleshy Queckers!’ – and the muscular back and shoulders of a professional swimmer. Both of these things serve to reassure me that Dot and I are in super-safe hands.

  ‘Right, let’s get those babies into the water,’ she goes on. ‘One at a time now, careful up the steps . . .’

  The pool is like a giant bath that you have to climb a ladder to get into. Bikini Woman pushes to the front, keen to be first up the ladder to show off her flawless arse to the rest of us flaccid-rumped mortals. There is not a dimple, crease or blemish in sight; it’s like she’s made entirely out of plastic. The other mums are giving her envious looks, while the sole dad is openly gawping at the side-boob, under-boob and over-boob on display. My body didn’t look anything like that even before it made a baby. Perhaps she had hers by surrogate? Yes, that must be it . . .

  The water is so blissfully warm it’s like taking a dip in the Maldives. Dot is delighted with her new surroundings, bashing her fists against the water, giggling at the splashes and shrieking with delight. Meanwhile, Bikini Woman’s baby is howling so loudly that Meredith has had to temporarily abandon a singalong because none of us can hear what we should do if we’re happy and we know it. Bikini Woman looks embarrassed and flustered; I feel an unsisterly pang of Schadenfreude.

  The class itself turns out to be more like playtime than an actual lesson, and Dot takes to it immediately. The singing, the splashing, the little rubber ducks they get to push around – she is in her element, and I’m thrilled to have found something that we can enjoy doing together. I’m just wondering if perhaps she’s got real talent, and imagining myself as the Judy Murray of the swimming world, getting up at 4 a.m. every morning to drive Dot to training, when Meredith decides to take things up a notch.

  ‘Right, the babies are doing so well I think we’ll try our first dip underwater.’ A frisson of anxious excitement passes through the group; this is the moment we’ve been waiting for. ‘I’ll come round to you individually, one at a time, to show your babies what to do,’ adds Meredith.

  I am really looking forward to this. Honestly, you should see how happy the babies look in the underwater photos on the website – it’s like they’re in their natural habitat, like little mer-babies! Perhaps I should get Dot a cuter swimsuit for her photos, maybe something with frills . . .

  ‘Right, what’s Baby’s name?’

  It takes me a moment to realise that Meredith is talking to me. Oh. I’m really not sure I’m that keen on going first. I mean, I love the idea of Dot swimming underwater in theory, but I’d be far happier if someone else’s child was the actual guinea pig.

  ‘Dot,’ I reply, adding quickly: ‘But it’s her first time in a swimming pool, so . . .’

  ‘Well, she seems to have taken to it brilliantly!’ Meredith either hasn’t noticed or is choosing to ignore my concern. ‘Right, so what I’m going to do is count to three and then hold Dot under and she’ll pop straight up to you, got it? Lots of smiles and encouragement now, Mum!’

  ‘Um, hang on, how do you get them to hold their breath?’

  ‘Well, obviously we can’t ask them, can we?’ laughs Meredith. ‘Come on, Dot, let’s show Mum what a clever little girl you are . . .’

  But rather than reassuring me, her breezy manner is fanning my nerves and I wonder if I should refuse to let Dot have a go – although surely Meredith knows what she’s doing? She’s got the right accent and shoulders, after all. The other mums are closely watching this unfold, clutching their babies to them as if to say thank God it’s not me going first.

  ‘So they just . . . hold their breath automatically?’ I persist, still gripping Dot.

  ‘Well, it’s not really a question of them actually holding their breath to start with. But babies have a very strong gag reflex up to six months. They lived in water for nine months remember? They’re basically little fish.’

  She says this as ‘feeesh’; it sounds quite sinister. I feel the first flutters of panic.

  ‘Yeah, but that was quite a few months ago now. She’s out of practice.’

  Meredith laughs as if I’m joking, but I most definitely am not.

  ‘Just trust your baby, okay? She’ll be absolutely fine. And she can sense Mum’s fear, so let’s try to stay nice and calm, shall we?’

  But that just makes me stress even more, and although I plaster on a wobbly smile, I’m sure that as I hand Dot to Meredith I’m radiating the same sort of vibes my cavemen ancestors gave off in the presence of sabre-toothed tigers. But everyone’s watching, so I can’t very well wimp out, can I? While I open and close my mouth in helpless horror, Meredith turns Dot round to face her,
counts enthusiastically to three and then holds her under. A moment later Dot pops up to the surface, her face a picture of wide-eyed alarm – which is, after all, exactly the correct response to being drowned. A jet of water shoots out of her mouth like she’s a cherub on an ornamental fountain, then she splutters, chokes and starts to wail.

  Meredith, however, acts as if Dot’s just won gold in the 200m freestyle.

  ‘That was terrific, well done! See, she’s a natural!’

  ‘At what – drowning?’ I snap, jiggling Dot to calm her cries while trying not to cry myself.

  Meredith laughs again and I feel murderous. ‘Don’t worry, it usually takes a couple of times for Baby to learn to shut her mouth when she goes under,’ she says cheerily. ‘Now, shall we try again?’

  ‘No!’ I shriek, snatching Dot away. ‘I mean, can’t somebody else have a go first?’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Bikini Woman slip quietly out of the pool with her baby.

  *

  Dot is still sobbing by the time the class finishes and as I get out of the pool she is clinging onto me like a baby chimpanzee; when I finally manage to prise her from my arm, her fingers leave little red marks. My previous buoyant mood has been destroyed by guilt: for about ten minutes back there swimming was the absolute best thing in Dot’s world, but now she’s probably got full-blown aquaphobia. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to get her in the bath tonight. Meredith assures me she’ll be fine by next week, but as far as I’m concerned, that bitch has ruined my daughter’s Olympic career.

  Thanks to all the trauma, Dot falls asleep the moment I put her in the buggy, so I duck into a café for a coffee. Once I’m sitting down, I automatically reach for my phone to message Luke about the class. Despite everything that’s happened, I’m ashamed to admit he is still the first person I want to tell about my day. I can’t work out if that makes me a pathetic doormat or if it’s a sign that we’re meant to be together.

  Luke and I have spoken a few times since that argument we had last week about Sigrid, but neither of us has mentioned it again. Although I haven’t told him this yet, I’ve decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe his version of events, partly because – as Tabitha wisely pointed out – he does seem genuinely keen to make things right, but also because I dipped my toe in the shark-infested waters of singledom and would rather chew my arm off than go in there again. I shudder as the American’s appalled expression flashes into my mind once more . . .