So Lucky

by Dawn O'Porter

  I try on a few pairs of my pre-pregnancy trousers. None of them fit, which is OK, I haven’t even tried to shift the weight yet so there is no point getting upset about it until I do. I try on a black pencil skirt, but it won’t get past my bottom. I try on a few of my favourite dresses, but none of them do up. I then remember a black body-con dress that I bought online around three years ago but have never worn. I’m not sure what mood I was in when I decided to get it, because it really isn’t my style. It only fits now because it is ninety-eight per cent elastane, but who cares, it’s on. I put on some three-and-a-half-inch stilettos that I haven’t worn in around ten years and totter downstairs. Michael is wearing a grey t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans with trainers.

  ‘My goodness,’ Janet breathes. ‘Is that the underwear that’s supposed to make you look thin?’

  ‘No, it’s a dress,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well have you got any of the underwear that makes you look thin?’

  I ignore that.

  ‘OK, so you don’t need to bath him. At six fifty take him up, put him in his sleeping bag, give him the bottle and lay him down. The white noise is already on. If he wakes up before we come home please don’t bring him out of his room or give him more milk. Just rub his belly to soothe him if he gets really upset.’

  ‘So cruel,’ Janet says, putting her empty cup on the table. ‘Poor baby.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I ask gently, as Michael ducks into the kitchen. He hates it when his mother and I are in the same room. He thinks I will cause problems.

  ‘All this leaving the babies to cry, it’s so cruel. If a baby cries, you cuddle them. Those terrible parenting books telling mothers to neglect their children.’

  ‘It’s important to have a schedule. And of course we cuddle him, but we also want him to sleep well and not be afraid of being alone,’ I say. I don’t want to talk about parenting with Janet. ‘Michael, shall we go?’

  As he comes out of the kitchen, I hold my tummy in and stand up straight. I am waiting for a compliment.

  ‘You’ll be cold,’ is all I get, and he passes me my ugliest and biggest coat from the cupboard. I swap it for a black leather jacket, which I regret instantly but pretend to wear with pride. I look like Kim Kardashian’s horny aunt. Although I am sure she would at least have had a manicure.

  I pick up my bag and walk over to Tommy to give him a kiss. As I do, my heel gets stuck in the floorboards and I go flying across the living room. I land splat on my tummy and the contents of my bag empty all over the floor. Risky’s pink vibrator rolls slowly towards Janet’s foot.

  ‘Oh, what is this?’ she asks, picking it up. She turns over the bottom of it and realises it has three settings. ‘Oh Tommy, look!’ she says, gently running it over his face and body, at which he smiles and giggles. ‘He loves it,’ she says, joyfully. ‘Isn’t Mummy clever, I’ve never seen a toy like it.’

  ‘No, Janet. That isn’t a toy,’ I say, imagining Risky’s vagina juice rubbing all over my baby’s face.

  ‘What is it then?’ she asks, holding it up.

  ‘Yeah, what is it?’ Michael asks, going over and taking a closer look. Horror drenches his face as the realisation comes.

  ‘I’ll take that,’ he says, snatching it from his mother’s hand, stomping with it into the kitchen and throwing it in the bin.

  ‘What on earth was that about?’ Janet asks, before slowly catching up. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she says, rubbing her hands on her clothes, then running into the kitchen and holding them under the hot tap, applying endless soap, as if she just picked up dog shit with her bare hands. ‘Well I never!’ she exclaims. ‘Shocking!’

  Michael is now standing in the middle of the living room staring at me. I pick up all of my things and put them back in my bag. Although embarrassment courses through every inch of my body, I do what any sensible woman would do and pretend absolutely nothing has happened.

  ‘Bye Tommy,’ I say, kissing him. ‘Shall we go?’

  Michael follows me out of the door.

  We walk in silence down the street, Michael so cross he is breathing like a wild boar that is about to charge and murder a threatening female, and me trying to keep up with him in my stupid shoes. I feel like a fat tart chasing a man who isn’t interested in her. I mean, maybe that is actually exactly what I am.

  ‘Michael, please, slow down.’

