‘There’s so much light…’ I mumble.
‘What was that?’ Giles asks.
‘Just the light. My boyfriend would love this. He’s an architect.’
‘Then your house must be amazing,’ Yasmin says in a slightly competitive tone.
‘You’d think…’ I mutter under my breath.
‘What was his name, Bill?’
‘Will.’
‘And what’s your boyfriend’s name?’
She eyeballs me as I say that. It wasn’t supposed to sound so adversarial, but I guess it would always have that tone given I caught her noisily sticking her tongue down someone else’s throat.
‘Jethro. He’s in a band, The Chateaux?’
I have heard of them; Will calls it happy music for people who cry after sex but I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I try to avert Yasmin’s gaze by glancing over at the kitchen where she’s set out bowls and platters for this brunch we’re supposed to be having. Oh dear. My shoulders slump to see a fair bit of fruit and yoghurt. It’s that sort of brunch. I bet there’s granola and not a trace of heavily fried meat or white buttered toast anywhere.
‘Thanks for letting us have this meeting here,’ Giles says, touching her arm. For all of Yasmin’s social aloofness, I still applaud his attempts to be friendly with her.
‘It’s no big thing. I find most restaurants don’t cater for my food ethics these days anyway. You can set up base on that sofa if you want? Just don’t get anything on it with the baby. It’s vintage and suede.’ The baby has a name, I want to say. Plus, that’s almost like an open invitation for Joe to barf on it, isn’t it? I line it with muslins just in case.
‘Do you want a tea?’ she asks me.
‘Yes, please. White, one sugar.’
‘Oh,’ she replies. Christ, there’s not even caffeine today. ‘I’ve brewed some kombucha fruit tea?’
‘I’ll give it a go then,’ I reply weakly.
Giles goes to help her in the kitchen and I look down at Joe. In the corner of my eye, Dicky still looks at me strangely, like I’m not the sort of person who usually frequents his abode. Usually we welcome artistes and cool people. I start to unwrap Joe from the carrier. It’s like unwrapping a fajita, trying to make sure the contents don’t fall out on the floor. My clumsiness is not made for this contraption, it has swathes of material wrapped around me like bandages that when left hanging make me look like I’m going to do an aerial acrobatic act. Joe never looks totally convinced at my lack of co-ordination either. Have more faith, kid. I haven’t dropped you. Yet. As I dump the material in a ball, I literally peel my son off me. Balls, he’s left a head print on my front. I look like I have a third boob made out of sweat, like I’ve come out of a bath that’s too hot. I pull frantically at my dress to air it out and try and blow down the front. Both Yasmin and Giles return watching me curiously. They’re armed with trays of crockery that all match and bowls filled with exotic fruits that I’d normally just stare at on supermarket shelves because I wouldn’t know where to start.
‘Have you had physalis before?’ Yasmin asks me.
Once. I got a cream for it though, I want to say. That joke would sail over the room.
‘I haven’t,’ I reply. I lay Joe on the sofa and he looks up at me. Tell the room that you usually have a bowl of Rice Krispies for breakfast and drown them in sugar. Go on, Mum.
‘So we have quinoa and buckwheat pancakes with coconut yoghurt. This is a homemade lemon and passionfruit curd and a chia seed sprinkle.’ A tiny part of my heart cries inside me, shedding a tear for the bacon that isn’t here. The kombucha tea is the same colour as dark urine. It will all be good for me, I tell myself. This is why Yasmin looks like the way she does, isn’t it? Maybe it’s best to take a leaf out of that book.
‘You look hot,’ she says, plating something up for me. I don’t suppose she’s referring to my levels of attractiveness.
‘I’m not too good at carrying Joe around. It’s like cardio.’
Giles laughs. ‘This all looks great, Yasmin, thank you.’
Yasmin hands me my plate and looks over at Joe. ‘What do babies eat? Does he want anything?’
Giles and I both look over, confused. Kid doesn’t even have teeth yet.
‘He’s cool,’ I reply. ‘He’ll get his brunch out of here.’ And for some reason, I grope one of my boobs. That was not classy. I stick my fork into a pancake and take a mouthful with the fruit and yoghurt. It’s not terrible but it’s what health tastes like.
