It’s only then that I noticed the silence coming from inside the changing room.
‘Harriet? Everything OK in there?’
A strangulated sob escaped from the changing room and I jumped slightly, wary that something must be horribly wrong. Harriet was not the sort of woman to cry, let alone in the middle of Selfridges. Cautiously, I moved slowly into the changing room, picking up Edward in my arms as I did so. He also seemed strangely aware that his mother was no longer shouting instructions at us both and her quietness seemed eery.
Another sob, this time louder.
‘Harriet . . .?’
Pulling back the curtain to the private ‘personal shopping’ changing room where she was, I was greeted by a puffy-eyed, tear-stained Harriet, sitting cross-legged in a sea of taffeta (I think it might have been the couture size 8 ball gown that she had plucked off a rail back in Ralph Lauren, but I could tell that she had barely been able to get it over her thighs, hence her current position on the floor).
‘You must think me so silly.’ Harriet had softened in the last couple of moments and I could see a sense of deflation had taken over her usually aggressive demeanour. She reached out her hand to me and I took it, placing Edward down on the floor and sitting next to her, cross-legged. Then she let it all pour out. And I sat, entranced, until she had finished.
‘When I was pregnant with Edward, I loved it. I loved the excuse to embrace my body, to wear those horrendous pregnancy jeans with elasticated waists. I would eat those delicious cakes in the Hummingbird Bakery and didn’t even worry about stepping out without a patch of make-up on. I was pregnant with a beautiful little baby and that was all that mattered. How I looked was the LAST thing on my mind. All I cared about was having a healthy, happy baby.’ She stops and her eyes begin to glisten with tears again. ‘Until I saw the photos from the day Edward was born.’
Harriet’s eyes glaze over and I saw her shoulders visibly slump. She then looked up at me, straight in the eye.
‘You should have seen them, Tiffany. The day Edward was born, Marcus arrived at the hospital with a state-of-the-art camera he had just bought, brimming with excitement. He had spent – oh, I dread to think how much on the most technical, advanced camera there was and he was so excited about capturing photos of Mummy and Baby. I grinned excitedly as he snapped away. Holding up Edward, planting a kiss on his nose. I even told him to get a couple of shots of the hospital room and me in the bed, so that we could remember it. We were both so excited, so pumped by everything.’
She stopped, took a deep breath and then continued.
‘But then he showed me the photos. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the state of me! There was still blood on my nightdress from the delivery and my eyes – I just looked so exhausted! The nursing bra I had bought online a few weeks before was cutting deep into my breasts, leaving red angry lines, and the nightdress – bought from some random pregnancy shop when we were in Henley for the day – was so revolting and unflattering. My arms flopped out of it and there were colostrum stains where my nipples were. I couldn’t have looked uglier.’
‘Harriet—’
But she cuts me off before I can continue.
‘These were supposed to be images I would treasure forever – that I would frame and put on our dresser in our bedroom. Me, our baby, those first few precious hours. But when I see them now, I just feel sick. Where had the real me gone? Who was this bedraggled, harassed, petrified-looking woman in my place?’ A sob escaped her chest and silent tears ran down her face. ‘I don’t want it to be the same this time, Tiffany,’ she whispered. ‘I want to be able to have photos of our family of four that I love, where I look at them and think, “Wow, I’m superwoman”.’
I placed my hand on hers and stroked it unconsciously. To some, people might conclude that Harriet was being unnecessarily vain, but to the trained eye, I knew it was much more than this. Motherhood is one of the biggest life changes people will ever go through and many, many women lose themselves in it. They lose the person they once were and once the baby is placed on their chest, the old them dissolves forever. It’s the one thing I always wish I could warn about and help people with, let them know that it doesn’t have to happen to them. I’ve always said, just because you become a mother, it doesn’t mean you have to abandon the ‘real you’ and it’s a motto I live by to this day.
‘How would you like to feel when your next baby is born?’ I asked softly, careful not to encourage another torrent of tears.
