by Rosie Nixon
ROSIE NIXON lives in London and is Editor-in-Chief of HELLO! magazine, where she has worked for over a decade, she is also an author and mother of two. Her debut novel, The Stylist, is in development as a major motion picture.
Rosie has worked in the magazine industry for over 20 years and previously held senior positions at glossy women’s titles including Grazia, Glamour and Red. Rosie was named Editor of the Year (entertainment and celebrity) by the British Society of Magazine Editors in 2017.
Also by Rosie Nixon
The Stylist
Amber Green Takes Manhattan
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Rosie Nixon 2020
Rosie Nixon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008273422
Version 2020-10-22
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008273415
For Mum and Dad
She thought she had known love before, and she did.
But it was just a whisper of what love had to say.
Just a tea cup out of the ocean.
And so this time she sat down and closed
her eyes and listened, really listened,
to what love had to say.
JMSTORM
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One: Aisha
Chapter Two: Aisha
Chapter Three: Lucy
Chapter Four: Aisha
Chapter Five: Lucy
Chapter Six: Aisha
Chapter Seven: Lucy
Chapter Eight: Aisha
Chapter Nine: Lucy
Chapter Ten: Aisha
Chapter Eleven: Lucy
Chapter Twelve: Aisha
Chapter Thirteen: Lucy
Chapter Fourteen: Aisha
Chapter Fifteen: Aisha
Chapter Sixteen: Lucy
Chapter Seventeen: Aisha
Chapter Eighteen: Lucy
Chapter Nineteen: Aisha
Chapter Twenty: Aisha
Chapter Twenty-One: Lucy
Chapter Twenty-Two: Aisha
Chapter Twenty-Three: Lucy
Chapter Twenty-Four: Aisha
Chapter Twenty-Five: Lucy
Chapter Twenty-Six: Lucy
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Aisha
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Aisha
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Lucy
Chapter Thirty: Aisha
Chapter Thirty-One: Aisha
Chapter Thirty-Two: Lucy
Chapter Thirty-Three: Aisha
Chapter Thirty-Four: Lucy
Chapter Thirty-Five: Lucy
Chapter Thirty-Six: Aisha
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Lucy
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Aisha
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Lucy
Chapter Forty: Aisha
Chapter Forty-One: Lucy
Chapter Forty-Two: Aisha
Chapter Forty-Three: Lucy
Chapter Forty-Four: Aisha
Chapter Forty-Five: Aisha
Chapter Forty-Six: Aisha
Chapter Forty-Seven: Lucy
Chapter Forty-Eight: Aisha
Chapter Forty-Nine: Lucy
Chapter Fifty: Aisha
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Aisha
Saturday 24th April
‘Oh no,’ I sighed, holding the paper between my fingers. It had been on the fridge door for a month. Four weeks in which I should have read it to the end.
Still in my slippers, baggy pyjama bottoms and a slightly tatty T-shirt – low on style, but one of the few outfits that was still relatively comfortable at this stage of my pregnancy – I padded from the kitchen to the bedroom and stood in the doorway.
I looked at him with faint hope. ‘I don’t suppose you read this, did you?’
Jason grunted in response; he was half asleep.
‘Jason?’ I said, more loudly than was strictly necessary. ‘It says I need to bring a sharing dish to contribute to the lunch.’ I paused, searching his features for a clue, before adding a loud, cursory, ‘Great. You didn’t. So I don’t have a sharing dish. Aargh!’
It wasn’t Jason’s fault. Joining The Baby Group had been my idea and I should have read the paperwork. ‘So now I’ll have to leave the house in the next five minutes so I can stop by the deli and pick up something overpriced.’
As I flung open the wardrobe doors and pulled out my maternity jeans and a stretchy mauve maternity top, my mind was already ticking over, wondering whether I should take a nice plate on which to put the shop-bought sandwiches, with some foil to cover them, and whether perhaps there were some cherry tomatoes in the bottom of the fridge, which I could add as a garnish so no one would know they were bought. I grabbed a silver pendant and slung it around my neck in an attempt to jazz myself up a bit.
Jason had propped himself up onto his elbows. ‘Is it really that bad?’ he said, fixing his green eyes on me, concern mixed with a mild amusement etched across his face. That gorgeous face. He even looked gorgeous first thing in the morning, damn him.
‘Yes it is. I’ve messed up. You’re meant to take food to share with the group at lunchtime. We have nothing in the fridge. The universe is clearly trying to tell me this Baby Group is a bad idea.’ I paused and looked at him. ‘Maybe I won’t go.’
‘Baby, come on. You’ve got to go. You’ve been thinking about this day for weeks,’ he said. He was correct, I had.
