Tuesday December 13th
I went round to Hazel’s for dinner, even though I wasn’t remotely hungry, and we sat in her kitchen. I watched in silence as she fed Grace – who’s now one and very sweet – in her high chair. Grace watched her mummy intensely, got really excited about her pudding, then threw the whole fucking lot on to the floor.
‘So what’s new with you?’ Hazel asked innocently.
‘I’m pregnant.’
I waited for the shrieks of happiness and the joyous tales of how wonderful motherhood is, but they never came. Instead she said:
‘Right, OK. How do you feel about it?’
‘Scared,’ I mumbled, and I could feel the tears starting. ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’
She cuddled me for a minute. ‘Listen, Phoebe, I’m no expert but I know how you feel, believe me. Being a mum is hard work and it’ll change everything. You’ll lose sleep, your body will change completely, you’ll be demented half the time, you’ll realize you actually know nothing about hard work and you’ll pretty much spend every second worrying.’
‘So, what?’ I sniffed. ‘You’re saying don’t do it?’
‘No,’ she said, looking at Grace. ‘I’m just telling you the facts. But what I will say is that, for me, having my baby was the single greatest move I ever made. Think you love Oliver? Try multiplying what you feel by ten million and it won’t even come close. It’s astonishing what you can do when you love someone that much.’
‘On my own?’
‘Yes, on your own! You’re not incapable, Phoebe, and I have no doubt that you’d cope very well. Women do it all the time. Besides, you have all of us. You won’t be alone.’
And that was the moment I decided to keep my baby.
Thursday December 15th
The dress arrived from eBay and it fits, despite a huge amount of boob squashing, but I can live with that. Apart from the nausea and tiredness, I don’t feel very pregnant, but then again, I have no idea what pregnant is supposed to feel like. What I am feeling is highly emotional and annoyed at Oliver, which unfortunately got the better of me this morning before work:
From: Phoebe Henderson
To: Oliver Webb
Subject: Some news
Dear Oliver,
Hope you are well. A lot has been going on here and we really need to talk. I know I’ve tried several times with no success and perhaps you’ve blocked me or changed your identity (or something less dramatic) but it is imperative that we speak. Imperative’s a good word, isn’t it? Anyway, I miss you, I hope you miss me and OH, JUST STOP DICKING AROUND AND PHONE ME – WE’RE HAVING A BABY, YOU MISERABLE BASTARD!
The email ended up in my deleted items. I’ll try again when I’m less irrational and less inclined to write something hideous.
When I got into the office I made an appointment to see the midwife. This is just too weird. Then I was reminded that it’s the work Christmas night out tomorrow: drinks here followed by drinks in the pub downstairs and the compulsory wearing of silly paper hats. It would be less painful if I could actually partake in any of the above drinking. Damn it.
I had lunch with Lucy in the canteen and told her I’d decided to keep the baby.
‘Are you sure this is definitely what you want?’
‘It’s not ideal, but my heart is telling me yes. So, yes.’
She squealed and threw her arms round me. ‘I get to be Auntie Lucy! This is so exciting!’
‘I’m not telling anyone until after the holidays, so keep it quiet. But yes, you get to be Auntie and I get to be Mummy. Fuck. I’m going to be a mummy. Holy shit.’
‘An amazing mummy. Your kid will adore you as much as I do. Have you told Oliver yet?’
‘He won’t return my calls or texts but to be honest, I’d rather do this face to face.’
‘I’m starting to dislike him,’ she said, biting into a banana. ‘He needs to know, but if he won’t pick up, what the hell else are you supposed to do? Skywriting? Carrier pigeon?’
‘Carrier stork?’ I suggested before making a groaning noise and placing my head in my hands. ‘He’s going to freak, I know he is.’
‘Stress isn’t good for the baby, Phoebe. Or the embryo or whatever the fuck it’s called. It needs a calm place to chill out and grow feet and stuff. The Oliver thing will work itself out. Trust me.’
