by Rosie Nixon
‘You’re basically paying for new mates,’ Oscar had joked when I first told him about joining the group.
‘No, I’m learning how to have a baby!’ I had protested.
Despite owning a sizeable number of pregnancy and childbirth books, most of them had remained unopened. And I had joined the group to grow a network here on my doorstep. I hadn’t found it particularly easy to build strong connections with the women at work and many of my old friends, including Katie, had moved out of London in recent years. I was still making up my mind about some of the others in the group, but Aisha had surprised me and was so far the lead contender for a new buddy.
It was a beautiful evening that felt properly warm, and as I strolled to her house in my flats and a long, clingy black dress – the only dress that still fitted me – I marvelled at how pretty this part of South London was. Most of the homes on the streets around here were well looked after, with pruned roses and the odd palm tree in the front gardens, white slatted blinds at windows and shiny gloss finishes and brass trimmings on front doors. You had to earn a substantial amount to afford one of them.
Oscar and I had only moved to the area two months ago. But our fling had begun two years ago. At first it had been exhilarating. I had never quite been sure if there were other women too and, initially, I hadn’t cared. It had all been part of the fun – stolen evenings in hotels during ‘business trips’ or booty calls after nights out. The sex had been intoxicating. But as time had gone on, my heart had started to yearn for his full attention, just as much as my body longed for his touch. I was falling in love with Oscar. He crept into my thoughts more often, although I questioned whether he was as into me as I was into him.
Then, one evening in January last year, Oscar had called to ask if he could come and stay with me that night. When he came over, there had been something different in his voice. He’d seemed willing to discuss the ‘us’ that had so far been off limits. ‘I’m ready to focus on the future now,’ he had said, before kissing me passionately all the way to the bedroom. The thought that he might want to be with me officially had been electrifying.
We had decided he would still live half the week in his Marylebone bolt hole, and the rest of the week he would spend at my Brixton flat. But my dreams of him and I going the distance, which, in my mind, involved having a family together, had soon become unfounded when he continued to make it crystal clear that he had already done the marriage and babies thing, and he didn’t want to do it again. Not getting married I could live with, but I had been devastated he didn’t want children with me.
So that was when I had had to take matters into my own hands. I had to think about my body; my biological clock. I was fed up of people making assumptions about me. I had to make a decision.
My getting pregnant changed everything. And now here we were – happy – I was so glad he had finally embraced it.
The only thing left to sort out had been where to live – we couldn’t keep the Marylebone/Brixton arrangement with a baby.
‘Clapham seems nice,’ I had suggested, imagining long walks on the common with my baby. Having a newborn in summer had to be the best timing, and I had envisaged a sun-drenched maternity leave of sitting outside pubs sipping a cheeky glass of prosecco over lunch with my new yummy mummy pals, while our babies dozed soundly in their prams next to us.
It wasn’t hard to find the perfect house to rent just south of Clapham Common near the chi-chi and sought-after Abbeville Road, with its handy array of independent delis and boutiques, including an overpriced butchers, a fromagerie, a Gail’s bakery and a gastro pub that buzzed with locals at every time of day or evening. For me it had to be that area – and through a turn of fate, an acquaintance of Oscar’s ran an estate agents in that patch, and found us the perfect place which we snapped up before it even went on the market. It all fell into place so easily. It was a good idea, wasn’t it?
Chapter Ten
Aisha
‘It’s ridiculous!’ Jason had shouted when I mentioned the new washing machine arriving this morning had been paid for by Dad. ‘I should be supporting us fully now. I don’t want your dad’s money.’
He had a real issue with it, although I was sure that Dad was only doing it to appease his guilt at barely ever seeing me. Dad had just happened to call last week as I was battling with the machine’s temperamental dial. Barely a few hours later, his PA had swiftly emailed me details of the new one she had arranged to have installed for us today. To me, it was simply a kind gesture from a dad with more money than time. But Jason saw it differently.
There was some history with me and money. I had been brought up by parents who were never short of cash. My father, a self-made, high-flying businessman – thanks to a successful property-investment company in Leamington – had kept my mum and me in well-made clothes and luxury holidays from as early as I could remember. We had a gîte in France to escape to over the summer, and there were weekends skiing in Gstaad in the winter. But I couldn’t remember a single time my father had been home early enough to read me a bedtime story. I was pretty much brought up by a single mum, until she passed away.
