by Zoe May
Besides, it’s not like my social life is completely non-existent. My best friends Lauren, Danielle and Amber come down to visit when they can and we go out for lunch followed by shopping or a walk in the park. I was a bit worried that my friends might get bored hanging out with a baby, but they adore Hera. Amber – a lifestyle blogger I met at a press launch years ago – is six months pregnant so she’s obsessed with everything baby-related. My uni mate Danielle and my best friend from school, Lauren, have very opposing views on children. Danielle longs to have three children and she and her boyfriend Jack have just started trying for a baby. She keeps asking me a ton of questions, like ‘which sex position is best for insemination’ and will she ‘get pregnant faster with regular exercise’ (like I used to). Unlike Danielle, Lauren, who’s still single and playing the field, prefers cats to children and swears she’ll never ‘breed’ as she puts it. Of all my friends, Lauren is the one I’m closest to, even if our lives are totally different these days. Lauren’s a freelance social media marketer and her days are packed with spin classes, Starbucks laptop sessions and nights out at glamourous industry events. My mumsy lifestyle is definitely not for her, but even Lauren loves Hera. Hera’s impossible not to love, really. She’s just so cute. She’s got the sweetest little smile imaginable and even her cry isn’t that bad. I’ve heard some babies at the local creche whose cries should be played in place of fire alarms. They’re that piercing.
I know I sound really boring, but I don’t always do baby-friendly things with my friends. Every couple of weeks, I’ll leave Hera with my mum and head to London. I find a nice café somewhere and have lunch with my assistant Becky, where we discuss our latest campaigns. Becky’s awesome. We used to work together in the Camden office and I was worried she might lose interest in the business once I left London and stopped being as hands-on, but she’s stayed loyal. After Becky and I catch up, I’ll meet my friends for dinner and drinks, like we used to before I was a mum.
Okay, so my social life isn’t much. It’s certainly a lot less exciting than it used to be, but the weird thing is, I’ve stopped minding. I’ve got used to winding down at home with Netflix in the evenings and a bowl of popcorn. It’s cosy, almost like a home cinema. And anyway, even if I did have the time or inclination to go out, where would I go? There’s not much to do in Chiddingfold. There’s a village green which may have seemed like a fun place to hang out when I was a teenager, but it’s hardly appealing now, unless I’m taking Hera for a walk. There are a couple of cute, cosy pubs that are lovely for Sunday lunch, but they’re not exactly happening. And then there’s Chiddingfold Cinema, which is actually just a projector screen and a few chairs lined up in rows in the village hall. It’s kind of adorable, but they show one film a month and it’s usually a ‘new release’ that came out at least two or three years ago. Oh, and a state-of-the-art gym opened recently a few miles down the road, but the last thing I want to do is head there and find Chiddingfold’s answer to Leroy.
‘Come on, love. It’ll be a great night,’ my mum insists.
‘I don’t know …’ I squirm. The fundraiser did used to be a laugh and I do want to show my support for Mick, but I only just finished working and I was looking forward to snuggling up on the sofa and watching the next episode of the latest sitcom I’m addicted to.
‘Brian will be there,’ my mum adds with a wink.
‘Oh God!’ I groan. Brian is a bicycle repair man who’s tried it on with every woman with a pulse in the village, yet that hasn’t stopped my mum trying to set me up with him ever since I moved back home. He’s got weird googly eyes and an insanely annoying habit of saying ‘do you know what I mean?’ at the end of every sentence. You’ll run into him in town and comment on the weather and he’ll respond, ‘Yeah, it’s really cold. Do you know what I mean?’ or he’ll be talking about the latest bike he’s been fixing and comment, ‘It’s got a really good gear suspension, do you know what I mean?’ My brain just switches off every time I talk to him. I’ve told my mum a million times I don’t fancy him, but she acts like I’m overlooking Prince Charming. I shudder to think of what it would be like to be with Brian. Can you imagine – ‘I love you, do you know what I mean?’
‘Mum, I’m not going to date Brian!’ I remind her.
‘He’s a lovely lad,’ my mum huffs defensively.
