Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner

by Kristen Bailey

  I nod. To be fair, that is probably all the punishment he deserves.

  ‘You wrote something… about becoming a dad? Being a good dad. I got that, I felt that.’ He looks worried that this is me commenting on the quality of his fatherhood skills. I go on, ‘What I mean is I haven’t got the hang of this parenthood thing either… I’ve got a new body, a new role in life, a new human. I want to love it all so much, but nothing is immediate, nothing is perfect. The flaws, the things we get wrong, the mistakes we make…they’re all part of the process – and Joe needs to see that. I’d rather he sees us as two people trying our bloody best, but not always getting it right. And most of all, he needs to see us doing it together.’

  Will nods, looking out into the glowing red brake lights that line the road for what seems like miles. Nine years together and they’ve been the best ones of my life but as the adventure moves on, the challenges have changed, we need each other more than ever.

  ‘Don’t walk out like that on me ever again, or next time I won’t let you back in,’ I say in serious tones.

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘And thank you for not asking me to marry you in my parents’ front room too.’

  ‘Did I scare you for a moment?’ he asks.

  ‘Maybe. Did you see Mum’s face?’

  We both laugh.

  ‘I don’t want to marry you, Will.’

  He looks over. Even though we’ve already discussed this, I can’t tell if he’s crestfallen or relieved.

  ‘I like us. I want to work at us and that’s all. I have no idea what that is supposed to look like. But it’s not a white wedding and being married… and it’s not as anything else. And I think that’s OK. Does that make any sense at all?’

  He nods. ‘Just you and me and Joe.’

  ‘Just hanging out forever?’

  ‘I can do that.’

  You’d better. The song changes on the CD and skips a little. It’s the car, it does this occasionally. It also has a tendency to stall and the windows fog up far too much. I see Will trying to catch my eye from the passenger seat, trying to work out it if I’ve forgiven him or not.

  ‘I missed this,’ he says.

  ‘This?’

  He nods. I know exactly what he means.

  ‘Can I kiss you, Beth?’

  I reply by leaning over and initiating the act myself. There is a flash of light as our lips meet. Then a car beeps its horn. We smile, our faces millimetres away from each other. The lights have changed colour, the traffic is moving again. They can wait.

  By the time we get in and through the door, Joe has passed out and we enter our building to find a face sitting outside our front door, having a drink with Paddy. Yasmin. I have a feeling that Paddy might be drunk – I know he’s spent the day with his sons, enjoying Christmas and plenty of whisky. They both sit on camping chairs, laughing hysterically.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘Oh my God, Beth. I’m moving in with Paddy. I’m having my baby with him!’

  Paddy does his best not to blush. ‘Can you imagine? I’ll call my sons and tell them I’m moving in with a supermodel who’s a fraction of my age.’

  ‘And he thinks I’m a supermodel, so I love him even more now.’

  They continue to laugh while Will and I look on, confused. Paddy suddenly realises what’s happening and points at Will.

  ‘You’re back!’

  ‘I am,’ says Will.

  Yasmin looks at me, her eyes sparkling. She’s never doubted that this would be the case. I guess in comparison to her own woes, she felt this was just two people ironing out creases, as opposed to the red sock in the ruined white-wash mess that was her own life. Plus, she always saw our threesome through other eyes, like it was something she coveted.

  ‘Good to have you back on the block, young man,’ Paddy replies. He comes over and gives Will a forceful hug, ending with patting him quite hard on the back. They disappear into our flats to retrieve glasses and such so we can partake in this mini Christmas piss-up in the corridor.

  ‘You’re here?’ I ask Yasmin.

  ‘I actually came with presents. I got something for my “fake son” and also for you as a thank you for everything. You sent me a text this morning. I should have replied.’ She hands over a gift bag.

  ‘And you’re OK? You’ve seen the wife’s Insta post?’ I ask.

  ‘It wasn’t what I thought I’d be waking up to on Christmas day, but it certainly led to an epiphany. I’ve been waiting a whole year for him to leave her. And all that time, it wasn’t just me. There were other people involved. He’s done poorly by us all and that’s not the sort of man I want fathering my child.’

  ‘I met his wife the other day, locally and quite by chance. I may have pushed that along…’

  ‘Geez, for a quiet one in school, you’re quite some social butterfly now.’

