Promise Me: A heartbreaking and unputdownable page-turner

by Jade Beer

  As the team from the nightshift clocks off, with the pallid grey complexions that usually accompany brain-numbing tiredness, we all file into the central office where a giant white board charts the progress of every woman still in the department. Most of the action has happened overnight and the new mums have been moved to the postnatal ward. We’ve hit a lull so I’m assigned the one thing no one ever wants to do: admin. I’m refilling supplies, date-checking medications, and making sure every trolley in the place is stocked with all the swabs, delivery packs and latex gloves it needs.

  It means my mind can wander to my six o’clock appointment with Helen at The White Gallery. The briefest flick onto Instagram last night turned into an indulgent two-hour marathon through lavishly laid banqueting tables, brightly coloured bouquets, huge floral arches, dessert tables covered in every conceivable cake and enough wedding dresses to fill Helen’s beautiful boutique a thousand times over. I can’t quite believe I’m going to keep this appointment. As I’m replenishing the supply of stitches and mesh knickers, I’m thinking I should just call her on my first break and cancel. It seemed like an amusing idea last night but now, knowing later on I’ll have to stand in front of her and fabricate the vision of my perfect wedding day? It’s just ridiculous. I can’t waste Helen’s time, she’s obviously busy and, lovely as she seems, I’m sure she won’t appreciate that. No, I’ll call to cancel.

  As I’m tormenting myself with it all, I hear the breathless, low moan of a young woman who has just arrived at the reception desk. I push the last of the protective bed sheets into their designated boxes and march back around the corner towards the sound. She’s alone, bent over the counter, and weeping, clearly struggling to remain upright while she chokes out her name and contact details between contractions. My instincts take over immediately. I want to care for her, to take away the fear she is feeling. I place one arm around her shoulders, gently easing her upright, and the other loosely across her bump, feeling how taut it is.

  ‘Oh God, help me, please. I can’t breathe.’ She can’t be any older than twenty-two, twenty-three, perhaps.

  ‘I’ve got you. Everything is going to be OK. Just lean on me and we’ll get you straight to a room so I can examine you.’ Being a midwife is like being an actress in many ways. I adapt my performance to suit the woman in front of me and what she needs. This one is scared. I can see it in her wide eyes and feel it in the unrelentingly tight grip she has on my hand.

  ‘Room four is free, Jenny.’ Our receptionist can see this woman hasn’t got long to go. ‘This is Sarah Richards. She’s in good health, full term, first baby, no complications. Maternity notes are in her bag. Husband is on his way.’

  Room four is my favourite. It’s big with plenty of space for women to move into different birthing positions. It’s dimly lit and has a chair that reclines so that partners can be almost horizontal if things go on through the night, as they so frequently do. I don’t think Sarah will have to worry about that.

  ‘I can’t do this!’ She’s wailing between sobs as she lowers herself onto her elbows over the bed. ‘I’m not ready, I haven’t got my candles or my labour playlist. I can’t do it! I can’t do it! Where’s Matt? You won’t leave me, will you?’ Despite the pain, she doesn’t take her eyes off me, terrified that I might disappear into the corridor, leaving her to cope alone. I never would.

  She’s flailing around the room, working herself up into a panic that will help no one, least of all her unborn baby, wasting all that vital energy she’s going to need. Between contractions that I time as four minutes apart, I wrestle her out of her clothes and into a green hospital gown. She screams for all she’s worth for an epidural that I decide not to tell her isn’t coming. It takes three of us to keep her still enough to get her onto the bed so I can examine her, and while I’m confirming she’s seven centimetres dilated, Lucy is giving her a crash course in how to use the gas and air.

  ‘Long, deep breaths, take as much in as you can. Try to control your breath, Sarah, don’t rush it.’ Lucy’s trying her best but it’s having little effect as Sarah pants rapidly into the mouthpiece, hearing none of the advice she’s being given. She’s flushed and sweating, so far from being in control of herself, I wonder if I will be able to get her back on track. Lucy is needed elsewhere, so it’s all down to me. I know what’s happening: she’s caught in that sticky place between what the antenatal classes have told her to expect and trusting her own body to do what it has been designed to do – to try, despite the pain, to just go with it.

