by Katey Lovell
From the colour of my skin you’d think I was just back from a fortnight in the Maldives, but my tan was one hundred per cent salon and zero per cent sunshine. The wedding had taken place in January, and everyone knows winters on Tyneside are harsh. As well as the time spent topping up my (fake) tan, I’d been dedicatedly moisturising my lips to ensure they didn’t get chapped; I’d wanted to ensure they were a smooth base for the latte-coloured lip-gloss I’d favoured back then.
“That feels like a lifetime ago. A lot has changed since that day.”
I placed the photo back where it lived, nestled amongst pictures of my nephew, Noah, from his recent nursery photoshoot, without mentioning my ex-boyfriend Darius, who’d been my plus one for Nick’s wedding. It had been him who’d taken the family photo.
“For the better, I hope?” He smiled. “And there are going to be plenty more changes to come over the next few months.”
“I can’t wait,” I said, taking his hand in mine as we moved into the living room. “Things are about to get exciting.”
Chapter 3
Dad was in his usual seat at the left-hand side of the sofa, dozing as the TV talked to itself. It was one of those “Escape to the Sun” shows about moving to the continent. Every so often Mum threatens to up sticks and start afresh, and since she and Dad retired they’d spoken about it more and more, but they’re Newcastle through and through. Visiting my sister and her partner in Austria twice a year is as close as they were likely to get to moving abroad.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, raising my voice to a shout in the hope of stirring him. When he didn’t move a muscle I knew I’d have to go in hard if I was going to drag him out of his slumber. Honestly, it’d be easier to raise the dead.
I sank into the vacant seat on the settee and moved nearer, until my lips were close to his ears, grey hairs poking out wildly.
“BOOOO!” I shouted, right down his lughole, at the same time as I jabbed him in the ribs with my finger.
“Whaaaa?” he shouted, sitting upright and looking around the room in confusion. “What is it?”
A giggle escaped my lips. He looked like he belonged in a sitcom, with what was left of his hair sticking out at all angles, and his wide-eyed daze at being startled.
“You’d fallen asleep on the settee. Again.”
I wrapped my arm around him affectionately. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, as has Anna, and there’s not much better than his hugs.
“Oh, Sophie! Max! I’d forgotten you were coming over tonight. I wasn’t sleeping though, I was just resting my eyes.”
“Yeah, right.” I laughed. He always said that. “Had a busy day?”
“Pretty hectic, actually. You think retirement is all lazing around, but it’s not. This morning we were at the supermarket, then popped to the sorting office to collect a parcel, but ended up stuck in a queue for half an hour. Every time I see one of those red slips the postman leaves, I groan. Then we met Finley and Joel for lunch at The Bull – they send their love, by the way, and told me to tell you they’re buying a cockapoo – and when we got back here I put my feet up for five minutes and now you two are here.”
“Nothing wrong with a daytime nap, Mr Drew,” Max said.
“How many times, call me Bob. Mr Drew makes me feel like an old man.”
“You are an old man,” I teased. “Look at that hair, grey and receding.”
“The cheek of her,” Dad said to Max, with a cock of his head. “I happen to think it makes me look distinguished. Grey hair’s in fashion these days. Look at how mad the ladies go over George Clooney. It’s not done him any harm.”
“Did someone mention George Clooney?” Mum piped up. “I’ve always had a thing for him.” She turned to me. “I’ve been watching the repeats of ER. Even though I’ve seen it hundreds of times it’s worth watching again. That man’s a real silver fox.”
“See?” Dad replied triumphantly. “Grey hair’s for sex symbols these days, not just grandads from Newcastle.”
Max and I shared a look, and he nodded his encouragement to prompt me.
“Funny you should say that,” I started, reaching into my handbag for the little card containing the scan picture, “because we have some news.”
Mum gasped as what I was hinting at hit home, her hand flying to her face to cover her gawping mouth. Dad, bless him, didn’t seem to have a clue what was going on.