  I shrug jokingly.

  ‘I’m moving back with my parents for a bit, but yeah, I’m going to have a baby. And none of my mates have babies so you’re kind of stuck with me now.’

  We make an unlikely pair. I’m about a foot shorter than her and I feel a foot wider but hell, let’s see if this works. Though if she does one of those naked pregnant photo shoots where it looks like she’s swallowed a basketball then the deal is off.

  ‘Your present is inside. It’s a tub of Tangfastics,’ I say. ‘It was that or a parenting manual.’

  ‘They come with manuals?’

  ‘Apparently. I didn’t read a single one. You can also just wing it and they still come out half normal.’

  We glance over at Joe, hoping he didn’t hear that in his sleep. Paddy emerges with some more mugs and Will with a wireless speaker blasting out some Dean Martin, doing that clicky finger move that anyone does when swing music starts playing.

  ‘Would the lady like a dance?’ Paddy asks Yasmin. As she’s so tall, Yasmin gives Paddy an underarm twirl like she’s taking the lead. Joe’s eyes spring open and Will unbuckles him from his car seat and picks him up. We prop him up between us and he wipes a drooly hand on Will’s cheek. I’m not sure either of us expected we’d be ending our first Christmas like this but here we are, huddling in our corridor, swaying gently to keep us warm.

  ‘I had a thought over lunch. Do you think you could batter a Christmas pudding?’ Will says suddenly.

  ‘And deep fry it?’

  ‘Well, yeah?’

  ‘This was all you thought about at my parents’ house?’

  ‘I also thought about how many times I’ve seen you in that maxi dress now and I’ve not even seen you that much in the last few months.’

  ‘Says he, king of the checked shirt.’

  ‘I’ll give you that. Are those trainers new?’

  ‘Courtesy of my bezzie mate.’ I look over at Yasmin. In all of this, she also provided distraction, companionship, some way to perceive everything differently.

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Will twirls Joe around a few times and he giggles and kicks his legs in the air.

  ‘We should get a picture of us. Of our first Christmas together,’ Will suggests.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Good a place as any?’

  He whips out his phone, pulling a surprised face which makes Joe and I laugh, and he snaps the picture. He shows it to me. I look drunk, all teeth. Old shoes and a buggy are in the background against the peeling paint on the walls and the holly wreath that Paddy hangs on his door. Errant hairs sprout out from my hairline and I think that might be a bogey stuck up one of Will’s nostrils.

  ‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘Delete.’

  ‘Never,’ he says, kissing me on the forehead. ‘It’s perfect.’

  Epilogue – Six months later

  ‘Hey Joe’ – The Jimi Hendrix Experience (1967)

  Motherhood. So everyone tells you to buy a crap load of muslins, how your boobs grow to the shape of generous honeydews, the teething, the nappy rash, the wind, but they nev
er tell you about other mothers. Christ alive, they are bloody everywhere. People pop babies out like Pringles and you know what, no one is getting it right. If anyone says they are, then they are lying to you because I will bet you that there are times when they’ve been standing in a dark room at three in the morning, pondering what day it is, asking whether they’re the only people in the world who are awake, and questioning whether that smell is them or the baby.

  Will and I are currently standing in a hospital ward, taken back to that time when I pushed Joe out. I was awful. I’m told there was a lot of next-level swearing and I had to buy chocolate for everyone on the ward by way of apology. This is not the same ward but there’s everyone from the pregnants who tread the corridors clutching toiletry bags, to fresh mums who sit in beds with their bras on show, drooling into pillows, their complexions flushed, hair pulled back, wearing new pyjama bottoms that cover up all horror of paper knickers, giant sanitary wear and freshly carved C-section wounds.

  ‘I want all the drugs, Richard. My boobs feel like they’re on fucking fire.’

  I don’t know where that voice comes from but, Richard, give the lady what she wants. Give all these ladies everything they want. They all deserve medals, respect, lots of chocolate and to watch as much crap TV as their soon-to-be tired hearts will require. A couple toddle past trying to get a baby moving out of its cosy womb-home.

  ‘I remember doing that,’ Will says, like I may have forgotten.

  ‘All you did was buy the Magnums.’

  ‘And look how well they worked? That’s why Joe is so sweet,’ he says, squidging his cheeks.