When I had not long been out of university, my dad had bought me this flat in Clapham. At first I had lived in it with a house-mate, then with a former boyfriend. Then over the years it had been rented out several times, until Jason and I had moved in when we returned from Hong Kong. It had seemed the most practical thing to do; the tenant happened to be moving out and we knew how lucky we were to be mortgage-free in London. But the fact I owned the flat had always seemed to bother Jason. Although Jason was easily the major earner in our relationship, he had struggled with not being the wealthiest. As such, although he had never explicitly said it, he had always given me the impression that babies should wait until he’d earned enough money to support us both ‘properly’. Whatever ‘properly’ meant.
I genuinely wasn’t bothered about whether Jason was wealthy or not – I’d fallen in love with the man who had left adorable sticky notes for me on the fridge and pinned me against the wall of our Hong Kong apartment as he kissed me so passionately I never wanted him to stop. I didn’t care how much cash was in his wallet. But since I had fallen pregnant, Jason had thrown himself into work even more heavily, putting in for overtime whenever it was available, prioritizing his earning potential ahead of spending time with me. I’d spent a lot of today thinking about this, while doing what felt like an Everest-sized mountain of washing using the new machine – at least I wasn’t going to be forced to find a launderette – and then I had spent most of the afternoon reorganizing my knicker drawer and tinkering with some illustrations.
That meant that despite having spent the entire day at home, I left it to the last minute to get things ready for the breastfeeding class and then had a wardrobe crisis about what to wear ten minutes before they were all due to arrive. This late stage of pregnancy had made me more indecisive and anxious than usual. To say I was regretting offering to host the meeting was an understatement.
At the end of the first meeting, when Lucy had put herself forward to be the group admin by connecting us all on WhatsApp and email, and Susie and Lin had offered to make their already legendary brownies again, I had felt as though I should volunteer something too and before I knew it, my hand had been in the air and I was agreeing to host this class. Still, it was a breastfeeding session, with no men allowed, so at least it was a smaller group to accommodate, and it would be over in two hours.
‘What was I thinking?’ I complained to Jason when he got home from work. ‘It’s the last thing I feel like today.’
‘I wish they weren’t coming too,’ he offered, looking pensive. ‘I shouldn’t have gone to work on an argument this morning.’
‘It’s okay,’ I replied softly. This was the closest I’d seen him come to an apology about a comment made over money. But right now I had a more pressing situation on my hands.
I was stood in front of the mirror in our bedroom watching th
e buttons strain on a shirt I had bought in Zara only two weeks ago. How gravely I had underestimated my size. I really wasn’t comfortable with this bigness. I peeled off my pregnancy jeans (they were beginning to chafe anyway) and pulled on a figure-hugging dark-green cotton dress – a hand-me-down from Tara, who had been infinitely better dressed during pregnancy than me.
‘This, with a scarf?’ I turned to Jason, holding up a silk scarf with a leopard print on it.
‘Yeah, nice.’ He was now sat on our bed, hunched over his laptop.
‘No, it’s not,’ I replied irritably, before wriggling out of the dress and throwing it and the scarf down on top of the shirt. ‘It’s too garish. Plus Tara was half the size I am now, the dress is too tight.’
‘Why don’t you just wear something comfortable?’ Jason offered.
‘Comfortable,’ I repeated, with real bitterness. ‘Have I become a woman who should only wear comfortable clothes? It’s not fair Jason – you can still wear a slim-fitting grey T-shirt and jeans and look fit. And comfortable too. Nothing has changed for you.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said.
‘Imagine having a space hopper permanently strapped to your middle while fighting chronic fatigue, on top of hot and cold flushes. With a side order of swollen ankles and bad skin!’ I snapped.
‘I know babe, I can see it’s not easy. I’m sorry.’ He turned away, but he sounded cynical to me.
‘It’s not just about clothes,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you have any idea how my life has been turned upside down.’ Tears appeared at my eyes. ‘I miss Mum so much at the moment.’
