‘Why are you being so hard on yourself? On us?’ I ask him.
‘Because look at people. Look at Peter, Jason, they’re so sorted in life. Meg, Emma… I just feel like we could be living like this for years, no one giving us a break. You and Joe deserve more.’
‘You want to be single like Jason? Divorced like Emma?’ It sounds like he’s craving their material lives – townhouses and rampant social lives. Is that what he wants? Not us? Are we stopping him from having those things? I also can’t work out if this is a really convoluted way of dumping me. It’s not you, it’s me. You deserve better. I can’t give you what I want. If he goes down some route of cowardice and dishonesty, then it’ll break me. Mainly because I never thought Will was that gutless.
‘Do you want to get married?’ he asks me.
The question sits in the air for a while. Was that a proposal he just put out there? Surely that’s the next step in this equation: babies, marriage… something of permanence. But at least get a bag of Hula Hoops out of the cupboard and do it right.
‘Well, no. Did you?’
The lack of romance here is heartbreaking – that we may be deciding on marriage as a way to glue this all back together. I can’t think of anything I want less at the moment than to wear a white dress and vacuum away our finances on a wedding. This has always been something we joked about, something we would possibly do when we were grown up but we never spoke about it seriously. We spoke about the playlists, the canapés and the quality of the party. We wanted a walking brass band playing funk. That would not be the answer now.
‘No…’
We sit here together contemplating what that means.
‘I do love you though,’ he says.
I don’t say it back. Those words mean nothing to me without him here. I don’t need him here with limp words. I need him here in this flat, despite all his misgivings and fatigue and showing up. He looks over at Joe.
‘I just thought parenthood would be easier. People made it look easier.’
I know. But that’s part of how we live, no? We spy people through their social media, through glossy magazines – people who seem to have their lives sorted, sewn up. Jeans. How do people find jeans that fit? How do people afford half-a-million-pound houses? How do they slip into being parents without even batting an eyelid?
‘It’s not easy,’ I reply. ‘I know… it’s fucking hard. I’ve never known fatigue like this and it’s the hardest thing we’ve had to do as a couple. But all Joe really needs is a dad. We need you here. It felt like this got hard and the first thing you did when that happened was to walk out.’
I start to tear up at my words. I care about this man so much, I’ve lived and loved and been by his side for the best part of eight years but the now deserves his full attention, his presence.
‘I’m sorry…’ he says.
I reach over and hold him close to me. I think about all the things that used to be us. How he’d come in from work and we’d sit here and absorb the details of each other’s day. We’d argue over who would make the tea. It was always enough for me; I didn’t need more. He starts stroking my arm and then brings me in tighter. I’ve missed you more than you know, you idiot. I reach up to kiss him, unable to remember the last time we actually achieved this simple level of intimacy. His face meets mine and he gives in, his lips meeting mine. I lean him into the sofa. Please come back to us. And then out of nowhere, I do a very strange cumbersome move where I try and straddle him. It’s anything but spontaneous. Crap, I think I am trying to seduce him. In a nursing bra. How am I going to do this? The baby is right there. Maybe I should turn Joe away? Will this scar him? We should go to the bedroom. I climb off him and lead him there by my hand. I haven’t shaved anything but the curtains are closed so he might not be able to see. It’s not even passion driving this but pure panic. I can try and sex him into staying. I start to take off my clothes and he does the same, getting his top stuck on his arms. He smiles at me. OK then, let’s have some sex.
‘Do you have a condom?’ I ask.
‘I don’t.’
‘Then I don’t think you can cum in me?’
‘I can’t?’
‘You were going to?’ I go to kiss him again to cover up the awkwardness. ‘We’ll make it up as we go along.’ I push him into the bed and he bumps his head on something hard. My laptop. I move the laptop to the floor and attempt to climb astride him. This bra is bloody hideous. I can also feel my many stomachs hanging. Like udders. I haven’t moisturised my legs. I don’t even know if I’m aroused; I’ve not even had the courage to look down there in six months. We used to be decent at this. But, it all feels alien to me, foreign. Those bits have a different purpose now. They make babies. Can I do this? I must. Will pulls his boxers down and I take off my knickers. Please don’t be completely horrified by my muff. I won’t release the boobs. I then reach down to touch him.
