God, I hate being pregnant.
Ping! A little cog turned in my head as this thought flitted through and I realised there and then the reason for my grumpiness: I was fed up of being pregnant. I was fed up of being fat and dumpy and needing to wee five times during the night. I was done with having to buy ANOTHER pair of maternity jeans because the last ones felt too tight or having to ask for my steak to be cooked ‘well done’ instead of lovely and juicy and raw. And last night, to make matters worse, Patrick and I had spent the evening at a friend’s ‘red wine and cheese’ get together, neither of which I could eat or drink, thanks to me being pregnant, which resulted in me spending a torturous three hours nibbling on plain McVitie’s crackers and sipping apple juice.
‘Tiffany, can you pass Juno the instructions? They’re over there on the side table.’
I’m snapped out of my discontent by Juliet’s voice and a click of her fingers as she directs my eyeline to the vagina cast instructions on the table next to me.
‘You MUST join in!’ screams Juno, the hilarity of what is about to take place (plus the couple of glasses of champagne she has consumed whilst Juliet and I drink the non-alcoholic variety) has obviously just hit her.
‘I might need a few more of these first!’ I laugh, holding up my non-alcoholic champagne and cheers-ing the two friends. ‘Plus, I’m not sure you could even find my bits under this bump!’
Whilst I am eight months pregnant, Juliet is only six and her bump is so neat and small, it doesn’t seem to be hindering the vagina casting. Making my way into the kitchen on the pretence of topping up all of our glasses, I think back to the day when Juliet first mentioned the ‘special gift for her husband’.
We had just been for a walk around a park, where I had followed her around on her power walk (complete with her dog, Snoopy), frantically writing notes as she monologued at me about the things she wanted done before the baby arrived: vagina casting was number 19 on the list.
‘I saw it done on one of those awful reality TV show and thought it was hysterical so figured, why not do it? Frank will think it’s hilarious and when I’m old and grey and have pushed three babies out of my vagina, I can look back and say, “Ah, that’s what it used to look like. Those were the good old days!”.’
I must admit, at the time I thought she was joking, but when an email arrived three days later, asking me if I’d found a casting kit yet, I realised the vagina cast was suddenly a top priority on Juliet’s list. Having spent two full days calling around various artist studios in London (the majority of which went very quiet when I told them my request and one of them even hung up on me), I managed to locate a company in Brighton who were completely unfazed.
‘Vaginas, penises . . . we’ve done them all. When do you want to book in?’
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t very swiftly confirm that it wasn’t me doing the cast. Within five minutes, Juliet’s appointment had been made – her vagina was going to be well and truly ‘plastered’.
Juliet then decided she wanted a test run. Which is why I am in her kitchen, taking a deep breath, ready to embark on the most bizarre day’s work I have ever had. I walk back into the room. Juno is rolling around on the floor of the kitchen in hysterics, whilst Juliet is sitting, rather uncomfortably, on one of the kitchen chairs, legs akimbo. There are various paintbrushes and rubber gloves (not as dodgy as it sounds, I promise) scattered all over the floor and Juliet is clutching her sides in hysterics.
‘Oh my God, Juno! I can’t believe we’re doing this. This is bloody fantastic! Why don’t we do your boobs whilst we’re at it? I’m sure there’ll be enough plaster left!’
Juno throws a pillow in Juliet’s direction and reaches for the champagne bottle.
‘No chance! You’re the pregnant one – we can blame your desire to do this on your mental hormones, but leave me out of it.’
I look at the screen in front of me and begin to smile. Juliet has mascara streaks running down her cheeks due to laughing so much. There is not a single part of her, right now, that is letting being pregnant stop her from having fun.
I should take some tips, I think to myself quietly. Now’s the time to stop moping about how tiresome being pregnant can be and instead embrace it.
‘OK, I’m in!’ I bound over towards the others and grab a paintbrush and the set of instructions. ‘But we’re only doing my belly, nothing else.’ I wave the paintbrush like an angry schoolmistress at Juliet and Juno. ‘You can do what you like with your vaginas, but I’m keeping mine strictly under wraps!’
