She's Having Her Baby

by Lauren Sams

  Published by Nero,

  an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

  37–39 Langridge Street

  Collingwood VIC 3066, Australia

  email: enquiries@blackincbooks.com

  www.nerobooks.com

  Copyright © Lauren Sams 2015

  Lauren Sams asserts her right to be known as the author of this work.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Sams, Lauren, author.

  She’s having her baby / Lauren Sams.

  9781863957205 (paperback)

  9781925203134 (ebook)

  Surrogate motherhood – Fiction.

  Friendship – Fiction.

  A823.4

  Cover design: Natalie Winter

  Cover photograph: Carey Shaw/Stocksy

  Author photograph: Pablo Martin/Bauer Media

  For Annie and David, who changed my mind about everything …

  And for every woman who has ever been asked,

  ‘So, when are you going to have kids?’

  Prologue

  ‘How many months?’

  I looked up from my grocery basket, which I suddenly realised totally gave me away. Pregnancy vitamins. Cookie dough ice-cream. Quantities of deodorant sufficient to de-sweat an Italian soccer team. Oh. And of course there was the bowling ball–shaped sphere accessorising my abdomen. That too.

  I glanced at the woman behind me at the checkout. A small child – too young and bald to tell if it was a she or a he – sat in the trolley, playing with a soft-toy bunny.

  The woman, wearing a button-up shirt over faded jeans, aka The Mum Uniform, smiled and pointed to my burgeoning belly. ‘So? How many months?’

  I tried not to visibly grit my teeth. ‘Uh, eight. And a bit.’

  Big moony smile. ‘I bet you just can’t wait to meet her. Or him! Do you know yet?’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head and went back to placing my items on the conveyor belt. Lemonade. Ginger ale. Potato chips. Condoms.

  Button-Up raised an eyebrow, then quickly lowered it.

  That’s right, Button-Up. This could be the night – The Night – I get some sweet endorphin action. Lower thine eyebrows.

  ‘I couldn’t wait to find out. I know some people like the surprise, but I just needed to know, you know?’

  I nodded, even though I didn’t know, you know? ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And the day I found out we were having little Beige …’ she paused to pat the baby, who, I presumed, was the very same little Beige, ‘well, I was just over the moon! I started decorating the nursery and buying clothes and booking Gymboree classes … Oh, you’ll love it. It was such a beautiful time.’

  Beige? Poor kid. Its future was set in stone. Her (her?) parents had set her up for a lifetime of mediocrity. She’d probably go to school with kids called Sterling and Titania and Katniss and Thor – how could a Beige compete with a Thor?

  ‘That’s nice.’ What was it about my two-word answers that Button-Up wasn’t getting? Enough with the baby talk. Step away from the pregnant lady.

  ‘Do you have a feeling?’

  I pulled out my credit card, ready to flee as soon as I could. But the bored teenage cashier wasn’t even halfway through bagging my stuff.

  ‘About …?’

  ‘The baby! Whether it’s a boy or a girl. I definitely knew with Beige. One day, in my pre-natal yoga class, we were in shavasana and I could just feel this … this spirit drift over me and sort of in me, you know? I know, it sounds completely crazy. I promise you, I’m not a wacko! I just … I just knew. I had become a mum. I just knew. That’s what pregnancy is all about: realising that everything you’ve done up to that point has been worthless.’

  I suppressed an eyeroll and the need to vomit and nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘Lots of cravings?’ Button-Up pointed to my bags, full to the brim with all manner of sweet and salty treats, with a knowing smirk.

  I knew exactly what kind of woman Button-Up was. I’d seen specimens like her at the playground with Ellie – you could spot them a mile away. She owned a SodaStream and a Thermomix, and used both regularly. She lamented the passing of Oprah’s Book Club. She was looking into making her own soap.

  ‘Not really. This is just how I eat.’ Suck on that, Earth Mother.

  I looked at her trolley. Quinoa, organic blueberries, amaranth, grass-fed lamb, sustainable tuna, rice milk. Ugh. Gag me with a kiwi-fruit.