“Really?” she said finally. “You’re having a baby?”
“We are,” I confirmed, beaming at Max. “It was the scan today, that’s why we’ve not been at work, because we’ve been at the hospital.”
“And everything’s all right with you and the baby?” Mum’s voice wavered, and I knew she was sharing the same concerns I’d had myself. After what our family had been through it would have been weirder if we hadn’t been cautious.
“Everything’s wonderful,” Max assured her. “Everything’s perfect.”
Mum’s eyes were damp as she studied the photo, delicately but deliberately tracing our baby’s outline with her finger.
“Hello, little one,” she whispered, and the tears that had been clinging to her eyelashes loosened their hold and flowed freely down her face. “I’m your nana.”
My dad still hadn’t said a word, only just coming round from his dreamlike state.
“Congratulations, Pumpkin,” Mum said, as she wrapped one arm around me and the other around Max in a move that wasn’t far off being classified as a headlock. “Congratulations to you both. What lovely news for a Wednesday afternoon. I can’t believe it, can you, Bob? Our Sophie’s going to be a mummy!”
When Mum finally stopped squeezing us, I turned to face Dad, afraid his silence was masking his disapproval. It had happened fairly quickly after all, and although neither of my parents were particularly old fashioned, Max and I had only known each other for less than a year.
A jolt ran through me as I saw he too was tearful.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
He used the back of his hand to wipe away a tear as he nodded.
“I always worried about you, Soph. You’ll know what it’s like yourself, when your little one arrives. All a parent wants is for their children to be happy, and you never seemed sure what it was that would make you happy.”
“I’m happy, Dad,” I assured him, “really and truly. Max and this baby are all I need. It feels like everything’s falling into place in my life, at long last. I’ve never felt so content.”
“That’s all I want to hear,” he said. “Now, do I get to see this picture of my beautiful grandchild?”
Mum, her face still stained with tear-tracks, handed him the picture, and I suddenly saw my dad differently, his vulnerability right there on the surface rather than buried the way it usually was. When I was a child I’d always thought he was brave and strong, the way all girls think their dads are, but as he took in the image there was a fragility.
“Beautiful,” he said, his voice breaking. “Congratulations to the pair of you.”
“This calls for a celebratory treat, don’t you think?” Mum wafted her hands in front of her eyes to stem the tears. “And I know just the thing.”
Max smiled. “Chocolate cake?”
“Chocolate cake,” she confirmed. “It’s always been my baby girl’s favourite.”
And then I started crying too, hormone-fuelled tears of joy, because all I ever wanted was right in front of me.
Chapter 4
“You’re kidding? You’re pregnant?”
Tawna looked at me in disbelief. Anyone would think I’d told her we were expecting a flamingo, not a baby.
“Yeah.” I smiled. “Me and Max are expecting a baby. Due at the end of spring. We had the scan in the week, and it’s been killing me not telling you two, but I wanted to tell you in person. Some things are too big to share on WhatsApp.”
My cheeks were flushing red; I could feel the blood rushing to my head. I’d thought sharing the good news would get easier, but it still felt st
range, as though I was bragging about a swinging-from-the-chandeliers love life and super-fertile eggs flowing from my ovaries.
“That’s fantastic news.” Eve pulled me in for a hug. “You’re going to be brilliant parents, I know it.”
“Congratulations,” Tawna said, joining the hug. “I can’t believe you’re having a baby!”
People must’ve wondered what was going on, the three of us blocking the doorway to Jojo Maman Bebe in an emotional huddle, so we composed ourselves before going into the shop and oohing and aahing over the cute miniature clothes hanging from racks in colour order – pastel pink, powder blue and perfect unspoilt white.
“Look at this,” said Eve, one hand over her heart and another holding the world’s tiniest coat hanger aloft to brandish a red-and-white striped Babygro. “You’ve got to get this, it matches your top.”
