by Dawn Goodwin
I wished I had stood my ground and held them off a bit longer. As I concocted exit strategies in my head, a woman pulled open the door from inside the café, then struggled to push an oversized pushchair, complete with a red-faced, screaming toddler, through the gap. Her hair was dishevelled and her face was flushed – from exertion or frustration, I couldn’t tell. Sympathising with her anxiety, I stepped forward into the café and offered to hold the door open for her.
She smiled wearily and hurried through, and I found myself in the lion’s den.
It was mid-morning on a Thursday and the café was buzzing with artificial energy. I looked around, hoping none of the others had turned up. The air was thick with steam and the heady aroma of coffee beans. A group of mums sat at a large table just inside the doorway, their pushchairs and nappy bags blocking my way as they talked over each other while jiggling small babies with one hand and sipping frothy skinny lattes with the other. I could feel the gossip hanging heavy in the air as I stepped over the obstacles and headed to the counter to order. Their voices followed me, loudly bemoaning their lack of sleep, useless husbands and below-par lives.
I cast another surreptitious glance around the room, then noticed Zara in the far corner sitting with the others, her hand raised in greeting and lips pulled back to show impossibly white teeth. I raised a hand in return, managed a rictus smile, and turned back to the counter with a sigh.
While the woman ahead of me, dressed head to toe in Boden, placed her order with the young barista, I opened my bag and rummaged for my purse. My fingers brushed past an empty, snack-sized raisin box and my mind flicked briefly to the woman I now knew as Scarlet. I remembered the vivid green of her dress, bright against the harsh strip lighting of the supermarket and the predominantly beige hue of my own outfit that day. Then my fingers closed around a familiar but incongruous object in the bottom of my bag and my breath caught. I pulled my fist out and forced apart my ossified fingers to see Grace’s old dummy in my palm, the teat yellowed and stiffened. How the hell had it got in my bag? Grace hadn’t used it for over seven years.
‘Ma’am? Ma’am?’
A deep voice broke through my haze and I looked up to see the barista leaning over the counter impatiently.
‘Your drinks order?’
‘Oh, sorry, I…’ I stuttered through my clenched jaw. Taking a breath, I tried again. ‘Tea please, to drink in.’
‘Size?’
So many inane decisions to make. My brain was on a go-slow.
‘Um, regular.’
Keeping the dummy clamped in my fist, I pulled out my purse. My eye caught on a woman at a table to my left. She was looking at me and waving enthusiastically, her elbow threatening to knock over the mug of coffee in front of her. She was alone, but had an enormous chocolate muffin to keep her company. It was Scarlet. I smiled, this time genuinely, and waved back.
The barista placed a pot of tea on a tray in front of me and turned away to fill a miniature milk jug that was better suited to Grace’s tea parties for her dolls. Tempted by the sight of Scarlet’s muffin, I called after him and ordered the same in a moment of unexpected self-indulgence. Then I noticed Scarlet stand, gather her things and head for the door. My heart fell as I watched her go. Bizarrely, the idea of having tea with her was more appealing at that moment than seeing my old friends. I followed her with my eyes and, as she reached the door, she turned and smiled at me again before disappearing into the street traffic.
Tray in hand and moderately more in control of myself, I wound my way past the table where Scarlet had been sitting towards the group of four women in the far corner. Three expectant faces turned towards me as I manoeuvred into an empty chair; the fourth stubbornly kept her eyes averted, her thin lips pulled down in an astonishing likeness to the grumpy toddler at the next table.
‘Hi there,’ the three chorused in unison. I returned the greetings with less enthusiasm. After meeting in an antenatal class, I had considered these people my support network when my young baby was the centre of my universe. We had much in common then and had spent many hours chatting while our children played, fought and cried at our feet, but without the kids, I doubt any of us would have made natural friends. Except for Felicity of course.
‘You made it!’ Zara announced.
