Having My Baby

by Imari Jade

  My emotions took over and through a mouthful of blubbering, I said, “Oh, Steve, I’m sorry, I did my best, but there was all the crying, the throwing of food, crappy nappies...” I gasped for air. “Oh and Steve, Josh peed on Tony Jacklin.”

  Steve sat beside me on the sofa, taking me into his arms. “Shush, shush, it’s alright, I’m here now. I’m so sorry, baby.”

  Sam was accustomed to female hormonal outbursts, having been happily married to Jackie for eight years, with a six-year-old son, and a daughter, age three. He bent down and scooped Josh up from the floor, like a rugby ball. “Hey there little chap, what have you been doing to your aunt Polly?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at Sam; I could not bear to see the triumph on his face after teasing me many times when we’d all spent evenings together, always saying in a drunken stupor.,“Polly, I love you. You’ve a killer rack, the best arse I’ve ever seen, but you would be a crap mum.” With that we would all burst out laughing.

  I saw his hand rest on Steve’s arm, softly and with concern. He said, “Steve, mate, Polly’s been great looking after Josh. I think you should get her into a nice warm bath while I take care of him.”

  With that, Steve put his arms around my waist, lifted me from the sofa, and guided me like an invalid towards the bathroom. I stopped for a second, and gave Sam a grateful smile.

  * * * *

  Steve had undressed me, while he drew the bath, and then helped me in. Sitting on the toilet, he said, “Really, Polly, you did so well today. I am so proud of you. To tell you the truth, I was having second thoughts. Looking after a baby that is not your own is a massive responsibility and so scary, especially if you do something wrong. Perhaps you would feel different if it was your own?”

  My body tensed. ‘What do you mean it would be different with my own?”

  “I meant, in general. Any person who had never looked after a baby would feel as you did, but once they had their own, it would all work out.”

  “Work out, Steve? Work out? You make it sound like doing a crossword. Have you any idea what I went through today? I, me, Polly, was not in control. I’m always in control, but today I didn’t know what to do.” I gave a small sob. “Perhaps Marjorie was right.”

  Steve looked bemused. “Marjorie, the Avon lady? What does she have to do with it?”

  I lay back in the bath, sloshing water over my body. I knew I had spoken without thinking. What if Steve thought I was right? I was not all women. Would I lose him? Then I had the most dreadful thought; what if I was only half a woman? Did this mean I was a closet lesbian?

  “I am so, so sorry, you are living with only half a woman.”

  By the end of my tale, and after expressing my fears, Steve raised himself off the toilet, leaned forward, and kissed me on the nose. “You are far from a showground freak. You are sexy, sensationally seductive, and talented. Perhaps your need for independence makes you a little highly strung on certain issues, but I love you, Polly, I always have and always will. Now relax and I’ll get Josh ready for bed, and then start dinner.” He stood up, went towards the door, stopping for a moment he turned. “I suppose we could always try the closet lesbian thing out... I’ve always wondered what a threesome would be like, but only in the call of duty to check your theory out. What about that redhead in the newsroom at the station, do you fancy her?”

  I threw a soaking wet sponge at Steve. “Get out, you perv!” I laughed.

  * * * *

  As I lay back in the bath, I could hear the mumbles of Steve and Sam, followed by a filthy laugh; obviously, Steve had enlightened Sam about the closet lesbian fear, and his idea of how to test it out. I know Steve would not divulge the part about having second thoughts, and the whole scary issue of looking after someone else’s baby; it wasn’t a thing men did, baring all to each other, no matter how good friends they were. This had all been explained to me a few months after Steve had moved in. I ran some more hot water, smiling to myself as I soaped my sponge. I may have been a complete moron, at looking after babies, but there was one thing I was good at: writing. And unbeknown to Steve and Sam, they had just given me a great idea for next month’s column. “Are all men afraid to talk?”

  For example, Steve had been horrified when I told him that my friend Janice was having problems in the bedroom department with her boyfriend.

  Midway to his mouth, his French fry dangled, dripping with garlic butter. “Why? Why would you talk about something so personal, Polly, why?”