‘Like a movie star,’ she replied, almost instantaneously.
I felt determination surge through me and reaching for her hand, I pulled her up from the ground, swooping Edward into my free arm as I did so.
‘Then we need to get out of here,’ I announced, simultaneously typing a text into my phone and smiling as the reply came back instantly. ‘We are going to see my friend Francesca. She’s a stylist and designer. She’s meeting us in 20 minutes.’
The bemused look on Harriet’s face made me burst out laughing and I pulled a silly face at Edward in return, getting a giggle from him. ‘Come on, superwoman!’ I announced, striding towards the exit of the store. ‘We are going to turn you into a movie star!’
* * *
Handing me the receipt in a sealed envelope, Francesca raised an eyebrow at me and grinned.
‘You nailed it,’ she said quietly, taking some more tissue paper and wrapping the final items of clothing neatly before placing them in a bronzed box. We both looked over at Harriet, who was swirling in front of a full-length oval mirror, admiring the way the silk of the dress she was wearing skimmed over her baby bump.
‘So, you can definitely have it all ready by October?’ I asked again nervously, pointing at the sketches to Francesca’s right.
As soon as we had arrived at Francesca’s studio in Notting Hill, I had explained what Harriet needed – a maternity wardrobe that would make her feel like the woman she is, not the frumpy pregnant lady she was resigning herself to. Francesca had left us with a pot of herbal tea and enough chocolate chip cookies to gorge ourselves on as she dashed out into the streets of Notting Hill, promising she would return within the hour. On her return, she unloaded bags of clothes filled with wrap dresses, long-line blazers and low, chunky heels.
Prior to Francesca’s dash to the shops, she had grilled Harriet on her ideal maternity style and how she felt about her growing bump. They had concluded that Harriet would like some items that could help disguise the bump.
‘I hid my second pregnancy for a long time at work, well into my sixth month, by wearing blazers open,’ explained Francesca. ‘It’s how they hide pregnant bellies on TV when the star is pregnant in real life – no one can see your belly in profile.’
We had then discussed the hospital photos and how Harriet would like to feel and look when those first snaps of them as a family of four were taken. Francesca had shushed me whenever I tried to say something, instead concentrating solely on Harriet and what she was saying. As Harriet spoke, Francesca sketched, writing words on a piece of paper and underlining them, before gliding her pencil across the white parchment, drawing as she listened.
‘What about something like this?’ She held up the paper and Harriet and I both gasped. On it was drawn the most exquisite nightdress. A low V-neck encased with a delicate lace was the focal point for the nightdress, with simple cap sleeves elegantly placed on the shoulders. Francesca had written the words ‘Silk’ and ‘Victorian Lace’ next to her sketch and as we looked more closely, she passed swatches of materials over to suggest colour and texture.
‘This is a midnight blue,’ she said, passing a delicate piece of material to us. ‘I know it’s advised not to wear white after giving birth because of the potential blood situation . . . I smile at her thankfully – so she had been listening to me when I had explained the ‘must-haves’ and ‘must-nots’ earlier. ‘But I feel black is just too harsh. So, this deep liquid navy will be perfect. It will bring out the green tones in yo
ur eyes.
‘Ooh, and this is the best bit,’ she squealed excitedly. ‘You see these cap sleeves? Well, under here, I will add popper buttons, meaning you can un-pop them to make it easily accessible for breastfeeding.’
I smile, impressed – she really had thought of everything.
Francesca handed me the box of clothes that Harriet had already tried on and approved, then beckoned me towards her so she could whisper something to me:
‘The woman who walked in here earlier is completely different to the woman here now. You spotted something in that woman that most people would never have. The fear. The desperation. Lots of people think pregnant women are just full of the joys of spring, but you understand that that’s not realistic. Pregnancy and becoming a mother are one of the scariest times of their lives. I have seen so many women who let the old “them” die when they have a baby – and you’re proving you’re not going to let that happen.’