  ‘Or nuts.’

  Will wrestles Joe in his arms. He walks now and no one warned us about this either. That suddenly, he’s fleeing us in all directions, grabbing stuff, claiming his independence and freedom. He’s a bloody unpredictable dynamo of a child, nothing is safe. I mean, still edible but just like a constantly moving escape artist. Will puts him down on the floor and he punches his dad in the nuts and then runs off. To where, who knows?

  ‘She’s ready now,’ a midwife says, approaching us. Will scoops up Joe as we go through to the ward we need. It’s visiting hours so there are many a grandparent and helium balloon in the vicinity. They all stand around Perspex cots housing tiny babies that look like well-wrapped shawarma. We get to a closed curtain and I peek my head around.

  ‘Hey.’

  Yasmin doesn’t say a word. Her baby lies there in her arms and she sits there cross-legged in jersey joggers and a vest, her hair tied into a perfect plait.

  ‘You cow. You’re not supposed to look so well.’

  I remember that first day in the hospital. Photos confirm that I looked hungover and extremely bloated. I go over to hug her and inspect the newborn. She has a little rosebud mouth and lashings of caramel-coloured hair.

  ‘Oh, she’s beautiful, Yas.’

  ‘That she is,’ adds Will. ‘Congrats.’

  Yasmin waves at Joe, who pulls a face back at her. ‘“Well” might be an overstatement. Underneath it all, it’s a bit of a car crash.’

  Will’s eyes scan the room wondering if he needs to hear any more detail.

  ‘And feeding is weird. We’ve had to move on to bottles. I don’t know if it’s the right thing. Does it feel like my milk’s coming in?’

  I reach over and press my hand to one of her breasts. ‘It’ll come. Don’t worry, there’s no right answer. Do whatever gives you greater peace of mind.’ I pull a present out of my bag. It’s muslins. I’m passing on that wisdom, at least.

  She smiles. ‘Thank you. And I didn’t forget – I posted Joe’s present before I came in here. Happy birthday, little man.’

  If meeting Yasmin King again after all these years was weird and coincidental enough, she goes and has a baby induced today, of all days. Yes, one year apart, we are in possession of kids with the exact same birthday.

  ‘Does she have a name yet?’ Will asks.

  ‘Jo.’

  Will and I look at each other. I mean, we like you and everything but be original, no?

  She cackles to see our faces. ‘Of course it’s not Jo. My last name is King. She’d be Jo King.’

  This makes Will howl. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to work out how Yasmin is laughing. I sneezed post-labour and thought my bladder had fallen out.

  ‘Posey. This is Posey.’

  I like that. Goes with the cheeks, her pursed little lips and the fact that’s what her mum does for a living. Yasmin looks down at her and I’m just glad she’s got to this point. Harry is not in the picture, but she has family support, us and the right people who’ve shown up when it matters. I can’t describe the next part of this journey for her but that glow in her face, the calm she exudes, tells me she’s well equipped to take it all on. Will and Joe go over to inspect. That was you once, Joe.

  ‘Posey and Joe. Do you think they’ll be mates as they grow up? What if they get married?’ she asks.

  ‘Then I’m not standing next to you in the wedding photos,’ I say.

  A midwife enters the space.

  ‘Oh wow! Is this big brother and Daddy?’ she asks.

  We all stare at each other, grinning. Who am I then? The hired help? The sister?

  The friend.

  ‘Not quite, this is my fake son,’ Yasmin says to confuse matters further. She pulls a face at Joe.

  ‘I’m his mum,’ I say.

  The midwife looks confused, obviously checking to see if we match. Joe wrinkles his nose at her. No, I definitely came out of her. I was there, I should know.

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JOE! BIG LOVE FROM ALL OF US! EAT LOTS OF CAKE! WELL DONE, B&W, FOR GROWING A BABY FOR A WHOLE YEAR!

  The excitable text message is accompanied by a ridiculous family selfie that involves Tango in a wine glass, a cat wearing streamers and long lines of emojis. Well played Meg et al. I smile at my phone and reply with a heart.