  ‘Sarah, listen to me, you are doing brilliantly. I just want you to listen to me now, do exactly as I ask you to and very soon you are going to have a baby.’

  ‘Not without Matt!’ she’s yelling at me.

  I try to distract her with questions about baby names and whether or not her parents have any other grandchildren. I give her a handheld fan and offer her some iced water. Then I lower the lights a little further, get her to lean over the end of the bed while I hold a cold wet flannel to her forehead with one hand and massage the small of her back with the other. But she’s fighting me all the way, too far into her own private panic room to see a way out.

  Just as I reluctantly think I may need to get Jean involved, the door swings open and it’s her husband, Matt. He strides across the room in two big steps, gathers her up in his arms, where she stays, completely cocooned by him.

  ‘Please could you play this?’ He’s handing me a Waitrose carrier bag containing an iPod and docking station. ‘Just hit play, it’s all ready to go. Thank you.’

  The room fills with the sound of Etta James’s ‘At Last’ and the two of them start to sway from side to side. He’s leading her in the most romantic dance I’ve ever seen. They’re circling the room together while I take a seat in the corner, on a birthing ball. I’m not needed now, it’s my chance to catch up on the paperwork as I keep an eye on them both. They continue like that for another couple of hours, her heightened breathing the only clue she’s in any pain at all. She returns to lean on the bed for extra support only when the strongest contractions hit. Then, with no warning, she lowers herself into a squat using the bed frame to hold her position and calmly says, ‘I need to push.’

  Their baby daughter is delivered easily into my waiting hands and, as Matt kneels beside Sarah on the floor, kissing her forehead over and over again, he says, ‘You’re incredible, I love you, I love you. I can’t believe what you just did, you truly amazing woman!’

  There was a time when I briefly believed this might happen for me. Not the baby, but Sam, a visiting student doctor at St Mary’s who used to hold me tight and full of urgency, letting his blond locks tangle with mine. But I mistook his cravings for love, stupidly believing he was all mine. The patronising look on his face when he, very honestly, he thought, explained I was one of many, will stay with me forever, I think.

  I can feel the tears starting to run down my face. All three of us are crying now – well, four, if you count the baby. And this is why I love what I do, why I first decided to become a midwife. Being there, doing whatever I can to bring a new life into the world, holding a mirror up to the most intimate moment a couple will ever share. I want some of that hope. It’s such a privilege, this job. But there is a downside: perhaps it’s not fair to expect such career highs without the personal lows it forces on me too. Sharing these tender moments with a couple I barely know can only make me question my own place in the world, such as it is. Will I ever be a mum? Will I ever open that letter from my mother? I know she always thought I would.

  I leave Sarah, Matt and their new daughter curled up together under soft candlelight – he remembered those too, bless him. They’re all so content, I even manage to duck out a little earlier than I should. The night shift will be coming on soon, someone will be round with the tea and toast. I’m pleased I never got a chance to cancel Helen after all.

  * * *

  I take the ten-minute walk down Southwick Street and around Hyde Park Crescent
to Connaught Street and The White Gallery. I’m relieved I spent so much time online last night. During all that social scrolling, I discovered a feed called ‘All About Us’, a stream of defining wedding photos from big days all over the country. My favourite was one of the more intimate ones. The couple had exclusively hired a country house in Wiltshire for the perfect low-key, home-away-from-home, house party wedding. With a church at the bottom of its garden, huge sash windows for gazing out onto manicured grounds, deep collapse-onto teal sofas, an open-all-hours cocktail bar and a ground floor designed to party in, it was the perfect choice. And it could, in theory, be my choice, couldn’t it? I’ll just borrow their wedding day if Helen asks. Talk about how they, I, plan to fill the drawing rooms with vases overflowing with powdery cream peonies and how I’ll mark the walkways with giant white orchids. How guests will dine on English veal and Cuban rum babas. How at midnight we’ll all be tucking in to Cotswold wagyu beefburgers and dancing the night away under the stars in the glasshouse. Perfect. I feel prepared. I can do this. I remember just in time to take Mum’s ring out of the inside zip compartment of my handbag and slip it on.

