by Poppy Dolan
With a grimace she shoves it in her tan leather bag. ‘Not really. It’s Laurie’s – guess who hasn’t finished their reading group book because of being crazy busy with work? And guess who stupidly volunteered to give crib notes? I just don’t want Laurie to lose the one regular social interaction that isn’t about dinner with the law firm partners, you know? Even if it means I’m reliving my university syllabus. Sheesh. God, that’s a really negative way to kick off our day of baking heaven. Ignore me.’ She gives herself a shake. ‘How are you? Fancy a coffee before we go in? Get some caffeine fuel and sharpen our elbows with machetes, maybe. I need to find a suitably nice but also bland mother-in-law present today and an espresso would be handy.’
Hannah nods towards the tiny greasy cafe just over her shoulder and at that moment a horn-rimmed trendy bloke bowls out, the open door sending a gush of coffee fumes our way. That’s the kind of smell that usually has me floating on air to its flat white source. But instead of feeling light and giddy I feel a lump of bile at the back of my throat and a dizzy spin around my ears. All I can do is shake my head, lips clamped together like a stubborn dam to any threatening vomit.
‘OK, fair dos. Let’s get stuck in! I had a text from Joe: he’s already been in, got every single goody bag known to man and a few phone numbers, now he’s back playing footie. Men are … incredible. He’s managed to get all his presents for free, and chatted up some Danone spokeswoman. I wish I’d had that confidence at his age.’
I still have my lips glued together and this much silence has become weird. I take a deep, acidic swallow and say in a croaky voice, ‘We are his age! We are super young. Let’s go and get those girls’ numbers too and pull them before he has a chance.’
Hannah looks at me from under a crooked eyebrow but patiently takes my arm and we cross the road towards baking Mecca. Oh God, that’s offensive, isn’t it? OK, then. She takes my arm and leads me to the Westfield of baking. That sounds better.
This baking extravaganza is as big, shiny and sweaty as I thought. I managed to lose Hannah within six seconds, like an easily distracted toddler in Debenhams. As I squealed over a huge stand of mini brownie and cake-pop machines (like a George Foreman grill but exponentially better), I heard Hannah’s voice murmur, ‘Oooh, Cath Kidston tea towels …’ and when I turned around she was gone. Possibly another tick against me being a mother – losing anyone in my charge, from teens to teachers. Anyway, I’ll ping her a wee text in a bit, once I’ve got my bearings. My eyes keep straying over the very few male forms in the crowd and it clicks that I’m expecting one of them to be Joe. Even though Hannah clearly said he’s been, bagged samples and got the t-shirt. Probably a Dr Oetker one. Strange, but I suppose I now associate him with baking and vice versa. It feels right that he should be making rude gestures with rolling pins and listening with interest at a pasta machine demonstration. If I’m honest, I’m enjoying flexing my flirting muscle with Joe in class. There, I said it. It might not be dignified, and my mum would probably not approve (I get the feeling Hannah doesn’t always) but there’s nothing wrong with a casual, harmless flirt. The Italians have built a whole way of life around it and they gave us pizza, so they’re no fools. And to someone as effortlessly cool and hot as Joe, I bet I’m the tenth person in the day to bat his bicep playfully by the time our 8 p.m. classes roll around. Flirting’s just a string of cheeky words after all. I see Pete do it every time we go to the deli and the edgy girl with the shaved undercut asks him how he likes his ham sliced. Once he said ‘give me as much as you think I can take’ but it was Parma ham and it actually cost us £23 all in.
A bit of a silly flirt with Joe makes me feel twenty-one again. And when I was twenty-one I didn’t worry about anything.
I’d better get a wriggle on if I want me some freebies too. I could do with a new whisk. I’m telling my feet to get going and venture down the aisles and corridors of stands, all lit up professionally and with miles of snazzily designed signs in vivid colours. But even as I let my eyes drift over ‘Whip It Real Good!’ and ‘Dairy-free is Fun-filled!’ my feet really aren’t joining in. It’s like someone’s hoovered all the energy out of me in the last three seconds, leaving behind just a penny and a hairgrip, as my hoovering so often does. I’m tired and floppy and – yup, completing the triumvirate – all of a sudden, borderline weepy. Shit, I must be hormonal.
But, no, I had my period … what? Three weeks ago? No, that’s not right.
I remember one just after that first baking class. And then I had one, um, when …
Fuck.
Fuckety fuck.
That was October. It’s now early December.
And November was a period-free month.
No. Period.
Which means my blog might now be a bit academic.
Fuckety.
The signs are spinning. The overhead strip lights burn my eyes. I realise I’m still gripping a cake pop machine with clammy hands, but as I try to replace it my whole right arm shakes. I’ve got to find a loo. Or a gin. Shit, not a gin. Just somewhere to put my head between my legs and maybe cry a bit. Maybe call Childline. But whether for me or the unborn person, I’m not sure. Both of us are a bit up shit creek.