I have never laughed so much as I did the rest of that afternoon. Whilst I made myself scarce for the actual plastering bit (there’s only so much I want to see of my clients’ genitalia!), I could hear the screams of laugher and constant commentary from Juliet through the wall of the kitchen:
‘So, the plaster’s going on now – oh my fuck, it’s cold! Juno, make sure you use the paintbrush – ouch, not like that! OK, have you used the plaster bandage? The instructions say you need to smooth the plaster with the paintbrush . . . Well, I can’t bloody feel anything, I’ve a ton of concrete on my nether regions!’
An hour later and we’re all staring in awe at the now-complete cast of Juliet’s vagina.
‘It looks . . .’ Juliet’s eyebrows are raised, a frown line appears between her eyebrows.
‘Vagina-like?’ I offer, before collapsing into fits of laughter.
We look at the mould in front of us – it’s certainly no work of art – and conclude perhaps letting a professional do it is the best option. A wicked smile flickers across Juliet’s face.
‘Right, your turn.’ She comes at me with a paintbrush and I run, screaming, out of the room. ‘Show us your boobs so we can mummify them!’ she shouts after me.
PART FOUR
THIRD TRIMESTER
Chapter 10
‘There’s only one rule: we don’t want anything colourful, plastic or noisy. But apart from that, you have completely free rein.’
I looked over my notebook at the faces staring back at me to check they were joking. But it was blatantly obviously they were not.
Right, this one’s going to be tricky, I thought.
My clients were Ashley and Miranda, who had just flown over from LA to deliver their baby at The Portland Hospital in central London. A week earlier, I had received an email from them, asking me to meet them at their Southbank penthouse so that we could ‘discuss what they needed for the baby – and deck out the nursery’. I had felt a flush of fondness for this couple when I received their email – this was the sort of couple I loved working with. The ones who were genuinely excited about the arrival of their baby and wanted to be as prepared as possible ahead of the birth.
How wrong could I have been?
Five minutes earlier, I was greeted by an extremely pregnant Miranda as the doors of the lift opened directly into their penthouse. Expecting to have been met by a newly pregnant mummy (after all, most people start prepping for their baby the second the line on the pregnancy test appears), I was shocked to discover that she was actually nine months pregnant and one week past her due date.
Taking my hand, she proudly gave me a mini tour of their second home. The couple, despite living in LA, actually both came from New York and this was their first baby, Miranda informed me, as we moved into the living room, which had floor-to-ceiling windows enabling the lights of London to twinkle and dance on the glass. In the living space, an original curved Vladimir Kagan velvet sofa was combined with a woven ottoman pouf of Scottish wool, and in the far corner was a patinated brass wine and whisky unit. The huge dining table dominated in the middle of the room, setting the tone for what I could only presume were multiple social events – it was exquisite.
I was ushered out onto their private garden terrace and gasped out loud. There was an inside-outside water feature (a bit like a mini swimming pool) that connected the interior to a private garden terrace. On the terrace was a huge yet elegant fire
pit, which was burning away in the summer evening haze. If I stood on tiptoes and looked to the left, I could even see the London Eye in the distance, its blue lights twinkling in the setting sun.
I don’t think I had ever seen anything more beautiful.
But now wasn’t the time to gawp. Taking my spot on the rattan garden sofa, draped with cashmere throws, I took out my notebook and waited expectantly to be given my instructions. Ashley handed me a blue folder with the words ‘Baby Anderson’ on it. My spirits soared slightly – maybe this was their ‘to-do list’ or their ‘plan for the baby’, but when I opened it, the file was completely empty.
‘We had good intentions.’ Miranda chuckled, whilst blowing on her recently painted nails. ‘But things got so busy with work and life that we just didn’t have time to commit to baby planning.’