  ‘Oh. Well, that will all change when you start breastfeeding, let me tell you that!’ Mothers love ending sentences with ‘let me tell you that’, even if you have not given them permission to ‘tell you that’ at all. ‘You’ll just want the most nutritious foods to feed your baby. I ate so much kale, I thought my milk would turn green!’ Button-Up tittered away like this was the most hilarious joke she’d ever made, which, judging from our limited conversation, it probably was.

  ‘Cash or card?’ the cashier asked.

  ‘Card,’ I said, practically throwing it at him.

  ‘Well, it was so lovely meeting you and your little bundle of joy!’ Button-Up smiled wistfully, staring at my belly the way I stare at Miu Miu’s sale windows. ‘Oh,’ she sighed. ‘You’re so lucky. I wish I could do it all over again. They just grow up too fast. I bet this baby is going to have your curls, too – so cute.’

  I wanted to tell her the truth, the real story of this baby and how it came to be.

  Even more, I just wanted her to back the eff down. I ‘forgot’ that it wasn’t cool to swear in front of kids, and let fly with the f-words.

  ‘You know what? I don’t really fucking care what kind of hair it has. It could be a … it could be a ginger for all I care. I’m so over being pregnant. And I’m really fucking over talking about it with every second stranger I meet.

  ‘Sorry, Beige.’

  *

  TWO YEARS EARLIER

  There is spit on my face and it’s not mine.

  ‘Haha!’ laughed the maniacal four-year-old who’d hocked a loogie square on my left cheek.

  ‘Hey!’ I yelled. ‘Get back here!’

  But it was futile. The little girl – Ella? Bella? – had run away, laughing with wicked delight.

  I wiped away the spit from my face. ‘Ugh, whose kid is that?’

  Ellie was laughing at me. ‘Sal and Mikey’s, I think.’

  ‘I should tell them what their little monster just did to me.’

  Ellie rolled her eyes. ‘She’s just a kid, George. Give her a break.’

  I sighed. I was sick of giving kids breaks. I wanted to have one Sunday afternoon that wasn’t ruled by toddlers. Was it so much to ask?

  ‘Hey, is Nina coming?’

  Ellie was attempting to breastfeed her wriggling one-year-old, without much success, while balancing a glass of white wine – actually, it was so watered down with soda that it may as well have been a mocktail – on his head.

  ‘Not sure. You know how she is with this kind of thing …’ I trailed off, gesturing at the backyard full of people.

  ‘This kind of thing’ was a barbecue full of our friends … and their kids. Nina had been trying to have a baby for, well, god only knows how long, but so far wasn’t having much luck. She didn’t need to be reminded that everyone was playing happy families without her. Everywhere you turned at ‘this kind of thing’, there was a baby or a toddler or a boob full of milk.

  ‘You know, I’ve heard that being around kids can actually be helpful when you’re tryi
ng to conceive. I might give Nina a call and tell her that.’

  I lowered my gaze, glowering a little and hating that Ellie brought this out in me. ‘Do not do that.’

  Ellie, giving up on feeding Lucas, picked up her wine glass and swilled the liquid around in it like she was a Bond villain. She sipped and replied, ‘I just want what’s best for Nina.’ Except she said it in that condescending way people use when they actually don’t want what is best for the person, they want what they think is best, which is not always the same thing.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m sure that’s true, El, but you could be a little … gentler about it. She’s having a rough trot, you know. It’s hard for her to see everyone with their kids when she wants one so badly. It’s not rocket science.’

  Ellie looked increasingly pissed off. ‘I know that, Georgie. Don’t you think I went through the very same thing?’

  ‘Uh, no, I don’t, because I know for a fact it took you about eleven minutes to get pregnant. Look, if Nina does come, just don’t mention anything about it, OK?’ I stood up. ‘I need another drink.’

  I didn’t bother asking Ellie if she wanted another one, because I knew the answer would be: ‘Oh, no, I’m not really drinking at the moment.’ Ever since Ellie had a baby, it was like she’d given up her licence to be an adult.