He touched my shoulder, in an effort to try and soothe me. ‘I can only try to imagine,’ he said tenderly. ‘I’m sorry about this morning. I’m here for you Aisha, I promise.’
I took a deep breath and forced myself to be calm; there wasn’t time to be upset.
‘But, for the record, you always look good, whatever you wear. And even if you decide to wear pyjamas, I don’t think anyone will care.’
‘But I care,’ I whispered; his compliment didn’t sound very convincing. ‘Anyway, you need to go out,’ I ordered. I would be glad to see the back of him.
‘Text me when the coast is clear!’ he called, as he disappeared out of the flat.
Once again, everyone had been instructed to bring a plate of something to share, so I didn’t really need to offer anything other than drinks, but I decided to make some bruschetta.
Half an hour later, while Lin and Helen chatted in the living room, I tended to the cloud of smoke and smell of burning toast that I had left under the grill for too long. I heard the doorbell and panicked, but luckily Lin popped her head round the door and said, ‘I’ll get it!’
‘Come in Lucy, Aisha’s upstairs, handling a little emergency in the kitchen,’ I heard her saying, making me cringe. ‘Luckily we’ve put out the fire.’
‘I’ve put the kettle on,’ added Susie from the top of the stairs. ‘We still have drinks! Are you tea, coffee or herbal?’
‘Oh, always coffee for me,’ Lucy said.
‘What about you, Aisha, can I get you something to rehydrate you following the bruschetta drama?’ Susie asked, turning towards me. I felt my eyes prickle as another joke was made at my expense, though I knew it was because I was already feeling overly sensitive this evening.
‘I think I need a coffee too,’ I replied to Susie, trying to sound more cheery than I felt.
Probably unlike most people here, I hadn’t managed to kick the single-shot lattes completely this pregnancy. I usually saved them for a weekend treat when Jason would also indulge me in my craving for almond croissants. But this evening I decided to make an exception.
‘Decaf, of course!’ Lucy added to her order.
‘Me too,’ Lin smiled. ‘I may not be the one expecting, but caffeine – yuck!’ She pulled a disgusted face.
‘Decaf for you too?’ asked Susie. It felt as though they were all looking in my direction.
I paused for a moment.
‘I’ll have a weak, normal one,’ I replied, feeling rebellious.
To my relief no one actually fainted.
Lucy came into the kitchen and set a dish down on the side.
‘Oh wow – look at that work of art!’ Lin exclaimed, peering over the salad. ‘I want to put my face in it, it looks so good.’
‘I happened to have ingredients in the fridge to use up,’ Lucy smiled proudly. ‘I just threw it together really. Do you need a hand, Aisha? Let’s face it, most people have probably burnt bruschetta at least once in their life.’
I was struggling pathetically with the skylight, trying to let out some of the smoke from the smouldering bread. I felt a twinge of jealousy listening to the admiring comments about her salad from the others. I had failed all over again. ‘No, it’s okay, it’s all fine. Please, go through to the lounge, I won’t be a minute,’ I said, flustered.
I found I was actually grateful for Susie and Lin’s bossiness because at least they had made sure everyone had a hot drink in their hand.
When I eventually rejoined the group in the living room, everyone had arrived, including Camilla, our breastfeeding instructor. She had dyed red hair and elfin features. She stood up from the leather pouffe on which she was sat, and reached out to shake my hand. ‘Hello Aisha! Do call me Mila. Ready to start?’ I noticed a plastic doll, a knitted breast, a plastic contraption that looked like a foghorn and a lever-arch file full of printed sheets next to her. Who knew breastfeeding was so complicated?
‘Sorry about the bruschetta,’ I bit my lip. ‘But luckily we’ve got Lucy’s amazing salad, some spring rolls, a pack of chocolate fingers, Susie and Lin’s legendary brownies and an emergency tub of Pringles. A slightly random menu, but we won’t starve, will we?’ They all made reassuring noises about how they preferred salad, spring rolls, chocolate fingers and Pringles to bruschetta anyway, and then the room fell into silence.