  Helen is waiting for me. Oh God, maybe I’ll just come clean to her. She seems nice enough, I’m sure she’ll understand. It may not even be the first time it’s happened.

  ‘Come in, Jenny! Ahhh, my final lady of the day. Now, I had a good look at you yesterday and I’ve selected some styles that I think will suit you perfectly. They are all on your rail, back there in the fitting room. Shall we take a look? And you can fill me in on all the details of your plans so far.’ Helen is reaching for two champagne flutes from a glass side table. ‘And, as you are the last appointment of the day, how about a few bubbles, too?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ After the day I’ve had, I’m more than willing to take up her offer of some free fizz.

  ‘How about we start with the Hayley Paige?’ Helen is handing me a flute as I’m kicking off my flats and starting to wriggle free of my jeans.

  Whoa, the Hayley Paige is magnificent! Probably exactly what I would have chosen, if Helen hadn’t been so spot on with her selections. OK, I’m doing this. I need to see what that dress looks like on me.

  ‘It’s Hayley’s blue willow embroidered ballgown, with a tiered tulle skirt,’ she’s telling me as she’s lifting the dress up over my hips and gently fastening it behind me. ‘I just had a feeling this was going to look divine on you and I’m happy to say, I’m not wrong!’

  This dress is everything and I’m wondering why any woman would ever try another after it. The delicate blue embroidery is glistening off the bodice, bringing the whole thing to life before it erupts into layers and layers of skirt. As I start to move, it’s gently lifting outwards, growing in size, and I have to stop before I knock over our champagne.

  ‘Step back into the shop for a moment, Jenny. You’ll have a little more space there to really see what this dress is capable of.’ Helen takes my hand and I follow her back to the giant mirror that is resting against a wall there.

  ‘Wow!’ I can’t help myself, I’m spinning around, lifting the skirts with my hands and letting them drop again dramatically, imagining for a moment how they might look during my first dance. Stupid, yes, but bloody magical, too. The dress is swishing from side to side, performing its heart out for me, almost begging to be bought. And if the ring on my left hand was really meant to be there, there is no doubt in my mind that I’d be buying this dress.

  ‘Shall I take a picture so you can show your mother, Jenny? She wouldn’t want to miss this, would she?’ Helen is looking around the boutique for her phone so she can snap me.

  ‘You don’t need to, actually. She’s…’ Even after all these years I still struggle to say the word ‘dead’, knowing it will cause faces to flush and eyes to drop to the floor. ‘She passed away.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’ Helen’s eyes stay fixed on mine. I think she’s weighing up whether I need a hug, as her mouth shifts into the warmest smile. ‘Would you mind if I take a photo anyway, Jenny? You look beautiful and I feel like we should record this moment, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I agree!’

  ‘I’m going to grab you a veil, wait there.’

  I watch with a huge smile on my face as Helen practically skips off back into the fitting room, where she’s placed a few key choices.

  Then, as I turn back round to the mirror, something catches my eye in the window of the boutique. I have to squint to make it out at first, battling against the reflections from inside that are projected there. There’s something about it that tells me it’s not supposed to be there; that I’m not going to be pleased. Then a face becomes clear. The wiry hair, the sunglasses on the top of her head, the hoop earrings: Lucy. Her jaw has dropped open and, as I stand and stare motionless, feeling like the fraud I am in this puff of tulle, both her hands move up to cover her gaping mouth. Then, before I can react, she bursts into laughter and starts pointing at me, mouthing the words Oh My God through the glass.

  6

  Nat

  For every bride who makes Nat’s job a blast, there is one like Grace, who confirms beyond doubt that weddings really do bring out the worst in humanity.

  On the plus side, Nat looks incredible in the gown that Helen so expertly chose for this big day. On the downside, the very long list of demands this bride has made of Nat in the run-up to her wedding is now culminating with one request that she is really not sure she can fulfil.