I put the tray down carefully and took the spare seat. Directly opposite me was Penny Rhodes. She seemed pleased to see me, but then she was the kind of woman that saw the glass as permanently half-full. To her right was Virginia Paynes, her mass of curly hair bouncing as she leaned over the table to give me a hug. I returned it awkwardly, keeping as much distance between us as good manners would allow, my shoulders stiff. She almost managed to hide her dissatisfaction at my response as she returned to her seat, but I noticed the look that passed between her and Zara, seated to her right, who contemplated me like she was examining an endangered species exhibit in a museum. Despite her initial enthusiasm at getting us all together, Zara seemed to exude an overwhelming sense of fatigue as she sat slumped in her chair, but this wasn’t surprising considering her vast number of children. I’d stopped counting at four, but there could be more by now. She watched me warily, as though afraid I would bite if she came too close, the incident in the shoe shop clearly still top of her mind.
Only once the others had greeted, gushed and settled did the smiling assassin that is Felicity Green acknowledge me with her characteristic brief, tight smile. My acidic next-door neighbour and the only one of the group whose friendship predated the children. In fact, I had known her longer than I had known my husband – only by a matter of weeks, but still.
Tall and upright in her chair, she radiated a quiet sense of authority over the other women. She had a reputation for being direct with her comments, no holds barred. It won her more enemies than friends, but that had never seemed to bother her. At times over the years, I had struggled with how unapologetic she was.
She was considering me across the table, her cheeks sucked in and her nostrils flaring as though I had dragged something fetid in on my shoe. Although to be fair, she always looked like that. Her resting bitch face was second to none.
Straight off, she said, ‘I didn’t think you’d come when Zara said she’d invited you. You’ve said no to me enough times lately. What’s that in your hand?’
I looked down. The dummy peeped obscenely through my knuckles.
‘Oh, er… nothing important.’ I shoved it to the bottom of my bag.
‘How’ve you been?’ Zara asked.
I busied myself with pouring my tea, not making eye contact, hoping she wouldn’t bring up my episode in the shoe shop.
‘Okay, I guess, keeping myself busy. What about you all?’
‘All good, thanks,’ Virginia answered. ‘It’s been absolutely ages since we saw you last. You look… good.’ I registered the pause.
‘You do too – have you lost weight?’ I countered.
Virginia beamed back at me. An early point to me for saying the right thing.
Felicity replied for her, saying, ‘Virginia was just telling us about the new diet she’s trying. The Hawkins diet?’
‘Oh?’ I asked. ‘What’s that then?’
‘You must’ve heard about it. Everyone’s trying it,’ Felicity’s eyes fell to the muffin on my plate.
I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how out of touch I was with everyday superficialities. Besides, they were always pledging allegiance to the latest fad diet when their waistbands felt a millimetre too tight, a holiday was approaching or if the others in the group had lost a few pounds and they needed to keep up. Yet another eating plan was not what I considered newsworthy, but for this crowd it could be life or death. I turned to Virginia, pointedly cutting Felicity from my gaze. ‘I’ve heard it’s good, but tell me how you’re finding it?’ The lie dripped off my tongue.
‘Well, you know me, never quite losing that baby weight—’
‘Yes, and our girls are nine years old now!’ Felicity
interjected.
Virginia paled, but rushed on, her perfectly shaped eyebrows riding high on her forehead as she looked everywhere but at me. ‘So I heard about this diet, where you eat only fat-free yoghurt and fruit for two days a week, under 800 calories on the three alternate days and normally on the weekend, and I thought that it didn’t sound too bad. I tried it and I’ve lost four pounds in two weeks! I’m over the moon!’ She clapped her hands together with glee.
How lovely it must be to only have your waistline to worry about.
As she spoke, her hands waved and gesticulated enthusiastically, threatening to sweep everything off the little table. She babbled away, as though she had overdosed on caffeine. She wasn’t the kind of person who left you feeling revived in her presence; rather, there was a faint whiff of paranoid anxiety about her, reflected in the children’s glittery hairclips restraining her untameable hair and the mismatched socks contradicting the muted beiges and navy blues that all four women had donned. Small nods to individuality saved them from morphing into each other – Virginia with her socks, Zara with her very short pixie hair, Penny with her neatly tucked in blouse and no-nonsense creases, and Felicity’s perfected air of condescension. But then, I was just as bad. Knowing whom I was coming to see, I had resignedly pulled on my beige uniform, styled my hair and painted on a glossy smile. I guess you could say my nod to individuality was jagged nails and chewed, raw cuticles.