I haven’t missed a Pill, but maybe it hasn’t worked somewhere along the way? I did have a weird runny tummy just after we got back from the apple harvesting at Pete’s parents’ place, but I put that down to their kitchen hygiene.
It’s only been six weeks. Wait, seven. So that’s not really that long, right? Except I am so regular. You would do a better job of scheduling Network Rail trains against my cycle. Seven weeks is one week off a whole month late. Motherfucker.
A blast of panic jolts me into pretty much galloping towards the loos. But the queue is mammoth! Who didn’t think, ‘Oh, a whole exhibition centre full of women. I’d better call in the Portaloo national guard’?
I just need to take the weight off my wibbling legs for a minute. But all the little cafe tables are jam-packed with ladies brandishing actual jam. I’m not in the mood to enjoy the sight. Fuckety. How are you supposed to take in your accidental pregnancy surrounded by thousands of women and their precious Bonne Maman samples? ‘I’m hoofing around my own precious specimen!’ I want to scream, but instead just a ‘Wheeeghhhh,’ comes out and I keep walking blindly on.
So I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. That’s the decision made, then. And what do I feel? Oh God, I don’t feel anything. Is that shock or am I dead inside, as numb as a carbon monoxide victim s to death? Christ, how do you know? I wonder if I could ask one of those nice blue-rinse grannies over there to smack me in the mouth so I could see if it hurt.
Wanton self-harm; again, I might not be ideal mother material.
I need Pete. Where’s my phone? My arm is still shaking. I think maybe my whole body is. And I’m pretty sure that if I tried to talk right now I’d have that semi-strangled and wet thickness that you get right before crying. Shit. I can only tell him when I get round to being happy about it.
Which I will do.
Right?
Another surge of nausea reminds me I’m not actually sitting in the crash position yet, so I have to keep going. There’s a white marquee thing not far from me. The back flap is open and I can see a padded bench in purple velvet. Sod whose it is; don’t bring a bench to an exhibition centre if you don’t want it instantly and forever sat on. I let out a strangled cry as I realise they can’t refuse me a seat, whoever they are: I’m a lady with a baby.
Lurching forwards, I bundle through the opening and dump my handbag on the floor with a sigh. Head between my knees, I try and stop my internal monologue filling up with swearwords and instead try and picture a smiling Pete, with a scrunched-up tiny face poking out from a blanket in his arms. Pete will be such a good dad is my new mantra. Positives. Let’s list positives:
– This means I’m definitely not infertile.
– And neither is Pete.
– So we’ll save on IVF.
– We�
��re going to have a cute baby.
– Mum will be off her rocker with happiness.
– I can eat like a pig for nine months, and then while breastfeeding too. Possibly two years of food debauchery.
– We’re going to have a baby. I love babies.
– No listening to bonkers, drunken Martin for a while. He can sort out his own messes while I sort messy nappies.
– I do love babies. I’m going to love this baby.
– If it takes after Pete, it will be gorgeous AND clever. It will probably just raise itself while I read The Hunger Games. Win.
And it is a win – a baby. Our baby. It’s happening. And my head hasn’t exploded. I can do this.
Slow, steady breaths, in and out. In and out. My eyes are refocusing on the thin red carpet and my scuffed Converse. I might just keep like this till I get the feeling back in my toes. In and out. A baby. We’re having a baby.
OK, this panic attack is being downscaled to a freak-out. Another two minutes of calming thoughts and I might class myself as ‘having a wobble’. Just a few more breaths. Just staying still. This feels good. I might always sit like this, actually.
‘Hello?’ A pair of very strong hands briefly squeeze my shoulders and a deep Liverpudlian accent reaches my ears, such as they are tucked behind my knees. ‘Are you OK, love?’
With all the speed of Tower Bridge, I winch myself up into an upright position. My head’s still a touch whirly but what I see dead in the middle of my vision are two eyes so blue I want to fly through them. Ice blue, diamond ice blue, so sharp you could cut yourself. The bluest marbles presided over by shelves of dark, thick eyebrows.
‘Paul Hollywood,’ I say to myself.
‘Yes.’ There’s a pause. ‘That’s why they gave me this dressing room. But you can’t be in here, lass.’
‘I’m talking to Paul Hollywood,’ I have to say, to make it real.
Those icy marbles are squinting at me. ‘Yes. Now, if you wouldn’t mind …’
‘And I’m having a baby,’ I say now, because it feels like Paul should be the first person to know.
Those unforgettable eyes widen. ‘Oh Christ. Zoe!’ With a bellow, he summons a young woman with an iPad from somewhere in the marquee. She squints at me too.
‘Hello? You’re not supposed to be in here; the waiting area is out the front.’
All I can think of to say is, again, ‘Paul Hollywood.’
‘She says she’s pregnant,’ Paul murmurs. ‘And she looks a bit peaky. Maybe we should put her to the front of the list? And get her a bun.’
I could weep with gratitude, but I think I’ve already done more than enough. Pull it together, Eleanor!
‘Um,’ I stumble up, ‘I should just go.’ But some blood rushes to some wrong places and I swerve forwards. Two big strong kneading hands catch me and hold me up by the armpits. So very glad I made the right cardi choice today.