  “Come on, Steve, don’t tell me you and your friends don’t swap notes about women. Just think of it as free therapy.”

  I could see his brain going faster than the speed of light, as to what I may have told them, and I knew exactly what he would ask next. It was just a matter of time; three, two, one, his eyebrow raised, here it came.

  “Do you talk about us...? You know if I’m good, bad or in different?”

  I wasn’t about to mushroom his male ego, that my friends already envied my man, and tell him they called him Marathon Man, on account of his stamina to perform at least twice a night. That would just have made his head explode.

  Nonchalantly, I stabbed a mussel and sucked it off my fork, allowing the garlic butter to trickle down my throat. “So you and Sam, never talked, you never asked for advice, say when I asked you to move in?”

  “Not really, it’s a man thing. He would have thought I was a right wuss. So tell me, do you talk about technique and stamina?”

  A tap came on the bathroom door. “Polly.” It was Sam. “That was Jackie on the phone, she will call you later.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” I slid under the water. Just great, a nurturing call from Jackie, just what I didn't need; Nottingham’s answer to a Stepford Wife.

  * * * *

  When I appeared from my wonderful soak in the bath, hair soft and gleaming and smelling of my favourite perfume, Coco Chanel, I found that Sam had already left. Jackie had called again. They were just on their way out to dinner, and called to say we should go over for Sunday lunch tomorrow. JOY!

  Steve, bless his cotton socks, had dinner almost ready and the table set, candles lit, crystal glasses at the ready and a bottle of Marques de Grinon, my favourite Rioja, opened and ready to pour. He kissed me and sat me at the table, flicked my napkin and slid it onto my knee like a true headwaiter. Pouring me a glass of wine, he said dinner would be ready in five minutes. I felt so relaxed and ready for this wonderful pampering I was about to receive, when I suddenly realised that something was missing. “OMG! Where is Josh?” I had completely forgotten about him.

  “Don’t panic, Polly. Josh is out to the world. Sam bathed him, I fed him and got him into his Jim Jams. God love him, he’s fast asleep in the travel cot at the side of our bed. So you relax and enjoy dinner, ok?”

  I don’t believe it. I had just experienced the most traumatic day of my life trying to be mother to the little tiger and failing dismally and along came Steve, who has everything under control in less than thirty minutes. I felt a total failure.

  * * * *

  Next day we pulled up outside Jackie and Sam’s; much like them, their home was a pretentious, four storey Victorian mansion, complete with gravel drive, and a line of conifers. Along with Sam’s BMW and Jackie’s 4x4, the driveway was full of cars I didn’t recognise. It all became clear when we walked into the lounge to find it full of thirty-plus-something couples, sipping orange juice and cranberry juice while hoards of children rampaged around the place.

  “Come in, come in,” said Jackie in her Stepford Wife Capri pants, turtleneck jumper and pearls. “Everyone, this is Steve and Polly.”

  The room went silent, as couples turned to Steve and I. False smiles dropped as they eyed my faded ripped jeans, cropped jumper, and my good old biker’s boots I’d had forever. As I glanced around the room, all the women seemed to be dressed like my mother and sister; it seemed the dress code was British Home Stores, or Country Casuals.

  “Great,” I whispered through gr
itted teeth to Steve. “Smug married couples.”

  Steve smiled and acknowledged our existence. Gritting his teeth, he replied, “Just smile, and for the love of god, don’t mention you don’t want children.”

  I glared up at Steve, about to protest that I would not lie, when Jackie placed a glass of cranberry juice in my hand, and whisked Josh out of Steve’s arms. “Polly, Steve, I just want the pair of you to relax, forget about Josh. Golly, there are enough nannies here to take care of him, mix and enjoy yourselves.” She winked at Steve.

  “Why did she do that?”

  “What?”

  “Wink at you.”