‘Is that alright?’ I ask.
He nods. I kiss him again. But it’s not alright, is it? There’s nothing happening. He doesn’t want this one bit. Oh. Oh dear. I retract my hand, heart sinking, and lie next to him quietly. That sealed that deal then. Wow. I felt as seductive as a beached walrus anyway, but now I feel utterly stupid. A tear escapes, because all I can think about is that girl he kissed at work. I think about how they kissed, how those lips were not mine. However drunk you are, you kiss someone because there is an attraction, a spark. This feels like someone throwing a match in a puddle.
‘Could you leave?’ I whisper.
‘I… I…’ I don’t know who this is embarrassing more but I don’t really want him here, watching me as I try and shift my body weight out of this bed, covering my body and putting my clothes back on awkwardly. I put a pillow over me.
‘Beth… it’s not…’
‘Seriously, shut up now.’
‘I don’t want to fight…’
‘Then it’s simple. Decide if you want to be here or not. Decide if you love me or not. But this? This is humiliating trying to work out what you’re thinking, trying to work out if I can handle the fact you kissed someone else, sitting here with our son trying to work out if you’ve abandoned us.’
‘I haven’t…’
My loud voice has obviously travelled into the other room and I hear Joe stirring in his car seat.
‘You’re not here. You’re debating this life we’ve made, you’re kissing other women and sitting in your brother’s house while you have some crisis over everything. You’ve shut me out. You’re making me feel like shit when I deserve better. I deserve to be wanted. Enough. Get out…’
‘Are you breaking up with me?’
‘I’m telling you to fuck off.’
This is not me. This is Lucy, this is Meg, this is – Christ – my mother. Will sits on the edge of the bed, struggling to put his clothes and shoes on.
Joe’s crying grows to a sharp crescendo.
‘Do you want me to check on…’
‘I’ll deal with him. Just go.’
‘But…’
‘GO!’
He skulks out the room and I hear the click of the front door. Sitting here in my knickers and bra, I glance at the ripples of my stomach in the mirror, the light hitting my skin so every crease, stretch mark and fold across my thighs, breasts and arms are magnified. Who am I? Why do I feel like this version of me is failing? Joe keeps crying and I hear loud footsteps, then a knocking on the ceiling above that falls in time with my own tears.
Track Seventeen
‘L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.’ – Noah and the Whale (2011)
‘I’ve been with men who can’t get it up. Was he drunk?’ Lucy asks me, a little too loudly. A pigeon looks at us strangely then flies away.
‘No.’
‘I’ve had some who were just plain tired?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I know what you’re thinking and that’s complete bull. I’m not even going to say that out loud…’
‘You’re allowed to say it. M
y body’s changed. Maybe he’s just not attracted to me anymore.’
Lucy looks over at me from the park bench on which we’re sitting and pushes me over, my stomach almost bouncing off the seat. For all the moments I’m proud of my body, of what it’s achieved, where I know this is just a natural evolution of my female form, it doesn’t mean I won’t have moments where I’m struggling to come to terms with this change, with who I am, which is why the other afternoon haunts me.
‘You’ve had a baby,’ Lucy informs me, like this is news to me.
‘Giselle had a baby and she slimmed down in weeks.’ I make a gesture with my hands like she could fit through prison bars.
‘Giselle the model? Yes, because she has nutritionists, a personal trainer, and it’s her job to be a skinny cow,’ Lucy replies. ‘Did Will actually say that to you?’’
‘Not in so many words.’ I look down at my hands and Lucy goes in for a hug.
‘Please. Sex isn’t about looking at people and getting hard. It’s energy, words, conversation, connection. It sounds like you were trying to glue it back together with sex.’