‘Mum, seriously …’
‘Alright, alright.’ My mum throws her hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’ll stop trying to set you up with Brian, but I still think you should come. Mick knows you’re back. He’d love to see you there. Just a few hours, for Maggie.’ She eyes me imploringly.
How can I say no to the memory of Mick’s dead wife?
‘Okay, fine,’ I relent. ‘I wish you’d told me earlier though. What am I going to wear?’
I give Hera the last piece of cracker, before brushing the crumbs from my hands.
‘I’m sure you’ll find something!’
‘Hope so! Keep an eye on Hera while I look?’
My mum nods as she nibbles on another cracker and cheese.
I race upstairs. She’s right, I will find something. I have a ton of clothes. They wouldn’t fit in my old wardrobe, so I had to buy two rails to put them on. I try to pass my clothes addiction off as an occupational hazard of working in fashion and beauty PR. When I lived in London, I used to go to meetings, product launches and networking events all the time and I’d be expected to look the part. I needed to show our clients that I had my finger on the pulse and knew about the latest trends, which meant buying into the coolest looks every season. But it’s not like it was a chore, I do genuinely love fashion and I love getting stuff that isn’t on trend too, whether that’s a nice charity shop dress, a comfy pair of boyfriend jeans or a slouchy oversized T-shirt.
I rifle through my clothes racks a few times until I find a short-sleeved purple jumpsuit I bought six months ago and never got around to wearing. It’s tailored and smart, but its purple shade and gold drawstring waist give it a playful edge. It’s perfect. I pull off the leggings and T-shirt combo I’ve been living in recently, swap my sports bra for a regular one and slip into the jumpsuit. I check my reflection in my bedroom mirror. The jumpsuit looks good on, but it’s too dressy to wear without make-up. I don’t have time to do a full face of make-up, so I smooth a bit of BB cream onto my skin, add a touch of blusher, some tinted lip balm and a slick of mascara. That’ll do. I pull my hair out of its messy bun and run a comb through it. I take in its slightly frizzy appearance and wonder whether I have time to use my straighteners.
‘Natalie! Hurry up!’ my mum bellows up the stairs.
‘Okay! Okay!’ I call back, abandoning all thoughts of straightening my hair. I grab a hairclip from the dish on my dressing table and attempt to pin my hair to the side, but it looks weird, so I just let it down again. It looks a bit scruffy, but it will do. It’s only a fundraiser at the village hall, after all.
I grab my wallet and phone, shove them into a handbag and head downstairs.
‘I’m ready!’ I say as I walk back into the kitchen.
My mum’s put away the crackers and cheese and is now playing with Hera, who is back in her highchair. She looks over her shoulder.
‘Oh, lovely outfit you’ve got on,’ she says, clocking my jumpsuit.
‘Thanks Mum,’ I reply, walking over to her and Hera.
‘How’s my gorgeous girl doing?’ I ask.
‘I’m good,’ my mum replies, with a grin, as she waves Mr Bear around for Hera.
I roll my eyes. ‘I meant Hera, Mum!’
‘I know!’ She laughs as Hera reaches out and grabs Mr Bear, before clutching him close to her chest. She starts blinking sleepily and her head drops forward a little.
‘Oh no, she’s tired!’ I say. ‘Maybe she needs to go to bed.’
‘We’ll put her in her carrier, and she can have a little nap on the way. Relax love. An hour at the village hall isn’t going to kill her.’
Hera’s eyes droop clo
sed, and I begin to have serious doubts over whether going to this fundraiser is a good idea. ‘Look at her!’
‘Well, let her have a nap in her carrier then. That baby sleeps like a log. She’ll be fine. We’ll only be out for a bit anyway,’ my mum says impatiently. ‘I just want to see if I win anything in the raffle. Mick’s worked really hard on this year’s draw. The top prize is a romantic getaway to Marrakech!’
‘A romantic getaway to Marrakech!? Seriously?’ I balk. ‘I could swear the last time I went to Mick’s fundraiser the top prize was a picnic hamper.’
‘Well, it’s come a long way since then! Mick’s been pulling some strings.’
