I tug Arthur who, having grown bored of waiting, is circling ominously around in the snow. He looks up at me with the same disgruntled expression as my father when we knock on the bathroom door, needing to use the loo. Well, he will go in there with the Sunday papers.
‘Maybe see you again at the art class?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
And, giving him a wave of my glove, I set off dragging Arthur down the pavement.
I’m grateful for:
Hindsight, because it has the ability to transform things that seemed absolutely mortifying at the time into something absolutely hysterical with Liza several hours later.
The unexpected joy that came from bounding around with Arthur in the snow, though his snow angels are a bit crap as they’re basically just him rolling about in fox poo.
Years of snowball practice with my little brother, so that when I was caught in the crossfire between the local teenagers on my street, I knew how to whack a really hard, frozen one back.
Edward’s bicycle helmet, which saved him from concussion as he cycled home; my aim was never my strong point.
The ability to laugh at myself, which, unlike my eyesight, isn’t going anywhere.
More material for my podcast, which, when I listened back to it the other day, was a bit cringe – it sounds nothing like the real me, but instead like me trying to sound posh on the telephone.
The revelation that Married Hot Dad is now Single Fun Uncle.
Going, Going, Gone
Bumping into Johnny yesterday got me thinking. It seems that at this age, lots of things ‘are going’. If it’s not eyes, it’s upper arms . . . or knees . . . or necks . . . It’s like being in an auction, only the lots aren’t a nice mahogany dresser or a pair of silver candlesticks; they’re parts of my body. Soon everything will be going, going, GONE!
Though to where, I have no idea. But you can guarantee it’s sure as hell not to somewhere fun like Ibiza or the South of France, which are the only places I want to be going, frankly.
WhatsApp Group: Michelle’s Baby Shower
Fiona
Just a reminder everyone, it’s at 1 p.m. tomorrow, looking forward to seeing you all.
Holly
Me too, see you soon.
Remind me again of the address.
Holly immediately sends a Google Map complete with directions.
Thx. Is that a restaurant?
Annabel
No, it’s my house.
She just pops up from out of nowhere. WTF? Annabel is in our WhatsApp group?!
Fiona
Wait till you see her house, ladies, it’s amazing!
Annabel
Don’t forget to bring your swimsuits, ladies!
Sometimes in life there are no words.
The Baby Shower
To be honest, I wasn’t much looking forward to the baby shower in the first place. I went to quite a few when I lived in America, and whenever I found myself in a circle of women playing ‘Guess the Poo’ with melted chocolate bars and diapers, I was forever grateful this was one tradition we hadn’t adopted in the UK.
But like I said, a lot’s changed since I’ve been gone.
It’s not just the inane games; it’s the pressure to buy the best present, even though I can never help feeling a bit superstitious about buying a gift before the baby is born. Then there’s the celebrated diaper cake, a tradition I’m hoping has stayed firmly on that side of the Atlantic, and the endless talk about pregnancy and babies. Which is natural, of course – it is a baby shower, after all – but if you don’t have one or want one, it’s hard not to feel a bit alienated.
Discovering yesterday that Perfect Annabel is throwing the shower at her house is the icing on the proverbial diaper cake. Of course I want to celebrate Michelle having a baby and see her looking all happy and excited and being spoiled rotten. I love Michelle. She’s one of my best friends. But when you’re child-free/less, and all the other women are either pregnant or mums, it can be agony in more ways than one.*
Thankfully the snow has melted, so I can wear something that doesn’t involve wellingtons. I was planning to wear jeans and a jacket, but now I feel extra pressure and put on heels and my one decent dress. I even attempt the curling tongs on my hair, which as always ends with a fringe that flicks the wrong way and burned fingers, even with that little glove they give you.
Still, by the end of it all, I look quite presentable. So much so that Arthur barks when I come downstairs. I don’t think he quite recognizes me.