‘Is that not a good idea then?’ I ask.
‘No. You’re both in such different headspaces at the moment. Sex should be very low down on the agenda.’
‘I just can’t read him anymore, Luce. Not like I used to. I got so angry with him.’
‘For good reason. He’s messing with your head, your emotions.’
‘I guess he’s confused, hurting.’
‘And you’re not?’ Did Grace tell her about the kiss? ‘You’re the one who pushed this little bugger out. He was ten pounds – that is next-level cooch trauma.’
Joe is facing us in his buggy and looks over at me. I am sorry about that, Mum.
Last week’s bad, non-existent sex debacle has left our relationship status even more confused and muddled. I was angry about that kiss. We both needed space to digest that. There was also some thread there about work, changes and understanding new roles and our ability to cope. But the conversation left me frustrated and angry. And now, when I think of Will, I don’t think of someone I know and love; I think of someone who’s decided last minute that they’re not getting on the rollercoaster, abandoning me on this crazy ride all by myself. I don’t think I can do it, I’ll just sit this one out. So I’m some sad single rider, hanging upside down, my body tossed in all directions, I can’t feel my face half the time, and I am well and truly on my own.
‘Are you getting out? Distracting yourself?’
‘I did the model thing which was random, and we went to a baby-friendly screening of some romcom.’
‘Some romcom?’
‘I fell asleep. So did Joe.’ It turns out that all Joe needs to break into some deep sleep is some Dolby Surround Sound, the muted crunch of overpriced popcorn, complete darkness and the aircon cranked up to icy.
‘I’ve been getting more involved in school stuff. Chatting to Sean again,’ I say, trying to persuade Lucy I’m not a complete social saddo.
‘In the flesh?’
‘On WhatsApp?’
It’s mostly been conversations where we send each other memes and laughing out loud emojis.
‘So you think this is the answer?’ she asks, referring to what we’re about to do.
‘Yes. Maybe I need to up my game. Get some endorphins flowing and it might help me get into better shape.’
‘I’m not exercising with you if you think you need to be skinny to win back Will.’
‘It’s not that.’
She studies my face.
‘I also need to just be a better human. I’m in terrible shape. I thought I was having a heart attack the other day walking up the stairs in the Tube. Joe deserves a mother who’s looking after herself at least.’
‘So this is all self-care?’
I salute her and nod. I need to work on me; my brain is like porridge so I need to fix the sum of the parts so that the whole can function again. This body, this life, this role is one I need to embrace wholeheartedly and throw myself into. So today is phase one of bucking up my ideas: time to tone and sculpt and get me all Botticellian/Rubenesque goddess as opposed to the head-all-over-the-place Dalí-esque mother I am.
And it starts with a healthier frame of mind, by regaining my fitness. I say regain – I’m not always sure I had fitness. I had luck. I walked to places and had a twentysomething metabolism. I ate badly thinking it was important not to shut out the major food groups, like alcohol and sugar, but now age and post-partum biology is anything but forgiving. It’s time to be one of those mums who run around parks with their buggies and convene in a circle to lift tyres and skip. Yes, apparently this is a thing in this park we’re in. I’ve even sat on this bench and watched as some ex-military man shouted at the mothers while they all bench-pressed their babies and I ate crisps and laughed. Except that sort of fitness costs money, a lot of money. So do gyms. I don’t have the energy or confidence to exercise in front of others anyway, so that’s why Lucy is here instead, decked out in tight Lycra to lead me in some exercise regime. I have no idea what she has planned, but I am very much not in Lycra. I am in cropped threadbare cotton leggings, a giant hoodie and Reebok Classics. I feel like I should be wearing a sweat band at least.
‘Is this because you’re hanging around them models too?’ Lucy asks suspiciously.