I raise an eyebrow. Mick, pulling strings? He’s a retired office administrator whose social life revolves around the local bridge club, how many strings can he pull?
‘A trip to Marrakech could be just the thing for you!’ my mum says with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Didn’t you say it was a romantic getaway? Who am I going to take?’
It’s a bit tragic to admit, but I haven’t so much as held hands with another man since things ended with Leroy. I’ve been so preoccupied with trying to be a good mum and keeping my business running smoothly that I haven’t had any time to go on dates. It’s not like I meet anyone now that I’m a homebody. The only men I encounter in my daily life these days are the postman and takeaway delivery men (and unfortunately neither are sexy).
‘You could go with Lauren. I’ll take Hera for a few days. And anyway, you could always make it romantic,’ she suggests with a wink.
I frown. ‘Huh? Mum, are you suggesting that I seduce my best friend?!’
‘No!’ I’m suggesting that you might meet a nice man while you’re there. Have a little holiday romance!’
‘Oh God,’ I grumble. ‘Are you serious, Mum?’
‘What?’ She shrugs exaggeratedly with a cheeky wink. ‘It wouldn’t hurt!’
I stare back at her, deadpan. ‘Somehow, I doubt a dodgy holiday romance in Marrakech would be a great move right now and secondly, I find your concern for my sex life a little disturbing!’
‘I’m not concerned. I’m just saying, a little holiday romance might be fun. It might do you some good,’ my mum says, waving Mr Bear for Hera. Hera ignores her, nodding off instead.
‘Some sun might do me good,’ I point out, when all of a sudden, an image pops into my head of me and Lauren lying on sun loungers sipping cocktails by a big sparkling pool. Going on holiday hasn’t occurred to me once since I had Hera, but it is a surprisingly appealing image.
‘Sun! Is that what they call it these days?’ my mum sniggers.
‘Oh my God, Mum!’ I groan. ‘This conversation is over!’ I tut, picking a sleeping Hera gently up from her highchair and placing her in the carrier, where she continues to snooze.
My mum laughs. ‘Well whatever, let’s just hope one of us wins!’
Chapter 2
By the time we get to the village hall, my mum and I have already fallen out over whether the washing up has been done and whose turn it was to do it. The car has stalled three times and Hera has woken up. My mum parks wonkily in a space outside the village hall and as soon as the car comes to a stop, I jump out and open the back door to check Hera.
She reaches for me from her baby seat, wailing loudly.
‘Baby! It’s okay sweetheart,’ I coo, attempting to calm her, while rocking her gently on my shoulder. My mum turns the engine off and gets out of the car.
Hera lets out a few more loud cries.
‘Sweetie, it’s okay, it’s okay!’ I rub and pat her back as I pace back and forth by the side of the car. My mum looks on with concern.
‘Shall I just go home? Maybe this is too much for her?’ I suggest.
‘Give her a minute …’ I can tell my mum’s really desperate to have a night out at the village hall, so I keep patting Hera and making soft cooing noises in her ear.
She lets out a few more loud cries and then, strangely, she quietens down.
‘Oh, thank God for that!’ I breathe a sigh of relief when suddenly, Hera’s body swells and an eruption of green-tinged vomit spurts out of her mouth.
‘Eww!’ I yelp as the vomit lands on my jumpsuit and drips from my shoulder down over my right breast.
‘Oh no!’ My mum opens the car door and reaches into the glove compartment for a pack of baby wipes while I rub Hera’s back, comforting her, while trying not to breathe in the pungent smell of fresh sick.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I coo as my mum dabs at Hera’s face, wiping the sick away. She chucks the vomit-soaked wipe into a nearby bin and then gets a fresh one and tries to mop up the warm sick that’s dribbling down my jumpsuit.
‘What do you think is wrong with her, Mum? Do you think she’s okay?’ I ask, fretting. My mum may wind me up a bit sometimes, but it’s been a godsend having someone nearby who’s been there and done that when it comes to motherhood.
‘Yeah, she’s fine. She probably just ate too much at lunch. I thought she was gulping down that apple crumble dessert a bit fast,’ my mum comments.