Initially I felt a little self-conscious about our flat; with all the photos on display, it felt very exposing this early into our friendships. A couple of times I caught people looking at the photos. Sometimes it was strikingly obvious that we had only been friends for a few weeks and barely knew anything about each other’s lives before being pregnant. But I supposed that the current collection of framed milestones in mine and Jason’s life would soon be replaced by baby images, so I might as well show off my pre-baby life while I could.
‘Your wedding will seem so insignificant once you’ve given birth,’ Tara had told me, only half-joking, on the phone the other evening. ‘You thought marriage was a commitment? Honey, you will barely remember that day. Having a baby together supersedes everything. Having a baby is tough. It’s lucky you’re married to Jason because it makes it harder for either of you to leave. Planning a wedding is merely training for how organized you need to be when getting out of the house with a newborn. And don’t even get me started on leaving the house when you’re weaning. You don’t know what’s about to hit you. Mark. My. Words.’
In my living room, Helen had opted to sit on the floor with her legs crossed in a pretzel position. Presumably to demonstrate her suppleness – what your body was capable of if you got knocked up at 20, or whatever young age she was.
At 36, I was classified as a ‘geriatric’ mother. I hated this fact. It had influenced a midwife to ask me whether I was planning to opt for a caesarean birth, because she assumed I might be fearful of complications during a natural birth, due to my age. I certainly didn’t feel geriatric. But when it came to breastfeeding, I was definitely keen to give it a go, so I needed to pay attention.
Lin sat next to Susie who was in the middle of the sofa, with Lucy at the other end and I took the armchair. I was relieved that ‘Call me Mila’ was running the class, so thankfully we didn’t have Maggie and her vagina obsession to contend with again this evening. She seemed a much more reassuring teacher.
Mila talked us through the drill like a breastfeeding s
ergeant to our rookie battalion: ‘Tummy to mummy, nipple to nose, angle the dangle and – latch!’ The baby started kicking a lot during this part, and if I wasn’t mistaken, my nipples started to tingle as she repeated it over and over again, like a children’s nursery rhyme. I looked around the room, wondering whether anyone else was experiencing the same sensation, but they were all fastidiously making notes, writing down the song’s words. I wondered if Mila was frustrated at finding herself a breastfeeding tutor rather than a professional singer, as she had quite a good voice. She told us she had two children of her own and was full of anecdotes about how ‘breast is best’. Despite my initial fears, and a limited discussion around painful cracked nipples and mastitis, keeping a newborn alive via the boob sounded relatively straightforward. I had attended enough midwife appointments by now to know that breastfeeding might not come easily to us all, but that I was to try at all costs, or else. Or else what? The breastfeeding bobbies might come and arrest me?
Mila then talked us through the ‘rugby hold’, using the old doll that looked as though it had indeed been chucked around a rugby pitch. When Lin was handed the doll to hold in the correct ‘rugby hold’ fashion, she decided instead to cheekily throw it in my direction. I reacted swiftly, catching the doll with a skill to make any professional scrum half proud. Mila tutted loudly, disapproving of Lin’s joke, and Susie put a hand to her head in despair and mild embarrassment.
‘I’m so sorry, Mila. Lin sometimes gets over-excited about the wonders of the human body and all the different options available to us,’ she said, on behalf of her partner.
‘So this is when I tackle her to the ground, is it Susie?’ I added, making everyone – including Mila – chuckle. It was swiftly becoming apparent that Lin was the non-conformist amongst us.
Later on, Mila enlightened us that the ‘foghorn’ was actually a breast pump contraption and we should all get one. Thankfully no displays of actual nudity were necessary during the class, which did something to ease my anxiety. That was what the fairly ancient-looking knitted boob was for. I couldn’t help but notice the crocheted nipple was particularly well-crafted. I pondered for a moment, about whether there was a circle of grannies, perhaps living in a nursing home in a remote Scottish village, who spent their days knitting boobs for breastfeeding classes like ours. Someone had obviously lovingly made this one. The thought tickled me, and I noticed that I was smiling. The class had lifted my spirits after the argument with Jason, and despite the disastrous start to the evening with bruschetta-gate, I now wasn’t in any hurry for it to end. I was really enjoying myself. Hosting wasn’t as bad as I first thought and they were certainly an entertaining and supportive group of people.