  “Polly, have you seen six-bellies Sam and his receding hairline? Look around, all the men in Aran and corduroy. If you were a suppressed housewife, wouldn’t you wink at a hunk like me?” Steve joked. “Anyway the hot chick in the tweed skirt and brogues has just offered me a nibble.” Walking off in her direction, Steve stopped to take a cocktail sausage from the thirty year old Miss Marple. He muttered something in her ear, and then seductively popped the sausage in his mouth, leaving Miss Marple flushed with ecstasy. Daringly, she opened the top button of her crisp white blouse.

  “So I hear that you are looking after your nephew.” I turned to see a very tall, heavy-boned woman, dressed in cord jeans with creases down the front that could cut paper, a checked shirt, and a cashmere sweater draped around her shoulders. “That is so now. My sister Cassandra had a budding career in finance, but when she got married her husband so wanted children, and she was so not thinking she could handle it. So I said, take one of mine for the weekend. I have three and do you know she so absolutely was meant to have children.”

  Before I could say I was just helping my sister out, not having my nephew as a test for the weekend to see if I liked motherhood or not, I was circled by two other women; Miss Marple, and a heavily pregnant woman who constantly rubbed her bump.

  “But I thought Jackie said you weren’t married?” inquired Miss Marple, still pink from what I assume was the first time she’d had even a flutter of an orgasm, after Steve and his chipolata joke. “Not that I am against having children out of wedlock, per say. Golly, I know heaps of people, my cleaning lady, my hairdresser’s daughter, and I think—yes, my odd job man’s granddaughter, but then what does one expect from the working class.”

  “Oh really, Pru, you are such a stick in the mud,” said the bump rubber. “I’m sure Polly and Steve will get married first. However ,there’s many a slip between cup and lip.”

  I liked this lady, although a bit too Lady Diana pre-divorce for me, so I had to stop myself from saying, if she meant a slip with lips and dick, but I didn’t think these women would quite see the funny side of my joke. I was in Wendy’s world. God, how she would be lapping it up. It seemed all I could hear was baby talk. This was hell on earth that only your married friends could inflict on you. No, I retract that. Sam was Steve’s friend. I only tolerated Jackie, and these people were a load of knob heads. Did I really have to listen to this all afternoon? I leaned forward. “Actually...” Three excited faces expected to hear wedding bells announced, when I continued, “I have no intention of marrying Steve, and as for babies, well, my uterus has a no entry sign.” With my head held high and my working class pride, I walked away, knowing I had achieved the result I was looking for: three up-their-own-arses, gobsmacked women.

  I headed off to the garden. It seemed the men were congregating out there, and hopefully I would find a hip flask with some vodka for my cranberry juice.

  I joined Steve and Sam talking to another man, feeling safe in male company, no talk of marriage or sprogs.

  “Ah, Polly,” said Sam, gritting a Churchill cigar between his teeth. ‘Meet Myles, he works for the Times, financial pages. Polly is freelance.”

  Myles was a weedy looking man with a face like a ferret. “May I have read your articles?”

  ‘I doubt it—women’s glossy’—that type of thing. I also do a monthly column in a weekend paper.”

  “And she’s got three novels under her belt, racy stuff. Jackie won’t let me read them, says it’ll increase my libido.” I flinched as Sam pinched my bum.

  I could see the beads of perspiration appear on the ferret’s forehead; he wiped the corners of his drooling mouth with a hanky. “Are you married, Polly?”

  Oh, god, here we go again. It was always the first question men asked when they knew about the books, imagining I wrote on experience, and that I was a real Little Miss Dynamite in bed. Didn’t these imbeciles know that we writers had an imagination?

  “No...” I was not able to finish my sentence before old Ferret Face came out with the usual one-liners, ‘what’s a great woman like you...’ Suddenly, my partner was standing in our company.

  Sam slapped his stomach, which rippled grotesquely under his Fred Perry. “She’s one of them.”

  ‘Oh, you’re a lesbian?’ Ferret’s eyes lit up like Roman Candles.

  Sam laughed. “Not for the want of finding out, hey Polly?” Sam gave me a ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more’ gesture. “No, our Polly here doesn’t agree with marriage.”

  Steve could see the irritation in my face and feared my reactions as A: Sam would dare to inform a complete stranger of my fears, last night, or B: Sam had committed sin number three in my list of commandments; do not interrupt me before I have finished. One being, don’t ask me if I’m married. Two, just because I’m a woman, don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.