  He stops suddenly, giving me a chance to catch up. A few blocks down we come to a little cafe that is open quite late and he ducks in. This was not what I had in mind for dinner.

  ‘Still serving?’ he asks a lady behind the counter. She is packing everything up but asks a man who looks to be the manager if it’s OK. He says it’s fine, and she starts putting the trays of sandwich fillers back out for display.

  ‘We’ll stay open for a bit for you,’ the man says, unashamedly giving me the once-over. Michael takes a seat and I totter up to the table. The bright cafe lights are glaring, making me ashamed of all my make-up. My fat, wobbly arms feeling like jelly, my tight dress doing nothing for me, other than showing off all the things I suddenly feel very self-conscious of. I sit down.

  ‘What do you want?’ Michael asks me, throwing the menu in my direction. He gets up before I have chance to speak.

  ‘I’ll get the prawn Marie Rose on brown, please,’ he tells the man. ‘And a glass of milk. Beth?’

  I get up again, the dress feeling tighter now, the shoes even higher. I look at all the food.

  ‘Can I have the chicken mayonnaise with avocado on white please?’

  ‘Brown,’ Michael interjects, correcting my order. It startles me so much I forget to order a drink.

  We sit back down. There is no music. The two people who work here are now making our order together to get it out quickly so they can close. I hate everything about what I am wearing.

  ‘It’s not like she saw me using it,’ I say, needing to break the ice.

  Michael leans forward. ‘What is the matter with you?’ he says, through a tight mouth.

  ‘Nothing is the matter with me.’ I pause, knowing he needs an explanation, but I’m not quite able to rationalise it’s a second-hand one! ‘I just treated myself to a sex toy. Lots of women have them, it’s not a big deal.’

  ‘You think seeing my mother rub my wife’s vibrator on my child’s face isn’t a big deal?’

  I spare another thought for Risky’s vagina juice. Please, please, let her have washed it.

  ‘It was clean,’ I say, as two sandwiches are put in front of us.

  ‘And here’s a complimentary bowl of crisps,’ the lady says, putting them in the middle. Michael pulls them towards him and starts layering them into his sandwich.

  ‘Mum will be so upset,’ he says, through a mouthful of prawns and mayonnaise. He often talks to me like I am gross, when his table manners are actually horrible.

  ‘It’s very unfortunate that it happened, but it was in my bag and I tripped. It was an accident.’

  ‘Dressing like that wasn’t an accident though, was it?’

  ‘No,’ I say, dropping my head. ‘No, I did this on purpose hoping you would like it.’

  ‘You know I like you in jeans.’

  We sit in silence for a while and eat our sandwiches in the very bright cafe on what was supposed to be our date night. He can hardly bring himself to look at me. I have no idea what to say. I just want things to be better. So eventually I give in.

  ‘Michael, I’m really sorry for what happened tonight. I wish it hadn’t. But I’ve been so excited to have dinner with you and I hope we can still have a nice time?’ I take a small, delicate bite of my sandwich and make sure my mouth doesn’t open as I eat it. He takes his time, but eventually backs down.

  ‘OK. Thank you for saying sorry. And please, no more of that … nonsense. OK?’

  By ‘nonsense’ I presume he means sex toys. I nod my head and smile.

  ‘So how cute was that picture you sent me of Tommy in the park? That squirrel was so close to him, amazing
how tame they are.’

  He cheers right up.

  ‘I know, and if Tommy was any bigger I’m sure he would have grabbed it.’

  We sit in the cafe for a further fifteen minutes, talking about nothing but our baby, because when we talk about anything else, we realise we have nothing to say. When we get home – we were gone just over one hour – Janet is watching EastEnders and barely looks at me as she leaves. Michael walks her home. I go straight to the kitchen to retrieve my vibrator, but she must have taken out the bins, and rooting around in the outside rubbish looking for a sex toy is not a low I am willing to reach right now.

  Upstairs, I take off the body-con dress and put it in a bag ready to take to a charity shop. I rub cream into my sore feet and set my alarm for eleven p.m., when I will give Tommy a dream feed.

  Tonight didn’t exactly go to plan. I have zero chance of getting laid. And what a waste of a perfectly good vibrator.