I catch the bus, then the tube to the nearest station, then walk the rest of the way, but it’s a lot further than it looked on Google Maps and there’s a wind blowing. I can feel my curls rapidly dropping, along with my spirits. And then, suddenly, there’s the house. Sitting directly on the river and surrounded by a large walled garden, like something you see in the pages of House & Garden.
I press the shiny brass intercom and try not to feel intimidated. Like my mother always says, I wouldn’t want to clean all those windows. Plus, so what if she lives in this fancy big house and I’m renting a room? Money doesn’t buy you happiness, remember?
It does, however, buy you several fancy cars parked on the gravel forecourt, a heated outdoor swimming pool and a turret. An actual turret, I note, as I’m buzzed in and the electric gate closes behind me. I walk up the driveway, the gravel crunching underfoot. There’s something about the sound that just sounds rich. It reminds me of visits to stately homes. That said, it’s a bugger when you’re wearing heels.
Tutting loudly in dismay as I scuff my beloved pair of Gucci stilettos, which I got on eBay after a frantic bidding war, I reach the glossy front door. I’m greeted by pink balloons and a lovely lady called Mila, who ushers me inside the mosaic-tiled hallway and kindly offers to take my coat.
Then she disappears, and for a moment I find myself alone. I’m almost tempted to make a run for it.
‘Nell, welcome.’ Annabel appears, tanned and barefoot, in a frothy pink concoction of a dress that shows off her sensational figure and makes me feel hideously underdressed. ‘So wonderful you could make it.’
I smile tightly. ‘Well, I actually got this invitation.’
‘That’s so strange, I definitely sent one for Max’s birthday.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Still, I wouldn’t have been able to come. I was babysitting.’
‘Yes, so I heard. What a trouper friend you are. Missing a fabulous party like that.’
Now I know who Annabel reminds me of: Villanelle from Killing Eve.
After asking me to take off my shoes, so I feel short and dumpy next to her in my stockinged feet, she leads me through the house to join the others. It’s everything I expected. Cushions are plumped. Walls are painted in tasteful shades of Farrow & Ball. Expensive pieces of art are dotted about. It’s quite evident Annabel is not someone who has ever shopped for bags of tea lights from IKEA.
Until finally I’m ushered into the living room where there’s a mountain of gifts on display and even more pink balloons, and a large circle of women hovering around a table filled with food. Everything is pink-themed. Annabel has really gone to town.
‘Here, let me take those for you,’ she says, reaching out for my gifts.
I hand over both bags. As well as something for the baby, I’ve brought the special kind of chocolate-covered marshmallow teacakes that Michelle adores. Max told me she used to eat them as a child growing up in Scotland and can never find them here, but I managed to hunt them down. I feel rather pleased with myself.
Annabel lets out a little shriek as she sees them. ‘Ooh no, I don’t think so,’ she reprimands, wagging her finger. ‘Far too many additives and processed baddies. Only nutritious wholesome foods welcome here. I’ll put them in the kitchen, out of harm’s way.’
‘But they’re Michelle’s favourite,’ I try to argue weakly, but I’m quickly shot down.
‘It’s very important to eat a healthy diet, especially when you’re pregna
nt. Try a quinoa cupcake with cashew coconut cream frosting.’
As she offers me a tray from the table, I force a smile. I have to get along with Annabel, not just for Fiona’s sake, but now for Michelle’s too.
‘Mmm, looks delicious,’ I say politely, taking one.
Wow. That’s some cupcake. It weighs a ton.
A couple of waiters are wafting around serving drinks. ‘Raspberry smoothies or pink champagne,’ coos Annabel, ‘for those of us who aren’t pregnant or breastfeeding. All organic, of course.’
Of course.
I grab a glass of much-needed alcohol and search around for a familiar face. I’m looking forward to seeing everyone. I haven’t seen Holly since my birthday and the last time I saw Fiona she was with Annabel, so it was difficult to have a proper catch-up. Obviously Annabel is here again today, but hopefully she’ll be so busy being the host I won’t have to talk to her too much.