‘So, the reason I got you ladies together was I’ve been offered a gig and I think both of you would work well together in it. I have some visuals…’
Yasmin and I? Like some Laurel and Hardy comedy duo thing? Oh, he means the baby. Giles gets a file out of his bag with pictures for some sort of organic yoghurt brand.
‘They’re looking for new family images to promote their brand and Joe and Yasmin would be such a good fit.’
His words are going in but I am also trying to work out how to spit out the lychee seed in my mouth. Do I remove by hand? It feels safer to try and swallow it in an attempt to hide any potential embarrassment.
‘So, I would be cast as Joe’s mum?’ Yasmin asks.
I don’t know what’s the worst insult – that she’s serving me pancakes without syrup or that she’s telling me that Joe’s mum should look like her, not like me.
‘Yes,’ Giles says, looking pleased with himself for matchmaking them. I look Yasmin up and down. She’s hardly mother material. For a start, she’s wearing cashmere. A real mother would never wear cashmere, it’d be at the bottom of the washing pile for months. And she no way has the hip and arse flesh on her to have sustained life in her loins; it’s mostly bone and gristle.
‘I also think it’s hilarious that you two used to be friends at school, so serendipitous.’
Giles seems to have missed the mark slightly on this one. We used to sit in the same classroom. She’d steal my work and my pens and more than often would scan down and judge my school coat because I didn’t have a shiny Schott bomber jacket like her. At a push, we may have been at a few eighteenth birthday parties together. Friends is a loose concept in our circumstances.
‘I’ll look at my schedule, Giles. It could work. I have some shoots in Croatia in two weeks’ time and we’re thinking about diversifying my food brand but I could squeeze it in.’
I am not quite sure how to respond. I will be spending the next few weeks in my pyjamas drinking tea with my elderly neighbour, having emotional quandaries about the state of my relationship and loading stuff into my TV planner.
‘If you think Joe and Yasmin would be a good duo then that’s fine with me. I guess?’
Giles looks ecstatic. Yasmin takes to her phone and starts taking pictures of the table, obviously for some Instagram content, while I wonder if it’s rude to get my un-manicured hand in the picture and just help myself to more pancakes. I spy Joe making an attempt to roll off the sofa and put an arm out to stop him. Yasmin watches, comes over and picks him up. I will Joe to voice some contempt but he smiles broadly at Yasmin. Traitor. She sits him in her lap and sips at her tea concoction. This is the image that will sell things, not me sitting here trying to pick chia seeds out of my teeth with my tongue.
‘So, who’s your agent?’ Yasmin asks me.
‘Oh, Joe was a street cast,’ Giles informs her.
‘Weren’t you spotted like that?’ I ask Yasmin, trying feebly to make conversation.
‘How did you know that?’ she asks.
‘All-girls’ school. News got round.’
‘I was. In Waterloo.’
That’s a great tale, Yasmin. So much detail. Do you have any more stories?
‘You have any more babies?’ Yasmin asks.
I don’t know if Giles can sense the conversation here is like pulling teeth while having an intimate wax. He’s my only one. I mean this one’s literally only just come out too. I clench when I have a wee because my vagina is still trau
matised.
‘Joe’s the only baby in my life.’
She smiles without showing her teeth, clearly not amused by me at all. I feel she views me like some nightmare alternative life where the focus would be away from her and on someone else. Share my spotlight, are you insane? I’m also trying to work out how she achieved all of this since we left school. Is this all funded from the modelling? Or is it boyfriend money? Everything matches in here. She even has a DJ booth in the corner, and also looks like she spends money on her skin too. I have post-pregnancy acne that rates up there with when I was fourteen and my face looked like a dot-to-dot puzzle.
‘So, it’s a done deal. This is brilliant. I am really looking forward to working with you both. I will get my office to send over schedules and contracts and I’ll inform the client. I will share your contacts and maybe start a WhatsApp group so we can keep in touch,’ Giles says, excitedly.