  Lauren Pearce – Instagram post

  @OfficialLP

  The image is of Lauren, she is lying on her front on a bed, her body reflected in a large gold-framed mirror. She’s reaching forward, holding the phone to take a selfie. The angle is just right, so you can see the curve of her hip and the top of her bottom. Her feet are raised and cutely hooked together. She is looking seductively into the camera, as if it is a lover. She is alone. There is a carton of coconut water next to the bed.

  The caption reads:

  Happiness and hydration go hand in hand. I don’t feel myself if I don’t drink enough (and no, I don’t mean vodka LOL). Taking care of my body and my skin helps me to feel good. I start every day with a #FRESHCoconutWater #AD #Cocofresh #selflove #reachout #mentalillness #hydrate #vegan #women

  @turningup286872: Thank you for being you

  @kellyheap: Is all you do drink drinks? Smoothies, coconut water? Can we see you eat a bloody meal please?

  @HowdyMunchBrain: Twat. You have the perfect life. Get over yourself.

  @Flickerlights-off: Queen.

  @PatreonofLorralites: You’re so lucky. I wish I was you. I’d do anything to be you.

  @gellyjeellybelly: That shit tastes like feet. What’s Gav like in bed, I reckon he likes a blowie, amiriiight?

  @YUMMIETUMMY: I find you so inspiring. The best example of how to live your best life … keep posting, keep being you.

  4

  Ruby

  Bonnie was ill for most of the night. Neither of us have slept. She watched TV from six a.m., but five hours later she’s bored and walking around the house moaning like a handmaid, as if forced to stay by a cruel regime she is desperate to overthrow. I have a number of errands to run. I see mothers all the time, taking their children out and about: food shopping, clothes shopping, going into restaurants … they make it look so easy. I don’t do things like that with Bonnie because she screams at me whenever I try. I get most of my chores done while she is at nursery, or while she is with Liam at the weekend. I see those other mothers just getting on with their lives in the company of their children and wonder if maybe they have drugged them? Or if they share some secret to keeping toddlers under control that I don’t know? Maybe today I will discover it, because I have no childcare and I simply must get on with my day. I have urgent things to do, like buying mousetraps, tights and a new bra.

  I wouldn’t usually force myself to try on new bras in a bright changing room, especially before a wax, but the underwire came out of my only one this morning, and it’s been so long since I got a new one that I have no idea what size I am. My body shape has barely changed in twenty years, but my boobs have never been the same size the day I got pregnant. I’m almost sure I’ve dropped a cup size.

  I tend to do this with things that bring me comfort, like bras. I wear one until it literally falls off my body, hand-washing it most nights in the bathroom sink. This one has been going for five years.

  ‘Bonnie, you’re going to come with Mummy to the shops.’

  ‘NO, shops are boring. I want to go to nursery.’ She crosses her arms, stamps her foot and pushes out her lower lip.

  ‘Bonnie, if you’re good I’ll buy you some sweets.’ She is in her buggy in under thirty seconds and waits patiently as I put on her shoes. Are sweet bribes how the other mothers control their kids? I think of all Bonnie’s vomiting last night and groan. But she does seem a lot better.

  We finally get walking and I push her buggy into the Marks and Spencer’s food hall, letting her choose a few different items of confectionary to keep her occupied.

  ‘Take four things,’ I tell her. ‘If you’re good, you can have it all.’

  We then head over to the hosiery department where I pick up six pairs of eighty-denier black tights, the ones that apparently regulate my temperature, and a few bras that look about the right size. In the dressing room I leave Bonnie on the other side of a curtain eating a Rocky Road bar so I can try them on. But as soon as I shut the curtain, she goes apeshit.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy!’ she screams, drawing the attention of all the old women trying on bras. About four grey hairdos poke out of changing rooms to witness the child screaming in distress.

  ‘Bonnie, stop it,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll be twenty seconds.’ I shut the curtain quickly, and she screams again. I have no idea why she suddenly has separation anxiety; usually she kicks me until I leave her alone.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy, no!’

  I tear open the curtain.

  ‘Bonnie, please pack it in. I need to try these on.’