‘Hmm, weeks and weeks in which I could have been better prepared. I can’t face it now.’
He looked at me quizzically for a moment, probably trying to remember if we’d had a conversation about the letter; whether he was partially to blame here.
‘It’s not your fault, I’m just annoyed at myself,’ I said, more softly, swallowing my frustration. ‘Plus none of my clothes fit and I feel like a frump. I’m not up for it any more.’
‘For wh
at it’s worth, I like you in that top,’ he offered, as I pulled it down a bit more, watching it stretch across my impressive chest and large, round bump.
I ignored his compliment. ‘You know that food preparation isn’t exactly my forte. What hope do I have with no ingredients and less than five minutes to make something?’
I was brought up by a ‘feeder’ mother who took great pride in cooking delicious dinners from scratch and was very particular about how they looked. Her signature dish, a version of Coronation Chicken, made with a blend of spices inherited from dad’s Indian mother and smothered in yogurt, was legendary in certain Leamington Spa circles. I’d inherited my love of spicy food from dad’s side of the family, but none of the domestic skills. Though I was artistic enough to make a plate look good, the taste of its contents was another matter. Hence Jason was the main chef in this household. But he wasn’t quite as good at ensuring the fridge was adequately stocked. Oh, why didn’t I check the bloody letter? I managed to stop myself from swearing out loud.
‘I’m sorry I’m not going with you today, Aish,’ Jason said, ‘I really am. But I promise you, if you pick up a few sandwiches and pastries from the deli the other ladies will be really happy. Not many pregnant women turn down deli goods, from what I’ve learnt.’ He winked – an obvious reference to my obsession with the almond croissants from our local deli. ‘Anyway, I doubt anyone else has had time to rustle up a MasterChef-quality homemade dish. And if they have,’ he qualified, ‘well, they need to get a life, if you ask me. You must go, you’ll regret it if you don’t – and you never know, you might meet some like-minded people. You said yourself you’re keen to make some “mum friends”.’
I smiled. He knew what to say to make me feel better. It would have been nice to have Jason by my side in this first session, but I understood. We’d had this conversation a million times – he needed to put in the overtime while he could, before the baby came. Being an IT manager often meant him working unsociable hours. I didn’t like it, but I was used to it.
‘Thank you, Jase.’ I smiled and gave him a peck on the lips. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
Fully dressed, I waddled back to the kitchen to look for a suitable plate for the sandwiches. To be honest, lunch wasn’t the only thing I was worrying about this morning. Walking into a room full of strangers with the intention of making friends was a weird and nerve-wracking prospect. All that judgement. It made me feel anxious. And if that wasn’t enough, the day was also likely to involve some awkward chat about the perineum and confronting childbirth head on. I hadn’t given much thought to the actual birth bit because it made me feel nauseous whenever I did. I was convinced I was going to need a caesarean, like Mum, and the thought of being butchered in a stark operating room had cost me a few sleepless nights already.
I diverted my attention to our barely used kitchen cupboards, stooping down to poke around, looking for a dish I wasn’t even sure we still had. We’d had to shed a lot of stuff when we moved back from Hong Kong two years ago.
‘Crockery doesn’t travel well,’ Jason had reminded me at every opportunity. He didn’t have the same sentimentality for belongings as me. That was another thing I had inherited from Mum, a self-confessed ‘hoarder’.
Jason came up behind me, spreading his hands over my bump from behind. He laced his fingers with mine, and I reciprocated, despite the fact I’d rarely felt less sexy than I did right now – all swollen breasts, water retention in my legs, rounder-than-usual face. At thirty-five weeks and three days, I was rapidly getting too big for even my biggest maternity clothes. I didn’t understand those women in Cosmopolitan who claimed they felt sexier up the duff.
‘You look sexy today,’ he whispered into my neck, between peppering it with little kisses. ‘I wish I didn’t have to work.’
‘You were late home again last night,’ I muttered.
‘You were still awake though.’
‘I wasn’t,’ I replied, remembering how he had pushed himself into my back, in an attempt to gauge whether I could be warmed up for sex. Of course I was having none of it. We both knew that I had pretended to be asleep or had blamed my bump when rebuffing his sexual advances countless times in the last few months. Much as I fancied my husband, I just couldn’t face sex at the moment. I wasn’t sure how much more rejection he could take.
‘You were just pretending to be asleep!’ he protested.
As any woman who has ever been eight months pregnant knows, it’s practically impossible to be sound asleep anyway. Especially when your husband comes to bed late, having slammed the front door, which is just beneath your bedroom, and then starts trying to unbutton your maternity pyjamas, pestering you for sex.
I shook my head.