Yasmin puts her hand to the air and Joe looks like he’s possibly high-fiving it. They’re both in hysterics while I look over, not really knowing how to feel. This is the next step in our adventures in modelling. I hope it means we get paid in yoghurts for life. Suddenly, I feel a Dicky brush against my ankles. Hello again, rat dog. Do I pick him up? Is that what you do with dogs? I’ve never had a pet. He’s under my skirt, sniffing at my trainers and I sneak him a bit of pancake. Please don’t be allergic to it. He stares up at me, looking a little cross-eyed. I have obviously brought another sentient being into his home and he’s not impressed. He disappears under my skirt again and I scramble about trying to extricate him as he weaves in and around my ankles, then cocks a leg and pees all over my feet.
Standing in Yasmin’s downstairs bathroom, I study myself in the mirror. I think I’ve got a zit growing right between my eyes that punctuates my worry lines. I’ve been sent in here with a kitchen sponge and antibacterial spray but I’m pretty certain I may have to bin these Superga trainers or leave them in our communal corridor for a while until the smell dissipates. The door flies open and Yasmin comes in, Dicky under her arm.
‘Giles has Joe. I am so sorry. You’re a bad Dicky.’
Dicky is actually grinning. He doesn’t care.
‘I found these,’ she says, holding up a pair of trainers. ‘They’re a bit old but luckily, we’re the same size.’
Bit old? They’re Stella McCartney for Adidas and they’re easily two hundred pounds. Is she gifting these to me? If so, I’ve forgiven her rat dog and his tiny weak bladder.
‘Saves you having to walk home in wet shoes.’
‘Thanks.’
She hands me a Chloé shopping bag for my wet trainers and notices the bottom of my dress is wet from where I had to wring that out too. Please do not embarrass me by offering to lend me clothes.
‘I’ll get a hairdryer out and we can sort that too.’
‘I have a baby. I am used to these things now. It’s why I don’t own anything nice.’
She half-smiles. She then does something very strange, putting her dog down and going over to the toilet, pulling down her trousers and proceeding to have a wee herself. I am still in the room, woman. Do I leave? I turn, falling to a squat position to put on the trainers. I can hear her wee. Don’t do anything more, pretty please. Is that what this means, now that you’re playing my son’s mum, we need to develop some sort of familiar bond?
‘This is a tad awkward…’ she says, unravelling loo roll. You think? We’re conversing through this too? ‘But what happened the other day, what you saw with Harry. Have you told anyone?’
‘I have no one to tell,’ I reply. That is a lie. I told the sisters.
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘I don’t know you well enough to think anything.’
‘Well, you probably remember me as some complete bitch from school. I mean, I practically invented the rumour mill.’ It’s a bold assumption to make but not far from the truth. ‘But whatever pre-conceived notion you have based on our school days, you should know I’m not a homewrecker.’
I don’t respond. I feel like I’m being told off by her.
‘And I do remember you now. I think I only passed English literature because of you.’
I pause for a moment over my laces. She remembers that?
‘You passed because you stole my work. You plagiarised a whole essay off me.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty much how I got through secondary education. You’re not the one I paid to do my coursework, are you?’
‘No. I actually got nothing in return. Not even a thank you.’
She shrugs back at me. I mean, I leant on Emma and Meg a fair bit but yes, she was renowned for being a blagger, a slag, a bitch, for getting away with murder mainly because of how she looked. I’m glad she has that much insight into herself to know how it would have garnered her a reputation. But does this mean she’s changed? I still don’t want to turn and see her on the loo so am grateful to hear my phone ping in my bag and go to find it to escape the awkwardness. It’s a message from Will.
I’ll be late again tonight. These deadlines can fuck off. Lemons xx
Oh. Again? All that suspicion and bad feeling is brought to the surface once more. I hear the toilet flush and turn to see Yasmin reading the expression in my face immediately.
‘You OK?’
‘Just a text from my boyfriend.’ I wish I’d said that with less worry in my tone.
‘Phil?’
‘Will.’
‘Oh yeah.’