  The late summer sun lit Pete and Vic’s backyard beautifully. Kids clutched melting ice-creams and adults drank from jam jars as the food table gradually filled with burgers and steaks and carefully considered salads with fancy ingredients nobody knew for sure how to pronounce, like radicchio and cavolo nero. It was a Donna Hay wet dream. I totally understood why Nina wanted to avoid it like a dodgy kebab.

  Even I didn’t really want to come today. We’d reached the age where the kids outnumbered the adults at parties. The few guests without kids stood around with their beers and burnt sausages, eye-balling everyone with kids – and they were all running around the backyard making sure Polly had her sunscreen on and Max didn’t fall over on the gravel and Olivia didn’t try to take her nappy off and eat its contents for afternoon tea again.

  Ella/Bella had snatched another kid’s toy water gun and was brandishing it like a baby Jason Bourne. I didn’t care what Ellie said; that kid was a nightmare.

  As I grabbed a beer from the esky, I felt a broad hand slap my bum. Ew.

  I whipped around to see Tim, one of Pete’s disgusting roommates from uni, smiling at me like the North Shore schoolboy he will forever be. Tim’s family might have a house that overlooks the harbour and an infinity pool that practically backs onto it, but they have as much depth as the kiddie pool in Pete’s backyard.

  ‘Georgie! How the hell are you? Been a while.’

  Not long enough. ‘Mmm. It has.’ I took a large swig of beer and told myself to try to be nice to Tim. It’s a family barbecue. Just be civil and walk away as soon as possible. Another, more feminist, part of my brain was thinking, Yeah, George, it’s a family barbecue. So maybe Tim should lay off the casual sexual harassment.

  ‘How’s Dave?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dave. That bloke you were seeing.’ Tim was one of those guys who went to Riverview but spoke like he came from Timbuktu. He had an accent broader than The Big Bang Theory’s appeal. It was his way of showing he was at one with us commoners. But his turned-up collar and immaculate boat shoes were a dead giveaway – Tim was as upper-middle as they came.

  ‘Oh, Dave Dave. That was years ago. We broke up.’

  Tim placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘Sorry to hear that, mate.’

  ‘Um, it’s fine. Honestly, Tim, it was about three years ago. I’m over it, trust me. We didn’t even date for that long. It was hardly serious.’ Why was I telling him all this? Earth to Georgie: shut up.

  ‘So he broke up with you, did he?’

  I could feel my jaw begin to drop. I wanted to mainline this beer.

  ‘No.’

  I looked around, trying to find someone to make emergency eye-contact with. Mayday, mayday, I’ve been cornered by a wanker. Begin search and rescue.

  ‘Well then, what else have you been up to? Seeing anyone new?’

  Most people assume that it’s a universal truth that a single woman of a certain age must be in want of a husband. So obviously, at thirty-two, I had to field questions like this on an almost daily basis. My answers had traditionally ranged from the oblique (‘Oh, you know, we’ll see what happens’) to the offensive (‘Well, given the divorce rate these days …’). Then Jase and I’d started dating and somehow, it had became even worse. Naively, I’d thought that people would back off, but they had become even more insistent that my clock was ticking and seemed to think my eggs were frying faster than ever. We’d been together for less than a month before people started asking when we were going to get hitched. Unbelievable. When I complained to Nina about it, she told me that she copped exactly the same kind of flak for being a married woman without a child. What the hell would people talk about if there were no such things as marriage or reproduction?

  Real estate, I guess.

  ‘Yeah, actually, I am. Jase – uh, Jason. He’s over there.’ I pointed towards Jason, who was turning sausages on the barbecue with one hand and squirting a gang of kids with a water gun with the other. A SNAG with his snags.

  ‘Amazing, Georgie, amazing. Bloody brilliant.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Tim.’ I knew what he was saying: what an achievement it was to have finally found a living, breathing man who wanted to see a woman over thirty – one with a fleeting relationship with her waxer and a languishing gym membership, at that – naked. Well done, me.

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean, Georgie. It’s just nice to see you happy.’