I don’t doubt that having Yasmin in my line of sight may subliminally have had some effect on what I’m feeling. But turning me into Yasmin King might take major surgical intervention as opposed to a few jumping jacks in the park. I reach down to my phone and reveal a picture on my camera roll that Giles messaged over yesterday. It’s Joe and Yasmin in the yoghurt ad, looking completely perfect. Banana Joe looks up at Yasmin adoringly (he’s not really, he’s looking up at a toy being jingled on a stick) while Yasmin is keeping it casual, leaning against a kitchen counter, not a hair or an eyelash out of place. It’s not reality, I know it isn’t, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to look at Joe with some other perfect mother.
‘Maybe…’ I tell Lucy.
‘I can write you a list as long as the Nile of the ways you are better than her. I’ve met models in my game. Half of them live off Cup-A-Soup and air to keep them that skinny. And drugs too, they take all sorts of laxatives.’
‘Speaking of laxatives…’
‘You didn’t…?’
‘No, I went on Yasmin’s page and tried some of that Ayurvedic shit.’
‘Yoga?’
‘Lentils. I made a curry like on one of her Insta stories. It was yummy.’
‘That’s a start.’
‘But the spice gave me the squits and the most phenomenal wind. I thought I was going to explode.’
‘You idiot.’
We sit there laughing. Maybe that’s all I need – a diet of dried fruit, lentils and extremely hot spices.
‘But if you want to take it seriously,’ Lucy says, ‘then let’s do something now. I can do a HIIT routine with you?’
‘What does that mean? Is it a fighting thing? Will I get to actually hit you?’
‘No, numpty. It’s high intensity interval training.’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘If it’s not hurting, it means it’s not working. Pain before gain.’ She says this in a booming man’s voice like I’m about to go in an actual ring. I was more thinking something light and dance-based?
Lucy walks over to a patch of grass, setting up a small wireless speaker. Some energetic dance music plays out of it and she starts jogging on the spot. Self-conscious, I look over my shoulder to ensure no one thinks we’re just a group of errant youths.
‘This will be good. It may limber you up.’
‘If it doesn’t kill me.’
‘So I’ll play a series of bleeps at time intervals and I’ll tell you what to do in each one. For the first minute, we’re going to do some prisoner squats.’
She puts her hands to her head and squats like she’s sitting down. I
can do that. I follow.
‘Really deep, like you’re sitting on a chair. Feel the burn in your thighs.’
My thighs seem to quiver like this is the first time they’ve been asked to operate beyond supporting my body weight. I feel a burn but the bleep hasn’t gone yet so I keep going.
‘It burns.’
‘Keep going.’
Bleep. Thank crap for that.
‘Good and now fast feet.’
Oh shit, we’re running on the spot. I can feel myself jiggling. Like every part of me, even my eyeballs. I should have done something with my hair. She looks at my face curled up in pain.
‘You really don’t do any sort of exercise, eh?’
‘Oh, piss off.’
She can actually breathe. She has full working capacity of her lungs. How? I’ve run on the spot for literally just thirty seconds. I can feel my underboobs sweating.
‘Now, thirty seconds off. Take in some water.’
I glug at my bottle nearby and watch Joe as he looks over, concerned. Be good to this one, Aunty Lucy, she’s all I have at the minute.
‘And we’re back into some jumping jacks.’
‘With my norks? I’ll take an eye out.’
‘Then slowly, less jumping. Legs out, hold on to your core.’
I do as I’m told but can feel the elastic on my bra begging me to stop. How do I hold on to my core? Isn’t that my spine? Or is that my stomach? Whatever it is, it’s begging me to stop.
‘It hurts, Luce.’
‘That’s your fat cells dying.’
‘It’s me dying. Maybe we should have gone for a spirited walk instead?’
‘You could have done that with your old man BFF neighbour. I bought a bus ticket to get here. Now, walk outs.’
I drop to the floor. My arms take on slow pounding motions like you’d expect the legs of a brontosaurus to make on the ground. This is not dignified. I am not doing anything in time to the music either because I can’t hear it; just my heartbeat and my cells crying out for mercy.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 20