Friday December 16th
I’ve been trying not to smoke, but this morning I had one and it smelled and tasted as vile as my guilt so the rest of the packet got binned – I bought some nicotine patches and a year’s supply of chewing gum on the way to work.
My dysfunctional brain meant I’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes for the work do tonight, so while everyone else got glammed up, I was left borrowing Lucy’s make-up in the hope that heavy eyeliner would distract from my boring grey work suit.
‘Is Kyle coming to the New Year party?’ I asked Lucy, inspecting the various shades of lipstick she had in her bag.
‘No, it’s sold out,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘And he’s going to see his family for Christmas.’
‘So you’ll be just as miserable as me then? Excellent. I hate to wallow alone.’
‘Yes, although I’ll be drunk for the entire fortnight and Skyping him naked.’
‘You’re so lucky. When is this bloody party going to start?’
When 5 p.m. hit, Dorothy popped open the champagne, Brian put some shitty Christmas playlist on YouTube and Kelly handed round the mince pies, fluttering her new presson party lashes in Stuart’s direction. I declined a pie and ate some salty crackers instead, washed down with milk for my heartburn. Rock and fucking roll.
‘Not drinking, Phoebe?’ Dorothy asked when she saw my untouched glass of champagne.
‘Um, no,’ I said, scrambling around in my brain for a reason why. ‘It’s just … I’m on antidepressants.’
‘Oh. Right,’ she said, not knowing how to respond. ‘I’ll get you some Coke.’
Antidepressants? Oh fuck it, I’d rather the office gossiped about my mental health than know the real reason. They’ll find out when I want them to.
At nine everyone made their way downstairs, where friends and partners had already arrived. By eleven I’d had three glasses of fresh orange and was feeling increasingly annoyed by everyone’s various states of drunkenness. I decided to call it a night. I grabbed Lucy on my way out. ‘Have a good night. I’m going home now; turns out I’m a thundering bore when I’m sober.’
She laughed and hugged me. ‘You, Phoebe Henderson, are remarkable. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
I made my way to the taxi rank, stopping to get a fried pizza, and chips with curry sauce, on the way, vowing that from tomorrow I’ll make an effort to eat more healthily.
Wednesday December 21st
Bored with my own company, I drove over to Hazel’s tonight to help her wrap Christmas presents.
‘Are you feeling any happier?’ she asked, fiddling with the end of the Sellotape roll.
‘I think so,’ I said, considering things for a second. ‘I imagine it’s like being in prison: all my pleasures and privileges have been revoked, I’m spending a lot of time thinking about my life, and I know that very soon some woman is going to make me spread my legs and inspect my chocha.’
‘Oh bloody hell, Phoebe,’ laughed Hazel. ‘Any positives you’d like to share?’
‘Yeah. My tits look great in this top.’ I stuck a bow on Hazel’s perfectly wrapped present and giggled. ‘I’m already wondering if it’s a boy or a girl and what I’d prefer. Do I want to know or just wait and get a surprise when it pops out?’
‘They don’t pop out,’ remarked Hazel. ‘It’s more like feeling of pressure, then a whoosh and they flop out.’
‘Oh, so it’s just a feeling of pressure? That’s good!’
‘Well, you feel like you’re being ripped in half and that your rectum might also make a guest appearance, but yeah. Pressure.’
‘ARGGH. That’s it, you’re h
aving this baby for me.’
Thursday December 22nd
Work was manic today, with everyone trying to sell any advertising space we had left before we finish tomorrow for the holidays. Luckily for me, this is a busy time for bars and restaurants so I was sold out and left twiddling my thumbs, wondering what I’d like for Christmas. As much as I’d like Santa to bring me Ryan Gosling, what I really want is my mum. I feel vulnerable, confused and very much in need of a cuddle. I’ve left two messages for her and Dad but I think they’ve pissed off somewhere for Christmas week. They’re probably visiting my hippy Aunt Kate and her mystical offspring. I hope she calls me back sooner rather than later, I don’t want to get to the Christmas-day phone call and have to explain what’s happening through a mouthful of Brussel sprouts.