We look at each other. It’s a strange look. There are stories here, and information to share but I’m not sure I want to share it with you, of all people. Something’s up with Will. You were snogging a married man. You just peed in front of me and are going to be my son’s new mother. I don’t like you much. She comes over to wash her hands.
‘Keep those trainers,’ she tells me.
‘Really?’
‘They’re so last season. I’d have given them to the charity shop otherwise. I’ll hit Stella up for some more.’
Here, have my charity, Beth. It looks like you need it.
She opens the door and scoops up her pissing dog. I wait until her back is turned, and stick my middle finger up at her.
Track Twelve
‘Red Alert’ – Basement Jaxx (1999)
‘Where did Lucy get this dress from again?’ asks Will.
‘A mate at work. Hers was too small, I needed the plus-size version. I’ll breathe in. Just tie up the corsetry bit.’
As if the plus-size thing wasn’t insult enough, Will puts a foot to my back and levers my backside into this dress as I breathe in and he pulls tighter. This is the sound you hear when rugby players fall into a scrum. Flesh pushes its way up and over my cleavage while some of my bodily organs seem to shift into other positions. This is what is needed on my birthday, a complete re-organisation of my insides. Will looks down at some nest of hair beside us.
‘You’re not wearing the wig?’
‘No. It makes me look some madam who ran a brothel through the French Revolution,’ I say.
We’re both dubious about what’s going to happen this evening. A chilled dinner turned into Lucy and Emma increasing the scale of the event beyond the quiet soirée which I had hoped for. So now, we have a sound system, a two-tiered cake and everyone dressing up as something beginning with B. I am not sure whose benefit this is all for but tonight, I am Belle from Beauty and the Beast. I hope people get this otherwise I am just going to look vaguely regal and full of self-importance. Maybe Will should have gone as the Beast. He’s dressed as a builder instead. It’s a lazy costume option that he literally fetched out of the boot of our car but I won’t lie, it’s slightly arousing. If I could remember what it’s like to feel aroused, that is.
I still can’t quite navigate what’s happening with us at the moment. Last week, when I was at Yasmin’s and he told me he was working late, it became a theme. For most of the week, he’d crawl in through the door past ten and we continued our lives in the
same vein. Work, baby, work, box set, takeaway, looking at the baby and wondering why it’s not sleeping, tired as fuck, work, baby. I left him be to stew in his work stress; he did the same as I wondered why Joe had a touch of nappy rash and only wanted to drink from my right boob. This isn’t a tag team situation. We need to deal with our own fires accordingly.
I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t look like royalty. I look like a Ferrero Rocher. It’s very gold. Will steps back to look at me.
‘How awful is it?’
‘It doesn’t look safe. It looks highly flammable. Don’t stand next to any open flames.’
‘Lovely, I have staff at my school coming to this. I’m going to look like an idiot.’
‘You won’t. There’s always some clown at fancy dress who’ll take it next level and everyone can stare at them. Lucy, maybe?’
He’s not wrong. We’ve just left Lucy and Emma in her bedroom next door and I can still hear them laughing in anticipation for the night’s events. Lucy has gone for pink Barbie vinyl while Emma is Bo Peep in a bonnet. It’s Little Women vs. Pretty Woman (for which we all blame Lucy).
‘Did I pick up on something before?’ Will asks. He’s been around me and the sisters long enough to know when a fight is brewing and he may be right this evening.
‘Stuart Morton.’
‘Meg’s brother-in-law? The one you…’
‘I didn’t sleep with him. But it turns out Emma now has. He’s working his way around the sisters.’
‘Yikes. Isn’t that incest?’
It happened after Emma visited Meg up North recently but it just makes no sense to me. It went against her straight sister persona and she’s since started a relationship with a new bloke, who is going to be at the party tonight.
So, between that bomb and the general locking of horns she always has with Lucy, I can’t quite focus. When is it a good time to say I don’t want to be here? I should have dropped that in a week ago before they hired speakers and bought one hundred red cups and a pillow-sized bag of sausage rolls from Costco. Looking up at us now dressed as a little bear is Joe, in a travel cot. The idea (wishful thinking) is that he may sleep through all of this. I wish I could crawl in that cot and nap with him.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 14