  Had I said that I was happy? Why did married people always assume that once you were coupled up your life suddenly looked like a Julie Andrews movie? I mean, I was happy with Jase, but that was beside the point: Tim didn’t know that. For all he knew, I might be ready to fill my pockets with rocks and wade into the kiddie pool.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So what’s he do?’

  ‘Jase? He works in IT. Computers, you know.’ Actually, I didn’t know. We’d been dating for a few months and I vaguely knew that Jase did something with computers … like, he fixed them or something. Or he … networked them? At any rate, he could always be counted on to update my iPhone.

  ‘Great, great. And what about you, what are you up to these days?’

  ‘Uh, well, I was just made editor.’

  Tim raised his glass. ‘Cheers! Editor of what?’

  ‘Uh, of Jolie, the magazine I’ve been working for … for about six years.’ Tim was one of those people who wanted to appear that he was fascinated – just fascinated – by you, but every time I saw him I had to repeat my biography as if I was interviewing for a job as his friend. I knew I had told Tim that I worked at Jolie approximately thirty times. We were even Facebook friends, so he saw my updates about new issues. And yet, true to form, Tim cocked his head to the side, like a puppy trying to decipher his owner’s command. ‘No … you were working for a newspaper.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, no, I’ve worked at Jolie for ages. The last time I worked for a paper they were actually printed on, you know, real paper.’

  Tim grimaced. ‘Yeah, you were. You were definitely at a paper. At the Sydney Morning Herald. I remember it, clear as day.’ Tim’s a doctor, so obviously he is used to people telling him how right he is about everything. I’d never met anyone who loved themselves as much as Tim did. He didn’t have a god complex, he had a saint complex.

  ‘No, really, I’ve pretty much always been in mags. You must be thinking of someone else.’ Apart from a brief, regrettable, forgettable stint at a publishing house, I’d always worked in magazines. They were my spiritual home, where I went to restore and revive. Like temples, for Buddhists; or juice bars, for wankers.

  He smacked himself on the head. ‘Duh! Of course. I was thinking of Lee. She won a
Walkley for the stuff about … climate change deniers, or something? I did my undergrad with her. God, she’s incredible.’

  ‘Oh, Lee Stone? Yeah, I love her writing.’

  ‘Yeah, Lee Stone. So, you’re an editor – awesome. Must keep you busy.’

  I grimaced. Why wasn’t anyone helping me? Even Tim’s own wife clearly wanted to be rid of him – I could see her nursing a mineral water and chatting to some of the toddlers by the clamshell sandpit Pete had set up earlier. She’d rather talk to sugared-up three-year-olds than her own husband: that pretty much said it all.

  ‘Yep, it does.’

  ‘I hope you’re not too busy to think about when you’re going to pop one out, though!’ This was the really fantastic thing about guys like Tim: they’re like those plants you see in David Attenborough documentaries, the ones that look friendly but are actually waiting to sting you as soon as the opportunity presents itself. But just like those plants, Tim could hide behind his nature, saying he had no idea I’d be offended, and offering non-apologies such as ‘I’m sorry you’re upset’.

  As I opened my mouth, ready to serve Tim a steaming dish of Shut the Fuck Up, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. ‘Hey, George.’

  Nina. Thank Christ.

  I gave her the firmest bear hug I could manage with a beer in one hand.

  ‘Why are you talking to Tim Kane?’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t want to be,’ I whispered back through gritted teeth.

  ‘Hey, Tim, we’re just heading to a dickhead-free zone,’ said Nina, with enough light in her voice to convince him she was making a joke.

  ‘Thank god you’re here,’ I said, as Nina tucked her arm through mine and steered me away. ‘I had one remaining nerve left and he was standing right on it.’

  ‘He’s such a jerk. Why is Pete still friends with him?’ Nina asked, as we walked towards the safe haven of the food table.

  I shrugged. ‘Legacy friendship. Even Pete complains about him, but they’ve been friends for so long … what’s he going to do, break up with him? I think past a certain point it just gets hard.’