‘And here I am parading a chocolate muffin in front of you,’ I said, although my appetite had vanished.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m getting pretty good at controlling my urges,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I would never endure a place like this on a yoghurt day. I hide away.’
I knew a thing or two about that.
‘Well, feel free to share. I’m not actually that hungry after all.’
‘Oooh, lovely.’ I could practically see the saliva dripping from her incisors as she reached across, grabbed the cake fork and pierced a large chunk. Crumbs rained down on the table as she shovelled it in like it was her last meal before execution.
‘Yesterday was a yoghurt day, so I can forgive myself a smidge of cake today,’ she spluttered at us. Felicity looked away in disgust.
Virginia then regaled us on the finer details of what constituted 800 calories and how to survive on minimal food, while inhaling muffin between words. The conversation grew more animated about whether celery was indeed a negative calorie food and the minutes ticked on.
Felicity kept steering the conversation onto the children. I fiddled with my teacup, now disliking the bitter aftertaste coating my tongue, but needing to keep my hands busy while they twittered on about the mundanities of their lives. Virginia had managed to eat the entire muffin on autopilot, while Zara was telling us about her daughter’s latest gymnastics achievements at Felicity’s insistence. I was finding it hard to focus on the details. I forced myself to zone in on Zara’s face and watch her lips moving, but my eyes were drawn instead to a little girl at a table nearby, with a dummy in her mouth similar to the one I had found in my bag. She had ridiculously curly blonde hair that hung above her head like a cloud and was busying herself with tearing up a paper napkin while her mother chatted full force on her mobile phone. Miniature shreds of napkin fell like confetti around her and every time the door to the café opened, the breeze would lift the shreds, making them dance in her tiny hands. One fragment had landed in her curls and I found myself staring at it, enthralled.
‘Veronica?’ A hand on my arm dragged me back to the faces in front of me. Penny was leaning towards me. ‘Okay?’
I looked at her, realising I had zoned out, then replied with an exaggerated smile, ‘Sorry, daydreaming there for a minute.’
Zara looked worried and began a rambling apology, ‘I’m so sorry, banging on. I wasn’t…’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I placated. ‘Really.’ I waved her off, not wanting to give Felicity the satisfaction of witnessing another public breakdown. I sat up straighter in the hard chair.
Hurriedly changing the subject, Virginia asked Felicity, ‘So have you decided on your dress for the party yet?’
‘Oh? What’s the occasion?’ I asked.
Again, the hesitation, the shifting in the seat. ‘Um, it’s, er…’
Felicity was quick to help Virginia out. ‘It’s Penny’s fortieth birthday party in a couple of weeks – a black-tie dinner dance with all the trimmings? It should be such fun. I phoned you about it last week, left a voicemail.’ She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms under unnaturally large breasts that didn’t fool anyone.
Penny looked as though she was sitting on a hotbed of angry ants. ‘I did send you and Tom an invitation, but you never got back to me, so I assumed you couldn’t make it,’ she said, redness burning her cheeks.
‘Oh, yes of course. So rude of me, but we are busy that weekend – a work thing for Tom that we can’t get out of…’ I trailed off in the hope of not having to make up too many fake details. ‘But the party sounds lovely.’ I tried to keep my voice light, but felt no disgruntlement whatsoever. In fact, I was relieved that I didn’t have to spend hours discussing a dress for a party and how to find the perfect pair of shoes to match. These days I was lucky if my underwear matched. Freeing myself from the pressure to conform was strangely liberating.