‘Right, sure. Well the little snorts you were making weren’t very authentic.’ He was humouring me. Sometimes Jason didn’t seem to grasp that my feelings about my body were not the same as they once were. Just because I had porn-star worthy boobs right now, didn’t mean they made me feel sexy. In fact, the opposite was true: I missed my B cups.
I poked around in the cupboard for a few seconds longer before realizing this crouching position was ill-advised for a woman in my condition and I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to get back up again.
‘Need a hand?’ He slid his hands under my armpits. ‘Aren’t you supposed to stop doing things like this now?’
‘I can do it, thanks.’ I shook him off and rose to my feet in a graceless fashion, steadying myself on the kitchen table and feeling like an overweight elephant in women’s clothing. It was hard to imagine there was a time when we’d had sex on this very table.
‘Listen,’ he continued brightly. ‘Provided I’m done before seven, which I really hope I will be, how about I take you for a burger this evening, to make up for today?’
He was pushing the right button there – along with almond croissants and custard creams, the quarter pounder with cheese and bacon from Honest Burger was another pregnancy craving. And don’t get me started on the salty, skinny fries.
‘Now you’re talking,’ I said, softening. ‘I’ll head home after the class, so text me what time to meet.’
‘Will do. And make sure you take notes – you’ll need to tell me what I’ve missed, so I can prepare for the arrival of whoever is in there.’ Then he bent down and spoke to my belly. ‘Yes, we are talking about you, little bean. Your mummy is going to be brilliant today and I love her very much.’
‘We love you too.’
This wasn’t the first time Jason had told me he loved me via my belly recently. He hadn’t actually said it to my face – or rather the round moon that used to be my face, complete with cheekbones – very often since I got pregnant. He used to tell me all the time, back in the days when we were dating, and when we were newly married. He would kiss me like his life depended on it and constantly tell me he loved me to bits. He’d leave loving Post-it notes on the fridge and text me sweet compliments while I was at work, which had the ability to make me smile all day, and feel like I was the only woman in the world. But he didn’t tell me so often these days, I’d noticed, and to be honest, I needed to hear it now more than ever.
Twisting to check the time on the cooker clock, I realized I’d have to waddle as fast as I could to the deli. I picked up my bag and kissed Jason goodbye.
After begrudgingly putting almost thirty pounds onto my card for eight ciabattas hastily stuffed with tomato, mozzarella and basil – the quickest thing they could do – and awkwardly asking the guy not to wrap the sandwiches, but put them straight onto my plate and cover the whole thing in cling film, I made my way towards the door. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach and my chest became tight. For a brief moment I thought again about not going to the class. Although I’d always known Jason would have to miss this first session, going alone suddenly seemed impossible. Plus my nagging worry that the class might involve something hideously embarrassing like acting out labour or talking about discharge with a bunch of stra
ngers would still not go away. Imagine if we were expected to get our boobs out to practise breastfeeding or something? Could that be a possibility? Please God, no.
But I knew I had to make myself go. Jason was right, I did need to meet like-minded people – I needed some friends with babies. My closest friend Tara had two toddler boys, but she was so busy running them to and from nursery while holding down her city job that we didn’t see each other as much as we used to. And I was yet to open any of the ‘baby manuals’ she had thoughtfully passed on to me, so I needed to learn; I had to do this for the bean.
I took a deep breath and strode towards the venue. ‘We’ll do this together, okay?’ I whispered to my bump. ‘Just you and me.’
Chapter Two
Aisha
The meeting was being held in the back room of our local church. When I finally found the door, I pushed it open and saw a room full of strangers sat in a circle staring at me.
‘Hi,’ I said, cringing inwardly as I realized I was interrupting the introduction. ‘Sorry I’m late. I’m Aisha. Aisha Moore.’
There was an intense silence as I made my way into the room. Luckily the jolly woman who had been talking didn’t seem fazed.
‘Hello Aisha!’ she said warmly. ‘Welcome. I’m Maggie, I’m a doula and your group leader! Take a seat here.’ She indicated a chair opposite hers. ‘I was just about to ask the mummies to tell us how far along they are and where they’re having their lovely babies. You can kick things off if you like? Feel free to tell us the sex, if you know – only if you want to. No one has to discuss anything they are uncomfortable with. This is a supportive space. No judgement here.’ Maggie was a short, podgy lady, probably in her late fifties, with frizzy brown hair, a wide smile and small, kind eyes. She was leaning so far forwards, smiling encouragingly with her whole body, that it looked like she might topple off her chair.
I hung my coat on the back of my seat and sat down, carefully pushing my bags underneath. I’d have to deal with the plate of sandwiches later.