  A look of concern loomed on the Ferret’s face. “Oh, you should think about it. Time’s ticking by, and a fine specimen like you would rear a top pup. What a shame.”

  Steve now was noticeably worried, even more so when his phone rang, and he knew he had to leave me alone, fearing the worst. “Polly, it’s your sister on the phone, would you like to take it?” The willingness in his voice begged me to take the call.

  “You take it. I just have to finish here.”

  I returned my gaze to Ferret Face; I am sure my eyes must have turned red as the blood pumped into my head.

  Was that how men looked at women? As specimens? As if we had a wet nose and stood well, that we could produce them a champion breed? How ironic they should be so big headed. From a woman’s point of view, did they know the pickings on offer? Where had the man’s man gone? The majority of the modern men are dorks, and that included most of them here this afternoon.

  I was just about to lecture my learned males, when Steve grabbed my arm, almost dragging me across the grass. “Sorry, Sam, must dash. Wendy is waiting for us back at the flat.”

  Protesting, as I hadn’t quite finished, Steve manhandled me through the lounge, past the gawking faces of the Witches of Nottingham, still in shock from my no-entry uterus, and into the car.

  Steve revved up the car like a Formula One driver. “Steve!”

  “Don’t talk to me. I already know about the uterus, and I could see you building up for Myles.”

  “Yes but, Steve,” I protested, as we sped down the road.

  “Polly, shut up. This ‘no marriage and babies’ issue is beginning to bore me. Have you ever considered my feelings?”

  “Steve, I just wanted to say, we’ve forgotten Josh.”

  * * * *

  With Josh safe and sound and back with my sister, Steve and I sat in silence. I tried to concentrate on my book and Steve was trying to look interested in a nature program.

  In the past, Steve had been so easy going about not getting married and having babies. When people asked he always shrugged the idea away, saying, “Why do we need to conform?” Just being together was enough to show how much we loved each other. So why the hell was he so dammed annoyed?

  We had played the ‘everything is fine game’ with Wendy and Brian, chatting about Brian’s new job offer, tongue in cheek how we had loved having Josh, (forgetting to mention driving off and leaving him) and laughed when Wendy suggested we might now tie the knot, and start our own little brood. Then as soon as they ha
d left, Steve completely ignored me. When I questioned what should we cook for dinner, he plonked a take away menu under my nose, his order already written on a scrap of paper.

  More to the point, why did I feel so bad? As I thought about it, I should have known last night that this confrontation was coming. Over dinner, Steve suggested we should think about a bigger place. I had laughed it off, saying why would the two of us need somewhere bigger. When we went to bed that night, I had walked into our bedroom to find Steve leaning with his head resting on his hand, staring into the cot, watching Josh sleep. “Just look how peaceful he looks. Doesn’t it just make you want to pick him up?”

  “Yes, if you want to spend all night playing Croaking Frog and reading My First Alphabet.” My joke didn’t trigger even a smile.

  Then the next morning, Steve was already up and out when I awoke. He had left a note saying he and Josh had gone to get papers and have a walk down by the canal. When he came back, he showed me the pictures he had taken of Josh on his phone, feeding the ducks, having printed them off. The one of Josh laughing into the camera, was now propped up against the clock.

  I began to wonder if at some point in our relationship, there would come a time when Miss Poppy Wilkins was not enough for Steve?

  “Steve, are we okay?” I asked hastily. My voice had a slight quiver.

  He turned his head slowly from the TV. He didn’t say anything, but the way he looked at me, I had never felt so scared. “Steve, you’re scaring me here.” I jumped from the sofa and knelt beside him. ‘You’re right, I am highly strung and don’t consider your feelings, but for the last few hours I’ve thought about nothing else.” I seized his hands and added, “Really thought. The reason I feel so strongly about marriage, is that nearly half of our friends were like us, so happy until they got married. Now look at them. Divorced, desperate, and dejected. I don’t want that to happen to us, Steve.”