Chapter 16
The anticipation of birth that engulfed me in the last couple of weeks of my pregnancy was overwhelming. Every time I met with a new pregnant client, I was reminded of how swollen and large my stomach was in comparison and that, very soon, I would be giving birth to the baby that was inside. As I was having a C-section, my experience was going to be very different from many of the birth stories I had heard during my career. For starters, I had an actual date and a time that the baby was going to arrive!
‘We’ll book you in for the morning slot of the 26th April,’ my obstetrician explained calmly as I anxiously ran my hand over my stomach. ‘You’ll need to get to the hospital at 6am, then we will take you down to theatre at seven, and your baby should be with us by eight.’
I must admit, it all sounded very civilised (at least I didn’t have to worry about my water breaking in the middle of the street, or the pain of contractions) but it didn’t make it any less scary. The night before, Patrick and I lay in our bed in Chiswick, too nervous with anticipation to even speak. Patrick fiddled with the alarm clock – checking over and over that it was working so that we would wake up in time – and I just lay silently thinking, ‘This is it. The last time it’s just the two of us . . .’ I was petrified, there is no denying it. In the morning, I was going to have my stomach literally sliced open and then everything that I knew about life was going to change. Our ‘normal’ was going to be blown apart and suddenly we would have to embrace a new role – a role we have had no training for – as parents. Patrick sought out my hand under the covers and squeezed it tightly.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, his eyebrows creasing in concern.
‘I just can’t believe this is it.’ My voice sounded quiet and there was an obvious shake to it. ‘The next time we are in this bed, we will have a baby lying in the middle of us.’
‘And it’s going to be amazing.’ Patrick finished my sentence for me, and I knew he was right. Life was about to change beyond recognition, but from what I knew from my job, it was going to change in the best possible way.
It was time. The alarm went off at 5am and, as if we were on autopilot, Patrick and I silently gathered up our bags and jumped in the car. As we were driving down Chiswick High Road, completely out of the blue, I burst into hysterical laughter. Patrick turned to me, a confused look on his face.
‘We are having a baby today!’ I practically yelled. Looking back, I think it must have been the nerves. Adrenaline had hit and the reality of what today meant was really sinking in.
‘Well, that’s certainly something to celebrate,’ Patrick said, a smile spreading over his face. With that, he turned up the song on the radio (George Ezra’s ‘Budapest’ – a song that will continually remind me of the day Rupert was born), and we both sang along at the top of our lungs.
An hour later, I was sitting in my room at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital being prepped for my scheduled C-section, whilst nurses took blood and Patrick changed into his scrubs. Rupert’s birth is not a stereotypical birth story. When I was pregnant with him, I agonised for months over how I wanted to give birth. Well-meaning ‘friends’ suggested that ‘natural is by far the best choice for the baby’ and various parenting websites pointed to C-sections as ‘the thing of the devil’ (and should only be done in an absolute emergency). First, I must acknowledge that I was in a fortunate position to be able to have my baby privately, meaning a scheduled C-section was something I could consider. But having that option didn’t mean it was an easy decision to make. I, like most mothers out there, spent hours seeking out the opinions of others, hearing about horrific (and not-so-horrific) birth stories and chatting with doctors and midwives about what was best for me and my baby.
In the end, and on the advice of my obstetrician, I decided that an elective C-section was the right choice. My levels of anxiety about giving birth had completely escalated since I found out I was pregnant. At first, like most newly pregnant mothers, I tried to ignore the prospect that this baby had to come out of somewhere unimaginable, but as the months went on, the anxiety levels rose. I would sit awake at 4am, anxiously tapping away at my computer, searching for all the things that could go wrong with a natural birth. I imagined nurses running frantically around my bed, uncontrolled bleeding, the sound of flatlining heart monitors. I didn’t want my baby (who in my mind had a fragile little skull) being suctioned or pulled out with full force with a pair of forceps. I didn’t want to be rushed into an emergency C-section and then potentially have to make life-saving decisions after hours of labour and no sleep. I didn’t want to tear or have the wall between the vagina and anus cut to avoid tearing. Every time I saw a watermelon (yes, I’m back to that watermelon analogy again), I promptly burst into tears and – in my deepest, darkest moment – I even wondered if I actually wanted to be a mummy if it meant I had to give birth. In the end, an elective C-section really was the only option for me.