Friday December 23rd
Last day of work. There was nothing to do, the phones were blissfully quiet, but still we had to hang around the office and wait for London to tell us we could piss off. Dorothy gave us each a £10 M&S voucher, which was very thoughtful and will no doubt go towards a decent maternity bra. It’s finally starting to mentally sink in, but I still don’t physically feel like I’m with child. Perhaps that starts when you get booted in the ribs by an invisible foot. Still, there are some benefits:
1. My spots have cleared up.
2. My boobs are getting bigger.
3. There’s no chance of my being sacked from work unless I deliberately kill everyone during a particularly impressive mood swing.
And some drawbacks …
1. I can’t dye my hair. A grey-hair mutiny is taking place.
2. I can’t smoke or drink – possibly the only two things in life worth getting out of bed for.
3. I throw up at least twice a day, sometimes more if I smell coffee.
4. I nap constantly and am becoming a giant bore.
Kelly is going to Paris for New Year with her boyfriend and she’s hoping he proposes. Normally I’d be snarky about this, but I gave her a hug and wished her luck. It would be nice if someone got a happy ending this year.
Saturday December 24th
I ventured out to get some last-minute shopping today. At the moment I want to grab every pregnant woman I see and shout in her face, ‘I’VE GOT ONE OF THEM IN MY STOMACH TOO! IT’S VERY SMALL, YOU KNOW!’
I got home, had a bath, lay on the couch and put the telly on. That was it. Of course I also went online for the millionth time to see what exciting things my foetus was up to. Apparently it’s the size of a blueberry now. That’s ridiculous. I’ll be at Lucy’s for Christmas dinner and, knowing my condition and not wanting to poison me, she and I have agreed that we’ll just buy prepared food and she won’t be involved in any attempts at cooking. After dinner, Hazel, Kevin, Paul and Dan are coming over in the evening, which will be fun until they all get drunk and boring and I make myself sick on wafer-thin mints.
Sunday December 25th
7 a.m. I woke up feeling sick so spent half an hour sitting on bathroom floor beside toilet, not being sick but making an impressive low-pitched moaning sound. Then I went back to bed.
12 p.m. I got woken up again by the phone:
‘Merry Christmas, darling! How’s my favourite girl?’
‘Merry Christmas, Dad. I’m fine. How are you? How’s Mum?’
‘She’s here – we’re both fine, leaving shortly for an eleven-hour drive to Vancouver so thought we’d catch you beforehand. I’ll put your mum on.’
‘Hi, Mum. Merry Christmas!’
‘Phoebe, Merry Christmas, how are you? We’ve put some money in your account, so buy yourself something nice. Just doing some last-minute packing so I can’t stay on long. We’re visiting your Aunt Kate – she’s finally finished her reiki training. She uses crystals, you know. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. Not the most conventional Christmas of course, but your dad’s sacral chakra’s been all out of whack since that camping trip. It’s like living with John Wilmot. I need some calm back in my life. What about you, darling?’
Oh, brilliant. I can’t tell her now, can I?
‘Going to Lucy’s for dinner, nothing too exciting. Same old, same old here, Mum.’ Yes, except I’m a monumental idiot and soon-to-be single parent. Would you mind giving up your life in Canada and popping back here for eighteen years, please?
‘Good for you, have a wonderful time! Oh, before we go, we’ll be over for a visit in January – I’ll let you know when later. Bye, love.’
‘Bye, Mum. Say bye to Dad for me.’
I’ll tell them in January. Face to face is better – at least then I can see their tears of disappointment up close.
2 p.m. I arrived at Lucy’s house for dinner and her place looked very festive. I had one glass of cava and orange juice and we opened presents. Lucy loved her earrings and I got my first pair of maternity jeans.
‘I could fit into those now.’
‘Nonsense. In a few months you’ll be wishing to fuck you had the figure you have now.’
She saw the look of sheer horror on my face.
‘No, I just mean that you’re not fat now. But you will be. I’m not helping, am I? Erm, Merry Christmas!’
3.30 p.m. Dinner eaten, we moved into the living room and I promptly fell asleep on the couch from food exhaustion.
