Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  “Thank you! Can you believe how many people are here? Especially all the men!”

  The men who come in appear to all be part of couples. There are, in a crowd of a hundred or so, at least twenty men. Given that the normal ratio of men to women is 0 in 10 or so, and maybe 1 in 20 when I drag Dec to a class, this is a strange turn of events.

  “Mom, did you tap into some sort of new demographic?”

  “I don’t know! I did get a free credit to use social media ads, so maybe that’s the secret of my success.”

  “Social media ads?” Amanda asks, intrigued. “You ran social media ads for your yoga classes? What kind? Reach ads? Traffic-based? Video?”

  “Um, ads. You type some words and upload a picture and pick a zip code,” Mom says, hands out in supplication as if to say Please don’t ask me for details about the internetz.

  “Who helped you?” Amanda inquires. “An agency?”

  “No one! I did it all by myself,” Mom proudly crows.

  “It obviously worked,” Amanda says as she looks around. “You did well.”

  “I’m not so ancient after all, am I? I can learn technology like the rest of you.” She shoos us in. “Find a spot before they’re all taken! The floor is filling up fast, and I might run out of unicorn horns and gloves!”

  “Horns?” I ask, not wanting to, but I’m asking.

  “Go find one. Horn, gloves, and a spot by a target for the tip.” Mom canters away. We’re going to find glitter in crevices of her corpse forty years from now, aren’t we?

  “I know where I want my tip to go,” Creepy Guy to the right of me murmurs. To my immense displeasure, the woman with him just bites her upper lip and looks suggestively at… Amanda?

  As I look around, it seems like a lot of couples are here.

  “Notice how many pairs there are? Looks like a lot of women dragged their husbands and boyfriends to this unicorn yoga thing. I wonder why?”

  “Who knows? We’ll have to ask your mom what she wrote in those ads, though. My marketing brain is really curious. Look at the turnout!”

  Scurrying in, we grab our props and find sanctuary with Agnes and Corrine. They might be old and annoying, but they aren’t inappropriate.

  “How’s that second trimester going for you, Shannon? If I were married to a man that fine, I’d turn him into a flesh pogo stick and ride him four hundred hops.”

  Okay. Scratch that. They may be inappropriate, but they’re not strange-man-at-a-yoga-class inappropriate.

  “Do you know a personal trainer named Vince, Agnes?” I ask.

  She holds her hand up to her ear. “What?”

  “Agnes turned off her hearing aid,” Corrine says with an eye roll.

  “Why?”

  “Because she can.”

  Amanda’s paying a little too much attention to all this, as if she’s storing away information for the future. Oh, God. Am I Agnes or Corrine?

  Pretty sure I don’t want to be either of them.

  There appear to be about ten rows of red and white bullseye targets in the room, evenly placed. Most of the yoga students have unrolled their mats behind the targets, so Amanda and I follow suit, Corrine and Agnes on our heels.

  “Are the boys joining you?” Agnes asks, a gleam in her eye.

  “Um, later,” Amanda tells her, giving a neck roll that says, Don’t you dare pinch my husband’s ass.

  “Good. We should have a little ‘reserved’ sign for them, right there.” She points to two places in front of us.

  “I know!” Corrine says. “I’ll just do this.” Scooching over there, she parks her walker in front of one bullseye, and her purse in front of another. The women high-five each other.

  Mom’s voice echoes through the auditorium, with just enough feedback to make everyone cover their ears and groan.

  Tap tap tap. “Is this on?” she asks, adjusting her wireless headset, using one manicured fingernail to test the mouthpiece microphone.

  “Yes!” some guy shouts.

  “Well, well, well!” Mom says, grinning like a Texas beauty contestant, her arms up in the air. I can feel her energy winding up, up, up.

  “This isn’t a yoga class, is it?” Amanda mutters. “More like a tent revival.”

  “Mom would have been one hell of a preacher,” I mutter back.

  Amanda checks her phone. We’re sitting on our yoga mats now, Corrine and Agnes to our right, an overly attentive couple to our left.