She pointed to my T-shirt, a trusty Breton-striped design that I’d keep in my wardrobe until it fell apart, because the nautical look comes around again and again. Each year I thought the spring/summer fashions would alter, but stripes were timeless and classic, even though they did get a bit wibbly when stretched over my large (and soon to be getting larger) boobs. The Babygro was a scaled-down replica, although my T-shirt didn’t have a pair of press-studs at the bottom to hold a nappy in place (although after the pressure on my bladder at the scan I could have done with the reassurance of a nappy. The relief when I’d finally been allowed to go for a wee was like nothing else).
“It is cute,” I admitted, fingering the brushed-cotton fabric. “Although is it too much to be matchy-matchy with a baby if you’re not a celebrity? I don’t want to be a laughing stock.”
“Your baby, your rules,” Eve insisted. “It’s no one else’s business how you dress them.”
“Except for Max,” I pointed out, although I couldn’t see him having an issue with an inoffensive Babygro.
“Except for Max,” she agreed, although Tawna, who was admiring a hooded cardigan complete with bear ears, shook her head fervently.
“I disagree,” she said. “Max is a decent guy, and he loves the bones of you, anyone can see that. But his sense of style…” Her nose wrinkled in disapproval.
“What’s wrong with his style?” I asked defensively. “I like the way he dresses. Smart casual. We can’t all have partners who wear Savile Row suits on a daily basis,” I joked, referring to Tawna’s husband, Johnny, a successful local businessman who rocked the formal “hottie in a suit” look.
“I never said there was anything wrong with the way Max dresses, there’s no need to be so sensitive. If you’d let me finish, what I was going to say was that his sense of style isn’t as defined as yours. This baby’s going to have good genes, you want to make the best of it by dressing it well.”
“Clothes are clothes,” Eve shrugged, “especially for a baby. I don’t think many newborns are stressing over whether their threads are on trend.”
The comment didn’t surprise me – Eve had never been as bothered about fashion as Tawna and me, and although she dressed well, she wore styles she knew suited her slender figure rather than whatever items were hailed as the latest must-haves by the glossy magazines.
“I totally get what you’re saying, and I agree, up to a point. But my parents have photos of me dressed in some disastrous outfits as a toddler, and I don’t want to subject this little one to any horrors.”
I rubbed my stomach, small concentric circles massaging my belly.
“That’s why you need to take charge of baby’s wardrobe,” Tawna said pointedly. “It’s never too young to be stylish.”
Eve rolled her eyes skywards but remained silent.
“Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I will buy this after all,” I said, reaching out for the red-and-white striped Babygro. “Baby’s first outfit.”
I smiled, a fizz of excitement exploding in my stomach at the milestone.
“You know it makes sense.” Tawna grinned.
As I handed the item to the cashier to put through the till, I picked up a catalogue from the counter, thinking how easy it could be to revert back to my old ways of overspending. The world of baby accessories was both tempting and pricey. Maybe next time I hit the shops I’d do it without Tawna in tow. Shopping with my two besties was like having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. No prizes for guessing which friend had a halo and which was encouraging me to spend…
Chapter 5
We stopped to rest at a café, one we always went to when in town because of their amazing chocolate éclairs, pumped full of cream that can’t help oozing out of the pinholes it’s been piped through. The decadent layer of glossy dark chocolate was, quite literally, the icing on the cake. We had one each – even Tawna, who had given up on the faddy dieting she’d been prone to since getting married. I allowed myself to eye up the triple choc muffins piled high behind the glass of the counter, using the excuse I was eating for two when I bought one to take away.
“Anything else you need to buy?” asked Tawna, examining the bottle of nail polish she’d bought earlier. She shook the bottle, tapping the glass against the heel of her hand, before unscrewing the lid and painting a thin layer of the sparkly taupe polish over her nail. The heady smell turned my stomach.
“I need to get a piece of red felt. I’m making Christmas stockings for the nieces and nephews.”
“I meant for the baby!”