  I hear a ‘tut’ from the cubicle next door. A little old lady pokes her head out and looks at Bonnie sympathetically.

  ‘Poor girl, she’s frightened,’ she says, in that annoying way that old people do. They were parents to toddlers so long ago that they have forgotten how awful it is. They remember the sweet bits, the cuddles, the playfulness, the stories. Mother Nature has rid their memories of the turbulent mood swings, violent meltdowns, sleepless nights and their own stress-induced outbursts. Of course that is what happens – if all adults and old people were like me then we would horrify younger generations into never reproducing. It is imperative that humans forget the turmoil of birth and parenting small children for the evolution of the human race, but dearie me, when you come face to face with it in a Marks and Spencer’s changing room, it’s hard to accept it as natural.

  ‘She’s not frightened, she’s being silly.’

  ‘Ahhhh, give her a cuddle,’ says another of the set-and-perm brigade.

  ‘She doesn’t need a cuddle,’ I say, whipping the curtain shut again. I just need to try on some bras, then we can leave.

  ‘Oh dear, is your mummy very angry?’ one of them asks, seriously testing my tolerance levels.

  ‘MUMMY. MUMMY,’ Bonnie screams. What the hell is she playing at? She never does this.

  ‘Bonnie, wait,’ I say, sternly. She has to be patient. And I peep my head through the gap so she can see me whilst I try to blindly to put on a bra on the other side of the curtain.

  ‘Ahhhh, poor baby,’ the first old lady says, bending down to Bonnie. She is only wearing a bra. It’s weird and creepy and Bonnie doesn’t like it any more than I do. I rip a bra off its hanger. I just need to try them on.

  ‘Oh dear,’ the old lady says. ‘Do I smell poo poo?’ Bonnie screams louder as the old lady invades her personal space by putting her hand on her crotch and giving it a very hard squeeze. What the hell does she think she is doing?

  ‘I feel a poo poo,’ she says, as Bonnie kicks her right in the face. I only have one boob in the bra when the old lady falls through the curtain and into my dressing room.

  ‘NO!’ I yell, as I see blood pouring from her nose.

  ‘Help me, help me,’ the old lady screams. I look at her on the floor. Despite my half naked state, I feel a surprising lack of self-awareness. I’d take my body over her decrepit old one any day. It’s unusual for me to feel one-upmanship on anything involving my physical appearance. I rather like the feeling. I cover myself before multiple
other old ladies rush to her aid. I get myself dressed, grab all the bras and tights and quickly leave the changing room. I’ll pay for them all, and try them on at home.

  ‘You need to teach that child some respect,’ one of the grannies shouts after me. I turn around and march straight back over to the cubicle.

  ‘Some respect?’ I repeat, to the three-strong gaggle of geriatrics nursing the perverted one’s nose. ‘You grabbed my daughter’s crotch and she quite rightly kicked you in the face.’

  ‘I was checking her nappy,’ she says, all breathy, hurt and offended in that way old people get when they are out of order but think everyone should let them off because they’re ancient. Well not me.

  ‘I’ve told her since she was old enough to understand me, that if anyone she doesn’t know or likes goes anywhere near her crotch she is to do whatever it takes to get them off. Old men, young boys and nosey old bags included. You deserve that bloody nose and I hope you’re sorry,’ I say firmly. The women stare at me as if I am a dinosaur and running for their lives is pointless.

  ‘SECURITY,’ calls one of them, like a damsel in distress who can’t fight her own battles. Stupid old ladies.

  ‘I didn’t touch you,’ I say confidently. ‘You touched my daughter and she defended herself. What are you going to do, have them arrest her? Or will I tell them that you grabbed my little girl’s vagina?’

  ‘How dare you,’ the bloody-nosed old witch says to me.

  ‘No, lady, how dare you! Up yours!’ I say.

  When we eventually get in the queue to pay, a pungent smell of poo lingering around us, Bonnie has calmed down. I kneel down to her level.

  ‘Bonnie, I am proud of you for kicking that woman in the face. If anyone ever tries to touch your vagina and you don’t want them to, that is exactly what you do, OK?’

  She looks at me as if she has no idea what I am talking about.