I nodded – a lot of my clients have high-powered careers so I could understand the stress – but I must admit, deep inside, I had a sense of foreboding. She was, after all, due to ‘pop’ any minute and it seemed not even a single baby blanket or maternity bra had been purchased.
‘So, we need you to get on top of everything. Plan it all out, deck out the nursery, order the baby stuff, book a baby nurse, you know. DO. EVERYTHING.’ Ashley’s New York drawl slid off his tongue confidently as he spoke – I could tell he was a man who was used to getting his own way. ‘Money isn’t an object. But we don’t want anything colourful, plastic or noisy.’
‘We’ve spent millions of dollars on this place,’ Miranda butts in, making a sweep with her left arm, the diamonds on her wrist glittering in the evening sun. ‘So, it cannot look as if a baby lives here. We don’t want to lose ourselves and our style just because we are suddenly parents.’
I bit my lip and nodded. OK, so here we had a stereotypical ‘in denial’ couple. Despite the bulging nine-month bump under Miranda’s designer dress, there was absolutely no evidence anywhere that this couple were about to become parents. The teak bookshelf that I spotted on my walk through the living room contained only architectural books and luxury holiday guides, and instead of the coffee table being littered with ‘baby magazines’ and ‘trimester to-do lists’, it was completely bare, bar an expensive-looking letter opener from OKA.
It would have been so easy to judge this couple and label them ‘devoid of all maternal and paternal instinct’ but I couldn’t help but feel that, although this was likely to be a challenge, I really wanted to help them. Through my years as a Mummy Concierge, I’ve learnt that sometimes couples really do bury their heads in the sand. Despite accepting that a baby will arrive at some point, they are determined to continue living the life they knew pre-pregnancy and become so determined in their wish to maintain this, they forget that having a baby means compromise and a lot of planning.
I was determined not to be fazed by the long ‘to-do’ list being shouted at me by Ashley, who was now in the sitting room. He was on a long-distance call to some film producer in LA, so his demands were interspersed with words such as ‘unit base, recce and pre-call’. As he spoke, I made notes on my iPhone whilst simultaneously arranging them in priority order. Here’s what it looked like:
1. Create list of swanky nursery furnishing brands – pass by A and M – and order in requested items.
2. Source wallpaper for nursery (no fluffy bunnies or elephants).
3. Find Moses basket and cot (neither to be traditional in style).
4. Babyproof the nursery.
5. Source vegan paint.
6. Arrange painter and decorator and electrician (only want them in the house between hours of 11 and 3pm).
7. Baby monitor and technical equipment must be out of sight.
8. Everything to be completed in two days.
Being faced with a couple who didn’t want a nursery to detract from their impeccably designed home, I found myself in new and unforeseen territory. Whereas usually soon-to-be parents delight in ambling around baby shops, picking up minuscule baby grows and fawning over tiny teddy bears or bunny rabbits, I now had a family who wanted the complete opposite. There was no doubt they wanted their baby (I saw the way Miranda’s eyes sparkled when I showed her some gorgeous booties I had just picked up for another client) and how Ashley unconsciously stroked her bump when he went to sit next to her, but they didn’t want baby paraphernalia – which was going to make my job pretty tricky.
Two days later, I was back in their apartment and had banished Miranda and Ashley from returning until I called them to let them know I was finished. Silently praying Miranda’s waters didn’t break whilst they were out, I started work on the impossible – creating a nursery that would fit in with the stylish aesthetics of a home that looked as if it had never been frequented by a small child.
Earlier that morning, a huge delivery had arrived at the apartment. Around 20 boxes littered the empty space where the nursery would be, filled to the brim with everything from bouncers, monitors, cot bedding and lampshades to a Moses basket and stand, changing table and a baby play gym. The painter and electrician had just left, sweating and groaning under my sergeant major demands (but placated after several cups of tea sweetened with a mountain of sugar).