7 p.m. I woke up on the couch with a party hat on my face and Lucy, Paul and Dan all giggling in the kitchen.
‘Sorry,’ I said, walking through. ‘How rude of me. Merry Christmas!’
‘Don’t be silly!’ replied Paul. ‘Get all the sleep you can now. You’ll be constantly exhausted once the baby’s here.’
‘Why does everyone feel the need to tell me how crap my future’s going to be? I hope you have presents for me, otherwise this will be a long night.’
It was a good evening and surprisingly I lasted until well after one in the morning. Paul and Dan bought me an electronic cigarette and some cartridge things which don’t have any tar in them.
‘I thought at least pretending to smoke might help,’ Paul said conspiratorially. ‘It has water vapour so it looks like you’re smoking. I wouldn’t use it in public though – the dirty looks might tip you over the edge.’
Finally I wandered off to crash in Lucy’s spare room, the very room I conceived in, in fact, and dropped off to sleep, thinking about Oliver and wondering if he was thinking about me.
Thursday December 29th
I attempted to call Oliver at his office today, with the notion that I’d just tell him about the pregnancy and get it over with.
An American girl answered his phone: ‘I’m sorry, Oliver’s not here. Who’s calling?’
‘It’s Phoebe. When will he be back?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure; I think he’s staying with friends over the holidays.’
‘Can you tell him I called?’
‘Sure will, Fifi. Bye.’
Fifi? Oh genius. Just brilliant.
Friday December 30th
So this horrendous year is almost at an end but I still have the New Year party to look forward to. Being pregnant has actually taken all the social pressure off going out: I have no sex drive or inclination to pull, and the lack of booze in my diet has ruled out the possibility of any drunken mistakes. I can just arrive, eat, dance, then go to bed early like a bore and no one will talk about me for being a big drip.
Saturday December 31st
4 p.m. Arrived at the hotel and made it to the room just in time to throw up all over the lovely clean toilet, which I then had to clean up and it made me sick again. Lucy promptly left the room, swearing she’d sleep in the lobby if they couldn’t find her somewhere else to stay. I sat on the bed and ate crackers I’d brought in my suitcase, cursing every penis I’ve ever encountered and swearing I’d never go near one again except for castration purposes. I also swore at Oliver for not being here to support me, even though I haven’t actually told him yet.
5 p.m. Nap time before the pointless dinner I’ve already paid for. I’m con
sidering not going as the thought of food is almost too much to bear. I don’t want dinner. I want crackers. And ice cream. Oh, and pickled onions.
5.30 p.m. I woke myself up by rolling over on my sore boobs. I was so hungry I ate some shortbread before running the shower to get ready. Then I stood under the shower for twenty minutes, singing Bruce Springsteen songs and rubbing my belly, wondering who’s in there.
6.30 p.m. I got dressed for dinner and became bewitched by my growing chest, which looks great in my new black dress. I ate another biscuit on way downstairs to meet everyone.
‘How are you feeling, love?’ asked Hazel, pretending to act concerned, but secretly pleased at my condition.
7 p.m. The main hall looked beautiful. New Year balloons sat patiently in a big net on the ceiling, waiting to bounce off everyone and reminding me that I’ll soon resemble one. We all sat down to eat – I managed to make it through the meal perfectly fine, until dessert, when the texture of my perfectly lovely chocolate mousse made me gag, and I had to run to the bathroom, leaving my friends to explain to onlookers that I’m pregnant and they should carry on and enjoy their meal. I returned in time to devour Kevin’s oatcakes and sip a glass of red wine while the lady at the next table looked at me disapprovingly through tiny glasses. So I then had a puff on my fake cig (she got up and left).
9 p.m. The ceilidh began. Usually my favourite part, but this year I sat and watched, almost pissing my pants when an overenthusiastic twirl from Kevin revealed he wasn’t wearing anything under his kilt. I did try a few of the slower, less whirly dances, but my feet began to hurt so I went up to my room to change my shoes and lay on the bed like a big sweaty lump.
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