“Oh.” I laughed. “Well, I wanted a pair of maternity jeans, but they’re so expensive. Maybe I’ll see if I can find some second-hand ones.” I sighed.
Second-hand clothes weren’t the issue. Since tightening my belt charity shopping had become one of my favourite hobbies, a way to feed my retail therapy addiction without losing complete control of my finances (and with Max managing a charity shop I had my pick of the items that came in). It was more that the skin on my stomach was pressing harder against my jeans with every bite of the éclair, and although my stomach was more choux pastry than baby, I wasn’t under any illusions. It wouldn’t be long until nothing in my wardrobe fitted.
“Clothes are a necessity,” Tawna encouraged. “Maybe you could try a pair on? We have to go past Mothercare anyway to get back to the Metro.”
“People will look at me and wonder what I’m doing. I’m not even showing yet.”
My curvy figure meant that although I was quickly heading towards the halfway point I didn’t look pregnant, more just like I’d had a larger-than-normal Sunday roast, with double helpings of crumble and custard.
“You’re not showing, but you’re still pregnant, and you have to be comfortable,” Eve said rationally. “I’m with Tawna on this one, you’re going to have to wear something.”
“Maybe I will try some on,” I said, easily influenced. “If I find a pair I like I might be able to get the same ones cheaper online.”
“There are baby fayres too, aren’t there? I’ve seen them advertised on Facebook. People sell their maternity clothes and baby stuff because it’s practically unused. I bet if you look online you’ll find some locally.”
Eve was straight on it, tapping away at her phone screen to find an event in our area.
“Look, there’s one next weekend at the leisure centre. You should go, Soph. I bet you’d be able to snap up loads of bargains from your list.”
She referred to the shopping list on the back of the magazine I’d picked up. “Essentials” they’d called it, although I’d never even heard of half the stuff on it. Muslins? A steriliser? And would I really need a breast pump? It sounded more like an instrument of torture than a childcare necessity.
“Would it be tempting fate?” My stomach churned again, and I couldn’t tell if it was down to the potent fumes from the nail polish or out-and-out fear. “People get superstitious about buying things too early, don’t they?”
“Be positive,” Eve said, reaching out to rub my shoulder reassuringly. “If anything was going to go wrong – which it absolutely isn’t, by the way – it would
have nothing to do with whether or not you’ve bought a bouncy chair or a mobile to hang over the cot.”
“I know, I know. And I do want to be organised. I’m just nervous.”
“I think that comes with being a parent.” Eve smiled. “You’ve got a lifetime of worrying about this baby ahead of you.”
“Thanks.” I laughed, before sarcastically adding, “That’s really reassuring.”
Eve poked her tongue out in retort. “You know what I mean. Anyway, it’s up to you. If you want company, I’m free next weekend and happy to tag along, and if you don’t I’m sure there will be another one before you pop.”
“Urgh, I hate that term.” Tawna pinched the handle of the brush of the nail varnish between her fingers, careful not to smudge her newly painted nails. “It sounds like something from a horror film. I don’t want to think of Sophie popping, thank you very much.”
“Have you seen One Born Every Minute?” asked Eve. “Giving birth is beautiful and natural. The female body is amazing. Did you know the vagina stretches to four or five times its usual size during birth? I think having a baby must be pretty empowering, actually.”
Talking about stretchy vaginas wasn’t enough to put Eve off her éclair. She took a generous bite.
“Can I get over the queasiness and the tender breasts before we start analysing the birth?” I said lightly, although I was only half joking. I wanted to be as blissfully ignorant about that part of the process for as long as possible. “I know it’s got to come out one way or another, but I don’t want to spend the next five months panicking about it. I hate it when women play birth top trumps, scaring pregnant women with their own experiences of epidurals that didn’t work and massive forceps being shoved up their foof. Marcie told me about her stitches in great detail yesterday. I’ve never clenched my legs so tightly in my life. Now that’s a horror story.”