That said, I can’t see Holly or Fiona and Michelle is talking to someone, so I make polite conversation about the quinoa cupcakes with a woman called Susan who’s having a loft conversion done to make room for her ‘growing brood’, and Lisa, a newlywed who’s six months pregnant with her first and taking a hypnobirthing course.
‘How about you?’ asks Susan brightly. ‘Do you have kids?’
As the spotlight swings onto me, I feel my heart sink. I hate this bit. It always feels like such a taboo subject if you say no. No one quite knows how to reply. People don’t know whether to be sympathetic, or make some quip about how lucky you are and complain about their moody teenagers. Conversely, I never know what to say either as I always feel the pressure to explain why I don’t have kids, in a way I’m not sure women who have children do. Basically it’s awkward for everyone, so I usually end up trying to make a joke about it so everyone feels less awkward.
Except today I’m not feeling very funny.
‘No,’ I smile, struggling to think of something suitably positive to add to qualify my answer. I quickly rootle through the contents of my life’s handbag, like when I’m searching for my keys. But all that’s in there is a broken engagement, a business that went bust, and a recent move back to London to share a loo with a complete stranger.
‘I write obituaries.’
Well, it’s the only thing I can find.
Susan and Lisa sort of freeze, before lots of polite murmuring of, ‘Oh, how lovely,’ and, ‘Have you tried one of the courgette fritters? They’re delicious.’
‘There you are!’
Several fritters later, I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Fiona.
‘Sorry, I was in the loo,’ she smiles, giving me a hug and saving me from another courgette fritter. ‘How are you?’
‘Happy to see you!’ Finally I have a comrade-in-arms to laugh with about the giant scary-looking flesh-coloured balloon baby and the lead-weight cupcakes. ‘I see you’ve been coerced,’ I grin, noticing she’s holding one.
‘Aren’t these just delicious? I’ve had three! Have you tried one of the cute devilled eggs that look like babies? And the fruit bowl, with the carved melon that looks like a pushchair. So adorable!’
I stare at her, agog. What’s happened to Fiona? Normally she wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face.
‘And isn’t her house just amazing? Do you know that’s a real Andy Warhol! And she got her sofas imported from Italy. She’s got such amazing taste. Perfect. Don’t you think?’
She’s actually gushing.
‘Umm, yes, it’s lovely.’
‘Everything Annabel does is just effortless. I’m going to get her to look at my house and give me some interior design tips.’
‘Your house is lovely already. You don’t need any tips.’
‘Oh, you are sweet, Nell, but Annabel says it’s important to keep things fresh and on-trend . . .’
I dread to think what Annabel would say if she ever saw my rented room.
Fortunately, at that moment Holly appears, looking like she’s come straight from the gym. Holly is one of the few women I know who wears activewear to actually be active and not just to go to the supermarket.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she smiles, making a beeline for us. ‘I had to get in 10K this morning. What did I miss?’
‘A tour of the house and one of these.’ I put a cupcake in the palm of her hand, and it visibly drops.
‘Wow, that’s a lot of fibre.’
‘Just in time. Ladies! Time for the gift giving!’ We’re interrupted by Annabel clapping her hands and demanding we all sit around in a circle. Michelle looks overwhelmed and embarrassed by so many presents, and we all drink champagne (or is that just me?) and ooh and ahh over tiny onesies.
Then it’s my turn. I gave up trying to think of something unique and all the cashmere stuff was so expensive, so instead I’ve bought her a cute little stuffed rabbit and some of my favourite body cream.
‘Oops, you forgot to take off the price sticker.’ Annabel swoops on it in the guise of being helpful, and peels it off with her perfectly manicured nail. ‘Gosh, I didn’t know TK Maxx do this brand.’
My cheeks flame.
Michelle smiles graciously. ‘They’re both lovely, thanks Nell.’
I smile. Things have been a bit awkward between us since I found out about Max’s birthday, and we haven’t had a chance to talk yet.