  ‘Sorry, you want me to do what?’ They are standing outside Chelsea Town Hall. Vows have just been exchanged. The new Mrs Fletcher-Lawson is resplendent in a Vera Wang that costs more than some people earn in six months. All should be rosy, but Grace is pulling Nat to one side, making her well-wishers wait before they can deliver their congratulatory kisses.

  ‘The second we arrive at the reception, I want you to spill something on Maria.’ Grace is hissing out the words, jabbing her head backwards, in the direction of a beautiful young woman with cascading golden hair flowing all the way down the back of her white silk dress. ‘Then she’ll have to change.’

  ‘Are you serious? You really want me to do that?’ Nat can already see from the look of pure venom on her miserable face that Grace is indeed entirely serious.

  ‘Of course I bloody do! She’s wearing white. How dare she? We made it very clear on the invitations that the dress code was do not disappoint. Well, this disappoints me a great deal and I’m not tolerating it, so it’s up to you to sort it. And do it properly. Red wine or coffee, something there will be no chance of rinsing off in the loos.’ With that, Grace’s own head of glossy locks is tossed so violently skyward that her monstrously large tiara is in danger of taking flight.

  Nat should have known something like this would happen today, that this bride was never going to be happy, regardless of how the day might unfold. All the warning signs were there but Nat ignored them in favour of the large fee. For a start, she was hired not because this bride wanted to spare her friends the hassle of all those bridesmaid logistics but because Grace wanted to add to her long list of employees. She wasn’t, like some lovely brides before her, looking to spare anyone’s hurt feelings, nothing nearly as altruistic as that: Grace wanted to have total control over the person doing all the donkey work. The pouting perfectionist planner Bruce – who was overheard quietly seething this morning, ‘I will reject any canapé that exceeds twenty-five milimetres diameter!’ – could make everything look pretty, while Nat was left with all the jobs no sane person should ever say yes to. And the job description has been long and arduous.

  When one of Grace’s invited guests announced her own engagement and confirmed the wedding date would follow a month after the Lawsons’, Grace exploded in a rage down the phone to Nat. She made it very clear it was Nat’s job to call the girl in question and explain that this was Grace’s year and only a change of her own wedding date would continue to secure her an invite to this one. Next, when it became obvious Grace wasn’t
going to hit her target weight in time, it was Nat who had to call Helen and beg her to rush through another gown. The one already on order would of course fit, Helen had made sure of that. But Grace wanted an identical gown, two sizes smaller, to be photographed on its hanger. ‘It’s one of the key shots!’ she had moaned to Nat. ‘Just bloody well make it happen, will you.’ Then finally, when Grace discovered a week before the big day that twelve guests were yet to contribute to the wedding fund, it was Nat’s job to call each and every one of them, reminding them of all the necessary banking details. And no, Bruce couldn’t be expected to dirty his hands with this task. He would be busy blowing warm breath – Grace insisted it had to be his – onto each and every one of the peonies, making sure they eased beautifully from bud to their full blousy best in time for the wedding day.

  The only thing keeping Nat in this game is the knowledge that she is charging this woman a day rate way beyond her usual sum – and my goodness, is she earning it.

  The entire wedding party of eighty guests plus the groom make the short walk up the King’s Road to the Bluebird restaurant for the reception. Well, all except Grace and Nat. Grace has to have a chauffeur-driven Bentley because it’s a third of a mile away and you can only expect so much from a pair of £800 Manolos. It’s also her final opportunity for a private briefing before the party begins:

  ‘Please speak to the photographer as soon as we’re there, will you. He’s taking far too many pictures of all the pretty young women.’ Grace is talking to Nat but not actually looking at her. She’s looking seductively into a handheld mirror while she reapplies a slick of red lipstick to her plumped-up lips. ‘I don’t know why. None of them are making it into my photo album, so what’s the point? Oh, thank goodness for delicious Bruce, he’s the only one who continues to blow my mind with his creativity!’