  “Where is Andrew?” Amanda hisses. “He’s avoiding answering texts.”

  “You seriously think they’re coming? Amateur.”

  “What? Of course they’re coming! Andrew has to give me a ride home.”

  “He’ll just send Gerald or Lance.”

  “You need a ride home, honey?” says a very platinum woman, half of the couple next to us. Her hair is teased into a 1980s bug shield, and she’s wearing blue jeggings with rips in them, a shimmery set of leotards underneath. Big hoop earrings grace her earlobes, bright red lipstick on overly full lips. The skin around her eyes sags, but she has so much eyeliner on the lower lids, it makes the bags look like a mudslide.

  “I–excuse me?” Amanda says, polite.

  “You need a ride? Me and Danny can give you a ride,” the woman says with a half-mouthed grin.

  Danny snorts.

  My mind shifts instantly into double entendre mode. He’s a tiny little man, no more than five feet tall, with greasy black hair and a surprisingly friendly smile.

  “Hey, sure. We got plenty of room in our car.” His eyes roam to my belly. “Whoa! Congratulations!”

  “Thanks,” I say, not sure about this whole conversation.

  “That takes courage,” Danny says to me.

  “What?”

  “Coming here, in that condition. Good for you.”

  “Oh.” I smile. “Thanks.” I guess that’s a compliment about my commitment to yoga?

  He winks. My eyes dart around the room. All the men look a little bit like Danny, actually. Not in terms of height or coloring. There’s an eagerness to them. Attentiveness. They are watching all the women who aren’t there with a guy.

  Like we’re prey.

  Mom’s voice rises. “Unicorns! Where are my unicorns?”

  All the couples start clapping.

  Picking up the little horn hat with an elastic band, I groan.

  “She’s serious?”Amanda says.

  “Of course.”

  “See those targets?” Mom asks rhetorically. “Put on your unicorn horn and let’s get started with the tips! Just the tip!”

  “I love getting started,” Danny says to me with a wink, eyes roaming over my body. “You clearly like more than just the tip, huh?” Wink.

  The baby chooses that exact moment to do a Michael Phelps in-womb flip turn.

  Mom is babbling about poses and targets and unicorn horns but I can’t hear a word. My brain is turning inside out and being power-washed by the blood of ritually sacrificed gnomes as Danny’s words can’t possibly be what I think they are?

  “You look green,” Amanda says to me, grabbing my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you hear him?”

  “Hear who? I was helping Agnes bend. It’s like trying to twist a steel rod.”

  “That dude. Danny. He’s hitting on me.”

  “He’s what? Seriously? You never know when guys are flirting with you. It’s like color blindness.”

  “I know! But even I can tell.”

  “Then he must be really over the top.”

  “Hey there,” Danny says to Amanda as he puts his unicorn hat on. “You more flexible than your friend? This is my wife, Susie.” Her fingers wave at Amanda as she sizes her up like a roller derby player looking for someone to hip whip.

  Amanda ignores them both and looks at Mom, who is demonstrating.

  “First, you make sure your unicorn horn is perfectly centered. There is nothing worse than being misaligned when it comes to getting the tip where it needs to be!�
�� Mom booms over the microphone.

  “Ouch,” Susie says, chewing on gum. “No one wants the tip in the wrong hole.” Wink.

  I grab Amanda’s arm. “SEE?” I hiss. “They’re flirting.” A wave of unreality and doubt hits me. “Right?”

  “That’s not flirting. That is like flirting on steroids. They’re swingers looking to score,” Amanda hisses back.

  “Now, I want you to bend into downward-facing dog,” Mom announces.

  “Mmmm, doggie style,” Danny groans.

  I look around the room. Couples are clustered around all the women who are under fifty and who aren’t here with a man. Whatever Danny and Susie are up to, they’re not alone. Mom is on stage, bent in perfect form, telling everyone how to center their unicorn tip, when Declan and Andrew appear, slamming the main doors open like they’re a SWAT team here to save us from hostage takers.

  “THIS IS OVER!” Andrew shouts, Mom’s soothing yoga chimes interrupted by the boom of my brother-in-law’s baritone voice echoing through the room.