So, on 26 April 2017, I was walked down to the operating theatre, croc slippers adorning my feet and a surgery gown flapping wildly in the breeze to reveal my (not very pert) bottom. Thankfully, all passers-by were doctors or medical staff who had seen it all before and my naked derrière didn’t even manage to raise one questioning eyebrow.
I’d like to say I was brave when it came to the epidural, but I’d be flat out lying. I sobbed like a toddler as the anaesthetist asked me to cuddle a pillow and lean forward so that he could access my back. I knew that, somewhere behind me, a huge needle was being brandished and was about to be inserted into my spine. So, I did what any self-respecting women would do and BEGGED for him to stop. Thankfully, he saw my desperation and instead nodded at the nurse to add a ‘gin and tonic’ to my cannula. Later, I found out this was morphine to calm me down. Which is probably why Patrick now finds it hysterical to bring up my pre-op revelations of ‘I’d like a pink camel as a push present, please’.
Ten minutes later, I was lying on an operating table, knowing my tummy was about to be cut open and a baby would be produced. I suppose you could say it was surreal. But not quite so surreal as having the whole team introduce themselves to me – name and role in the proceedings – and then being asked if I could reciprocate. Not really knowing the etiquette, I launched into a full-blown CV of where I was born, my career history, my first kiss . . . before the anaesthetist calmly placed his hand on my shoulder and whispered, ‘Just your name will do.’
Five minutes later, Rupert was pulled from my stomach, fist pumping the air and screaming his tiny lungs out (a good sign, apparently – not just a warning of what was to come). He was placed on my chest; I was wrapped up in tin foil a bit like a marathon runner (the surgery had made my blood pressure drop and I was very cold) and we were wheeled back into our hospital room.
Suddenly, my world (and my heart) had expanded more than I ever thought possible We were a family of three. And life was about to change forever.
At 4am the following morning, with Patrick snoring quietly on the pull-out sofa bed, I leant over Rupert’s cot and stroked his tiny thumb.
/> ‘I’ll make you proud,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll be the best mummy I can ever be for you. That’s a promise.’
I’d like to say Rupert opened his eyes and we shared a quiet understanding, but instead he farted and rolled over.
Typical man.
Chapter 17
Rupert is only a few weeks old and I have to face one of the most challenging days of my career to date. I’d promised myself and Patrick that I would take at least a month off work to concentrate on our newborn, but when I got the call from this client I knew I had to help. For once, I had to put my family to one side to help another.
As I push on the nursery door, spider threads catch my face – a sign that no one has been in here yet. Despite a musty smell of abandonment, the nursery smells as a nursery should – a mixture of newly opened cardboard boxes and talcum powder. I look around cautiously and take in the cot, put together by Michelle’s husband Henry a few months ago, standing proudly in the corner. A blush-pink cashmere blanket is folded carefully over the rails and a miniature toy bunny rabbit with long muslin ears waits expectantly for its new companion in the middle of the mattress.
A half-opened box sits on top of a dresser and I can see a wooden baby gym poking out of it, with tiny half-moons and stars etched into the wood. To the right of the dresser, in little piles, Michelle had started to fold some of the baby’s clothes – perhaps getting them ready to pack into her hospital bag. There is a pink cotton hat folded neatly in half, six baby grows, all with intricate collars and embroidery and tiny pairs of socks, neatly stacked on top of one another in a tower, threatening to tumble.
Secrets of the Mummy Concierge Page 11