‘What? You gave her apple?’ I gawp.
‘Yes,’ my mum answers hesitantly. ‘Was I … not meant to?’
‘It doesn’t agree with her, Mum, that’s why she’s vomiting,’ I grumble. ‘Poor Hera-pops …’ I rub her back some more.
‘Oh dear, let me have her.’ My mum reaches for Hera.
I hand her over and take a wet wipe. My mum comforts Hera, while I dab at the sick on my boob. I love my baby, but she’s managed to produce the most disgusting slime-like vomit. The more I dab at it, the more it seems to be getting everywhere and before I know it, my entire left boob is soaked and gunky.
‘Oh God,’ I groan.
My mum looks up from Hera and eyes my jumpsuit in shock.
‘It’s everywhere,’ she comments.
‘Pam!’ my mum’s friend, Sandy, calls out, waving over her shoulder as she heads into the hall.
‘Hi Sandy!’ my mum calls back in a strained voice. ‘Oh no, they’re going to get all the raffle tickets, we need to go in,’ she adds under her breath.
‘But Mum, look at me!’
My mum plasters a smile onto her face as she takes in my frazzled, vomit-spattered appearance. ‘You don’t look that bad,’ she insists.
‘You just said it was everywhere. I look awful,’ I sigh.
It’s true, I do. I go over to the car window and take in my reflection. I’m a complete mess. My nice jumpsuit is covered in gunk and my whole boob area is dark and splodgy from all the dabbing I’ve been doing with the baby wipes. All the stress has made my hair go even frizzier than it was before and the BB cream that I’d convinced myself gave me a subtle glow when I applied it at home isn’t even remotely covering the pale washed-out look of my face. I’m a far cry from the single glamourous girl-boss I used to be, and I don’t exactly look like Mum of the Year either. I should just head home already. This is what happens when you tell yourself real life is better than Netflix.
‘Oh! I have an idea!’ my mum pipes up, interrupting my self-pitying thoughts. Hera has calmed down a bit now and is resting her head against my mum’s shoulder.
‘What?’ I turn to look at her, questioningly.
‘I have a top in the back. You can put it on over your jumpsuit. The sick will dry in no time and you’ll look right as rain,’ she says, heading over to the car boot. She hands Hera to me.
‘Really?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Yeah, really. You might not smell right as rain, but you’ll look it!’ She gives Hera to me and then reaches into her handbag for the car keys and opens the boot.
‘Let me just find it.’ She leans forward and rummages in the assortment of random stuff she keeps there. I peer over her shoulder, taking in the empty, deflated-looking duffel bag, a long-forgotten crusty towel from a swimming trip and a Jilly Cooper novel.
‘Oh, here it is!’ my mum says suddenly, pulling a sweatshirt out of a plastic charity
shop carrier bag buried behind a plant pot with a Homebase sticker on it that she appears to have forgotten to unload. She holds up the jumper, shaking it out of its crumpled state.
‘What is that?’ I gawp, taking in the monstrosity she’s holding. It’s a gigantic grey sweatshirt with a massive print of a tabby cat across the front and the words: ‘Cat Cuddles Sanctuary’.
‘Mum! Why did you buy that?! You don’t even own a cat?!’ I balk.
‘I know.’ My mum shrugs. ‘So?’
‘Then why do you have a Cat Cuddles Sanctuary jumper?!’ I ask through gritted teeth.
‘I bought it from Oxfam to wear for gardening. Anyway, you’ve never listened to Led Zeppelin and if I recall correctly, you own a Led Zeppelin T-shirt,’ my mum points out, still holding up the monstrous jumper for all the world to see.
‘What?! I do listen to Led Zeppelin!’ I huff.
‘Name a Led Zeppelin song,’ my mum fires back, still holding up the jumper. The beady eyes of the tabby cat are strangely distracting, and my mind has gone completely blank.
‘Erm, “Purple Rain”?’ I say eventually.
‘That’s by Prince, darling.’
‘How about “Stairway to Heaven”? Or “Whole Lotta Love”?’ a man’s voice says. He starts singing “Stairway to Heaven” in a low lilting tone.