  “What? Oh, hi Andrew!” Mom chirps, really confused, glitter eyes darting everywhere and finally landing on Amanda, who looks as bewildered as Mom.

  Danny moves closer to me, hand reaching out. “Can I feel your baby? Our youngest is nineteen, and I haven’t felt a pregnant woman’s body since our last partner, seven years ago.”

  “Last partner?” I ask, about to tell him no, but suddenly Declan seizes the guy’s wrist and Danny’s face turns to pain.

  “The lady did not consent,” Declan says in a voice that could free polar ice caps.

  “Hey! Get your hands off–” Dec pushes him back, hard.

  “I’ll say the same to you. Get your hands off my wife,” Declan growls, turning himself into a wall between me and the couple.

  “CLASS IS OVER!” Andrew announces, Mom’s microphone off her head and held up to his mouth. Mom is pawing at him.

  “What are you doing?” She’s crying on stage, hands in her hair, freaking out.

  “Declan!” I shout. “What is going on?”

  “IF YOU ARE HERE BECAUSE YOU THINK ANY SINGLE WOMAN IN THE CLASS IS A UNICORN, YOU ARE MISTAKEN. NO ONE IS HERE TO SWING,” Andrew announces.

  Mom screams, “Of course not! This isn’t aerial yoga! We don’t have swings!”

  Amanda’s eyes pop out of her head. “Is my husband on stage announcing that this is not a swinger’s event?”

  “Yes,” Declan snaps, eyeing all the men in the room.

  “Could you explain what is happening in plain English?” I demand.

  “Your mother’s ad for this event made it sound like Unicoga is for swingers looking for unicorns,” he explains.

  “Unicorns?”

  “In the sex-positive community, a unicorn is a single, bisexual woman looking for sex with couples,” Dec explains.

  “How the hell did you know that a bunch of swinging couples thought this was a yoga class full of unicorns?” I demand, turning on Declan.

  “Dave.”

  “DAVE?”

  “Dave said he saw people joking about the social media ads your mom posted. Put two and two together and realized what was really going on.” Declan hands me his smartphone.

  “Looking for some fun on Saturday? Try Unicoga! Imagine a room filled with unicorns, all ready to twist and bend in ways you never imagined, with you and your partner! Come find new ways to explore your body with a community of like-minded people. We’re open, eager to learn, and best of all–we’re co-ed! Couples encouraged,” I read aloud.

  Amanda is slowly closing her eyes, her voice going low in a moan of painful understanding as Mom jumps off stage and charges us, eyes wild and body language clear: someone else has screwed up.

  “Andrew is ruining everything!” Mom screams. She looks at Declan and Amanda. “Make him stop!” She walks away and tries to convince people to come back.

  So far, only the single women stay, couples leaving like rats on a diseased unicorn.

  Or something like that.

  “Marie,” Declan says flatly, “the couples are here because they wanted to hit on unpaired women. One of the guys was flirting with Shannon and Amanda,” Dec says, almost growling.

  “But the ad was so successful!” Mom cries. “Look at all the people who came!” Most of them are fleeing the room in twos, muttering about refunds.

  “They thought all of the single women who attended were bisexual women who wanted to have threesomes with the couples, Marie,” Declan says slowly.

  Corrine’s arm shoots up. “That’s me!”

  A gnarled hand yanks Corrine’s arm down. “Wrong kind of threesome, Corrine! Your dream is MFM. Not FMF.”

  “What’s MFM?” Mom asks. “Is that like where you have parties and try to sell people stuff?”

  “Sure, Marie. It’s exactly like that,” Agnes deadpans.

  “I can’t believe all those couples—all those husbands!–came here to pick up single women to have threesomes with!” Mom cries out.

  Andrew and Declan share an inscrutable look.

  Amanda and I carefully pretend we didn’t see it.

  I hand my unicorn horn to Declan. “You drive. Let’s go home.”

  “You’re leaving?” Mom gasps, tearful and sad.

  The baby kicks, hard, leaving me tearful and gasping, too.