  It’s been a quiet day so far for one so momentous. We woke up together in bed, grateful it was a weekend, and spent a good half hour staring at and hugging Joe, wondering where this year has gone. One minute, pop, a baby had come out of me; the next, a year has flown by, filled with emotions and 365 days of doing everything and nothing. I’ve changed thousands of nappies, I’ve milked enough milk to fill several bathtubs, I’ve been awake all the hours, and I’ve spent an absurd amount of time in leisurewear and big knickers. I could slay you at daytime TV quiz shows now and also show you how well I can fall asleep, pretty much within the same breath. Will had a moment. He left us, he came back. I gained two extraordinary new nieces. Joe was slightly famous for five minutes and I hope that will make him an answer in a music trivia-based quiz one day. I still chat to Kimmie. We tell each other what to read and she sent Joe expensive designer Gucci stuff I’ve seen on Kardashian children for his milestone first year. We are pondering whether to flog it on eBay. My social circle these days includes the sisters (goes without saying), a model I went to school with, a pensioner who lives opposite me and a wonderful couple in Giles and Oliver, who have taught us where all the best baby-friendly brunches are. Joe gave up the modelling for a quieter life of obscurity, but Giles still tries to lure us back occasionally with tales of projectile vomit and diva babies who aren’t Joe. I’m also back working again. I feel all the guilt, especially as I was rubbish at sorting childcare so am leaning on Mum and Dad, but I went back into classrooms to do my bit for the youth. Imogen and Harvey are still together. I miss Sean in the staff room but he’s doing alright in Toronto revelling in the fact that you can pretty much order anything on a Canadian menu and chances are it’ll come with maple-cured bacon. Another highlight is the new floor in our flat, the Callaghan clan’s Christmas present to me. Engineered wood floorboards: game changer.

  Will and I are not the same people we were when this year started and this is most likely down to our little person. Will is happier, less frantic about what parenthood all means, completely at ease, as if he no longer worries about fatherhood
like a series of problems that need fixing. He’s begun to love this. He doesn’t look awful in chinos. I don’t wear chinos but I am eighty per cent midi wrap/smock dress and the other twenty per cent is still sugar, carbs and stretch marks and that suits me just fine. Two months ago, I did listen to Lucy, who said a fringe would suit me. It doesn’t. I now have to wait another year to grow that fucker out.

  I look over at Will now, Joe on his shoulders. This birthday is not quite over, not yet.

  ‘Has he thrown up in my hair?’ Will asks as we traverse a pelican crossing. I go on my tiptoes to inspect. Joe grabs at handfuls of Will’s hair.

  ‘I think that’s just drool.’

  ‘That is lovely, Joe.’

  ‘Cooling on such a warm summer’s day, no?’ I say.

  ‘Oh no, it’s all counteracted by the very warm feeling around my neck.’

  Joe doesn’t care. Let’s just hope his nappy doesn’t leak. When we arrive at our destination, a bouncer inspects our tickets and gives us the once over. Are we cool enough to enter? I mean these two are in matching Converse hi-tops (a parenting goal realised, by the way). We’re way cooler than the dad behind us in Birkenstocks, that’s for sure. Yet for once, the presence of a baby and a sensible rucksack filled with breast pads is actually a pre-requisite to enter this Brixton venue. Big Fish, Little Fish. Yes, we opted against a round of pass-the-parcel in our flat and have brought Joe to his first rave to celebrate a whole year of being alive. Let’s party properly, young man. It’s a family-friendly rave, Lucy told me, and two to four hours long, as opposed to twenty-four hours. One of her mates works here. He’ll be the one on stilts with the hula hoop apparently. Lucy couldn’t tell me much more but I suspect there will be big Capri Sun energy and glowsticks for miles.

  Will looks genuinely excited as we enter the premises. ‘Do we know if they’ll play the classics?’ he asks. ‘It has to be full on rave music. If they play “The Grease Megamix”…’

  ‘Then we will leave,’ I reassure him.

  There’s the sea of people that I’ve come to expect at gigs and club nights but the demographic has changed for sure. There are still face paints, fairy wings and foam but the ladies now also come armed with sippy bottles and jeans with a hint of stretch, and the men herd children away from sharp edges and staircases, weighed down with Bugaboos. No more sweets. Don’t hit your brother. Why have you taken off your jumper? Where is your jumper? Why is your tongue blue? Stay together. Don’t run off. Who’s having fun? I told you to have a wee before you left the house.