Penny looked tortured and I could almost hear the cogs in her brain grinding as they worked overtime to find an escape route. She reverted to type. ‘We’ve discussed the logistics, haven’t we? I’ll be at the venue at 4 p.m. to start decorating the room. Then once you’ve had your hair done, Zara, you can come and take over while I get mine done, then Felicity can step in. Now, on the actual night…’ She pointed a perfectly manicured nail at each in turn as she outlined the plan of action. Felicity looked taken aback at being ordered about, but Penny rattled on oblivious, organising her minions with military precision. Once they had received their detailed instructions, Penny sat back in her chair, sated, and Felicity took the opportunity to change the subject again.
‘Virginia, what was the outcome of the tutor for Matthew?’
Virginia looked uncomfortable again and threw visual daggers at Felicity. She then offered me an explanation I didn’t need in a quiet voice. ‘We’ve decided to push Matthew for his 11+ exams in the hope of Kingston Grammar for secondary school. He seems excited by the idea, but getting a tutor at this stage is difficult.’
I listened to them analysing the pros and cons of the tutors she had interviewed as they dissected Matthew’s strengths and weaknesses (great at verbal reasoning, but lacking focus when it comes to maths, apparently) and could feel what little life force I had left draining out of me. The tiger moms were in full voice. They talked over each other distractedly, the words clambering for space as though they were too intent on getting airplay for their own stories to listen to what the others were saying. My grip on the conversation weakened again.
As they continued to babble, Zara leaned in and checked her phone, which was lying with everyone else’s amid the cake crumbs and milk drops on the table. I hadn’t even bothered to take mine out of my bag, but I noticed the four in front of me kept checking theirs while they talked, even though none had rung or vibrated. They couldn’t seem to pass five minutes without tapping the screen like a nervous tick. I wondered who they were hoping would call and what could be so important.
When I zoned back in, they had moved from tutors to the cost of extracurricular activities and I wanted to run screaming for the door. Remembering my manners instead, I said, during a pause for breath, ‘So what have you all got planned for the summer? Cornwall again?’
Silence greeted my question. Virginia shuffled uncomfortably in her chair, while Zara rummaged in her bag, suddenly in need of a tissue, and Penny busied herself with stirring her empty coffee cup. However, Felicity was more than happy to share the group’s plans.
‘We’ve all booked for our usual two weeks in Cornwall, yes. We didn’t think you would want to c
ome this year, especially after the accident.’
I locked eyes with her. The others had the good grace to look at Felicity in mortification, who for once looked suitably uncomfortable, as if realising she had thrown a dart too close to the bull’s eye this time.
Every summer since our children were babies, the group had travelled to Cornwall for two weeks in August. It was like an epic, middle-class pilgrimage. Days were spent on the beach with the kids running wild surrounded by the picnic debris of empty hummus pots and breadstick crumbs; evenings were spent sharing food and laughing over gin and tonics while exhausted children fell asleep in front of an endless stream of Disney heroes and villains. Penny was particularly in her element and given free rein to let her organisational skills run wild with meal plans and activity rosters. Last year was the first year Tom and I hadn’t joined in, choosing instead to chase some sunshine as a family; this year was the first time we hadn’t been invited.
The awkwardness stretched on. Felicity tried to cover her callousness by discussing arrangements and chatting animatedly about the new friends who had apparently filled our spot on the holiday. I felt hollow and knew that coming today had been a mistake. What Felicity didn’t realise was that I actually didn’t care about any of it: the holidays, the parties, the diets. But I did mind being the subject of her amusement, indicated by her occasional sideways smirks that she thought I hadn’t noticed. It was taking all of my strength not to grab hold of my cake fork and stab her in the back of the hand. I bet that would crease her unlined, Botoxed brow. My fingers twitched and flexed as I pictured the metal prongs jabbing into the thin flesh, temptingly within reach. The depth of anger that washed over me was somewhat surprising.
I focused on the dark sludge left in my teacup. I could feel Zara’s eyes on me and knew she wanted me to look up, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to see the pity.
Her voice reached me nervously, like she was sending out tentacles to test the water. ‘How are things going with the trial? That must be coming up soon? October, I think Tom said? If it helps to clear your head, I’m looking to start running again – we could go together like we used to?’