  Declan’s protective arm goes around me, turning me toward the door. “Marie, we’ll talk about this later.”

  “Is Shannon okay?”

  I nod. “Fine. Just tired and freaked out.” I wave my rainbow-covered forearms in the air.

  “What am I supposed to do now? Almost everyone left,” Mom says, deflating. “How was I supposed to know that kinky people would come to my Unicoga class?”

  “Not all the kinky people are gone, Marie,” Agnes says, winking.

  And with that, we escape.

  Chapter 17

  Shannon

  * * *

  “Look at you. You are glowing.” Amanda walks into Grind It Fresh! I don’t bother to stand, because pregnancy has its own laws of physics. Newton’s First Law of Motion may say that a body at rest stays at rest and a body in motion stays in motion, but pregnancy inertia says I get to do whatever I want and other people have to be the ones who move.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m so glad you can drink coffee again.”

  “Me, too.” She’s nervous, a little fidgety, and I stare her down.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “You’re not just here for coffee.”

  “What? Of course I am.”

  “You want to ask a favor.”

  “How do you do that? How do you know?”

  That was easy. She caved fast. “It must be the pregnancy hormones. Mothers have a gift for seeing right through their kids. Intuition must come along with the progesterone.”

  “Liar.”

  “You’re about to ask me to do something you haven’t even told Andrew about.”

  One shaking finger gets pointed at me. “Witch!”

  “Nope. Just,” I pat my belly two-handed, “pregnant. And right. Tell me what you want.”

  “I need to borrow your belly.”

  “It’s not exactly detachable.”

  “You need to come along for the ride.”

  “For what?” The words are out of my mouth a split second before I know her answer.

  “A–”

  I cut her off. “A mystery shop.”

  “QUIT DOING THAT! You are freaking me out.”

  “I can’t control it! It’s my superpower.”

  “That’s your superpower? Pretty disappointing.”

  “Disappointing?”

  Amanda looks at me intently. “You once told me if you could have any superpower you wanted, you would want your clit positioned inside your vagina.”

  “Well, we can’t pick our superpowers, can we? I’m sure Superman would trade flying for something more useful,” I ponder.

  “What
could possibly be more useful than flying?”

  “Maybe he’d like to be able to get pregnant and give birth.”

  “Maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced. Neither am I.

  “Do you know a single guy who would trade the ability to fly for this?” I point to my belly.

  “No. What do you think Superman would trade flying for?”

  “Lois Lane.”

  “Didn’t he do that in ‘Superman II’?”

  “He kind of did, didn’t he? And look how that turned out. He nearly died.”

  “What the hell is your point? How did we get from clit placement to Superman II?”

  “We’re us, Shannon. We move from stupid topic to stupid topic seamlessly and end up in Obscureland.”

  “Maybe that’s our superpower,” I muse.

  “Maybe.”

  “But I’m pretty sure it’s just yours.” I take a sip of coffee. “And quit stalling. What’s the mystery shopping deal?”

  “I need you to pretend to be pregnant.”

  “Sorry. Nope. No can do.” I point to my belly. “That ship sailed a while ago. Now it’s an aircraft carrier.”

  “I said that wrong. I need you to be really pregnant. I’ll pretend.”

  “For a mystery shop? You have plenty of people who can wear the belly pillow and fake it.”

  “But none of them are as good as you.”

  “Why are you in charge of a pregnancy shopping account? Isn’t that beneath your new pay grade?”

  “It’s a special deal. We want to combine the new assisted living communities Anterdec is managing with retail opportunities, and one of the ideas is to put maternity shops in the retirement villages.”

  “Um, you realize the women who live in those places are postmenopausal. Sounds like really alarmingly bad consumer research.”

  “Ha ha. They can’t get pregnant, but their daughters and granddaughters can. It’s like child-care centers in nursing homes. Intergenerational placement is the new trend. Put the pregnancy-related store in Grandma and Grandpa’s retirement village and there’s convergence. Visit your relatives and pick up a new nursing tank, you know?”

  “That’s kind of genius.”

  “Thank you. It’s my idea.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”