Where once there was slate grey wall (not at all baby friendly!), Joe the painter had done a fabulous job of covering every inch of industrial styling with a silk thread wallpaper that depicted small (and subtle) hot-air balloons in pastel pinks and blues. I had run my hand over it whilst walking towards the cot that had just been assembled and breathed out deeply. Everything about the wallpaper was luxurious – the thin shreds of silk were soft to touch and subtle blush pinks and cornflower blues melted into the background to create a complete sense of calm and relaxation.
The cot sat proudly in the bottom right-hand corner of the room, the sleigh bed design creating beautiful curves and a sense of softness that any baby would be happy to sleep in. The sheets were crisp and clean (and scented with lavender, which I had put through the iron last night after washing them so I knew they were void of any chemical nasties). At the bottom of the cot lay a hand-knitted blanket, embroidered with the baby’s name, which Miranda and Ashley had let slip a couple of days before.
I had opted out of getting an actual baby changing table and had instead found a beautiful French antique dresser, which now had a changing mat on top and a simple white box stocked full of nappies, wipes and baby cream. Elegant in its simplicity, it sat just in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, which I had draped with muslin fabric to bring a sense of calmness to the room.
‘I think we’re all done here.’ Martin, my expert babyproofer, heaved himself up on his knees from his place on the floor and showed me his handiwork. Above him, opposite the cot, he had assembled a simple oak shelf with a baby monitor on top. He had just finished gathering up the wires and stapling them to the wall before covering them in cable tidy so that you could barely see them. He had also mounted all of the heavy furniture to the walls so that we didn’t have to worry about an exploring baby and tumbling furniture. Everything looked immaculate. I smiled, pleased with our efforts and relieved that we might just about have pulled it off.
‘What are you going to do about that?’ Martin points towards the corner of the room and chuckles to himself. The offending item is my one rebellion. There, in all its glory, sits a baby gym, so loud and colourful, it’s literally screaming for attention from us. From it dangles blue, red and green toys and at the bottom of the bouncer is a button that plays 60 minutes of nursery rhymes.
I was pretty certain that when the baby was born, that baby gym was going to be the thing they adored. So, I snuck it into the room in the hope that the parents were so overwhelmed by everything else that they would not notice it. Crossing my fingers, I smiled wickedly at Martin.
It’s time for Ashley and Miranda to meet their baby’s bedroom.
Hacks for setting up your nursery
1. Make sure everything you could possibly need is within easy reach of the changing table. Thin
gs such as nappies, wipes, baby cream, muslins and dummies need to be close by. The last thing you want is to step away from the baby and risk them rolling off because you need to grab something clean to slide under their bottom, post-poo explosion.
2. Avoid clutter. You’ll be carrying a baby back and forth in the middle of the night and a misplaced chair (or playmat, toy, book, etc.) can be brutal to trip over when you’re least expecting it.
3. You can make any light a nightlight. Just buy nightlight bulbs online and you can transform your favourite lamp into décor for your baby’s room.
4. Art makes a difference. Framed prints that aren’t themed or particularly babyish are a way of aligning all tastes and will last for many years of changes to come. So, consider artwork that will last a lifetime.
5. Do decorate the ceiling. Babies spend a lot of their time on their backs. Why not give your little one something to contemplate? Consider painting the ceiling a soothing colour or enhance your nursery theme with a mural or decals.
6. Don’t wait to babyproof the nursery. Your baby may not be on the move yet, but before you know it, you’ll have your very own toddling disaster zone. Take care to cover electrical outlets and tuck away cords. Anchor down any furniture that could pose a threat and secure rugs to the floor to prevent slips. Avoid hanging anything heavy on walls over where your baby is sleeping and keep hazardous objects and liquids out of reach of your baby’s grabbing hands.
7. Opt out of a dedicated changing table. Babies grow quickly. One second they’re in nappies, the next you’ll find you’re potty training. Consider buying a dressing table instead and popping a changing mat on top. That way, when you are done with nappies, you can use it for your baby’s clothes.
Secrets of the Mummy Concierge Page 7