‘And, last but not least . . .’ Annabel wheels in a large, elaborately wrapped present.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have, this is far too generous—’
‘Nonsense!’ beams Annabel, as Michelle self-consciously unwraps an ornate, hand-carved crib, painted pastel pink and covered in matching pink bows. ‘Fiona and I saw it at Easter when we were in this gorgeous little boutique in the Cotswolds, and I knew you’d love it.’
‘I thought you were camping?’ I turn to Fiona.
‘The crystals on the bows are Swarovski,’ interrupts Annabel.
‘We went with Annabel and Clive to their cottage.’
‘Oh, OK,’ I nod, but I feel oddly upset.
I quickly get a hold of myself. Why does it matter if she didn’t mention it? It’s no big deal. She can spend time with whoever she wants.
‘Did you have a nice time at your mum and dad’s?’
Normally I would have told Fiona immediately about Rich, but something stops me.
‘Yes, great,’ I nod. ‘The best.’
I make my excuses and disappear to the bathroom. When I come out, I can hear Annabel suggesting everyone takes a dip in the heated pool. I make myself scarce and seek sanctuary in the huge empty kitchen, where I discover the chocolate-covered teacakes. Standing in the darkened room, I unwrap one and am just leaning against the oven, dipping my tongue into the sweet jammy centre and plotting my escape, when I hear footsteps.
Oh shit. Annabel. I stuff the teacakes back behind the kettle and turn around, bracing myself.
‘I wondered where you’d run off to.’
It’s Michelle.
I feel a beat of relief. ‘Sorry to be a party pooper.’
‘That makes two of us.’ She rubs her belly. ‘I am not getting into a swimsuit. I’ve still got two months to go, but if I jump in there’ll be no water left.’
I laugh and we both smile.
‘I’m sorry about the birthday mix-up,’ she says after a moment.
‘Oh, it’s fine.’ I bat her apology away.
‘No, it’s not fine. I’d be pretty pissed off if I’d been stuck with my three while everyone was at a party.’
‘They were great, honestly—’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘Just a bit of a handful at bedtime.’
‘Don’t you mean the spawn of the devil?’
I grin. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far . . .’
‘You know, I had no idea Annabel was going to throw Max a surprise party. I thought it was going to be just the two of us . . . to be honest, I would have preferred it if it was. What with the kids and Max’s new promotion, we neve
r get the chance to spend any time alone together.’
Listening, I get the feeling Annabel steamrollered Michelle into it.
‘I mean, it was really kind of her and everything – it’s the same with this baby shower. At Max’s birthday I mentioned I’d never had one with my previous three, and she immediately offered to throw one for me. I tried to say no – she’s Fiona’s friend, not mine really – but she insisted . . .’
Both of us exchange looks, but neither says anything.
‘I didn’t want to be ungrateful. It’s just, you know me, this isn’t really my thing.’
No, it’s Annabel’s thing. It’s all about Annabel. About her big fancy house. Her big expensive gift. About being the perfect hostess.
Michelle suddenly notices my half-eaten chocolate teacake. ‘What are you eating?’
I retrieve the packet I’ve stuffed behind the kettle and her eyes light up. ‘Ooh! My favourite! Where did you find those?’
‘I bought them, but Annabel wouldn’t hear of you eating them. She said they weren’t good for the baby.’
‘Bollocks to that. I was brought up on these! They’re full of nutrition.’
Grabbing one, she peels off the foil and takes a bite, and then for a few moments we both just stand in the darkness, savouring each mouthful and groaning with delight.
‘By the way, I didn’t know you were having a girl,’ I say after a moment.
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ she grins. ‘When do you think I should tell her we’re having a boy?’
I’m grateful for:
Annabel’s house being so big, as it meant Michelle and I were able to hide out in the kitchen and eat the entire box of chocolate teacakes before we were discovered.
Missing fun games like ‘Spin the Breast Pump’ and forgetting my swimsuit.*
Not breaking down when I was handed that tiny onesie.
The latest episode of my podcast, where I get to confess all of this, even the bit about hiding in the loo so no one could see me cry.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 12