‘Not before a Chelsea bun. And Zoe, two cups of sweet tea, ta.’
OK, so now I just have to cry.
The crying is thankfully brief and the bun delicious. As much as my subconscious is shouting ‘What on earth are we going to do about this pregnancy lark?!’ the engorged food bit of my brain is saying, ‘Who cares? We’re eating a bun made by Sir Paul Hollywood Esq.! Babies can wait.’
Like some sort of amazing dream, Paul sits with me as I get back to a level of normal. The room stops spinning at least, and my feet work. I can even go five minutes without saying his name in a reverential murmur. I eat my bun and he asks me some very sensible questions.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Shall we call you a cab?’
‘Can you stop staring at me for a minute?’
And finally an Eleanor with some semblance of a brain cell comes back into play. It’s like I’ve been watching my life in fast forward and I’ve just found the remote to switch back to regular speed. ‘God, I’m so sorry. So sorry for barging in here. I just found out, like today. And it’s all a shock. I went nuts, sorry. Haven’t been sure I’m ready for this,’ I point to my Fair Isle-covered tum. ‘And now I’m offloading on Paul Hollywood and ruining his day.’
He smiles very patiently. ‘Hey, it’s showbiz, right?’
I’m not sure how me being up the duffers is showbiz, but he’s Paul Hollywood, so who am I to argue?
He swigs the last of his tea. ‘Listen, I went white as a sheet when I found out I was going to be a dad. But that passes. You’ve got some great times ahead. And some bloody knackering times too. You should be getting your rest, instead of doing all this,’ he waves his huge hands around the tent. ‘But maybe make the most of life before you can’t go ten paces without a buggy, eh? Right, must get back.’
I’m just thinking how sweet it is of a baking celebrity to worry about me expending all my energy walking round a big venue like this when Paul nips through the open flap and seconds later a huge round of applause erupts. And Zoe’s then at my elbow with a clipboard. ‘You’ll just need to fill these in, if you don’t mind. Health and Safety,’ she trills, rolling her eyes in a jolly, conspiratorial fashion.
‘Um, right?’
‘You know: you being pregnant, the BBC, rules and regulations.’ She’s tapping the clipboard in a ‘just-hurry-up-please’ manner. I feel so doggone awful about spewing my drama all over Paul’s lovely dressing room-cum-yurt that I start filling in all my personal details with her chewed biro. I know political correctness has officially gone mad, but it seems a bit extreme that I have to fill out a risk assessment form just because I’ve brought a fertilised egg into a BBC tent. But I’m too shamefaced at my performance to dare argue with Auntie Beeb. Whatever Paul wants. He is my new hero – the patron saint of the pregnant and confused. He brings buns to those in need. Give that man a knighthood. And Wales, just give him Wales.
I finish up the last few boxes – email address, mobile number, some of those tick boxes about receiving adverts, or whatever, that I don’t think anyone has ever read. Tick tick, signature, date, and now I will leg it and take my fertile uterus and embarrassment with me.
I shiver as I realise: Paul Hollywood knows I am pregnant before Pete knows. This is not a story to tell the grandkids. Or a shrink. Or just anyone.
Outside the marquee, feeling colour flood back into my cheeks as the last thirty minutes sink in, I bump into a knackered-looking Hannah.
‘Thank God!’ she sighs. ‘There you are. You look as pooped as me, shall we get out of here? I think I forgot that I’m claustrophobic. Plus, I’ve got some jam for Laurie’s mum – those cute old biddies are going nuts for it over there, so I thought I must be on the right track.’ She looks at my empty arms, thankfully no longer shaking. ‘You didn’t get anything then? Didn’t find anything you wanted?’
I don’t know what to say.
We find a nice little Strada not far from Earl’s Court and something stops me blurting out my acid-trip-like adventures to Hannah. I think it’s because I feel like I’ve already given Paul Hollywood the Golden Ticket of my pregnancy news. That ticket should have been for Pete, and to dole out another would just be a second betrayal. Besides, I’m not entirely confident I won’t just go nuts and cry again. And Hannah is in full swing about how judgemental Laurie’s mother is, never having been happy with them getting together for some reason, so I don’t want to put a major brake on her mother-in-law bashing. I might distract her and myself in a bit with a few choice stories of my own. Perhaps the story of the Christmas presents of whittled oak ‘pictures’ to represent our spirit guide animals (mine is a squirrel and I take that as an insult) and homemade honey and oat body scrub (the main exfoliate in it was actually the dead flies).
But then a stab of guilt makes me realise I’m thinking badly of my little egg’s future grandmother. Without her, there’d be no Pete and therefore no egg. I decide that I like thinking of the baby as a little Kinder Egg at the moment – little and delicate and sweet but containing my
sterious fun, as yet to be decided. Will it be a Pink Panther figure? A tiny speedboat? Or a boy? Who knows. Kinder Baby, I think to myself, and smile.
‘Hey, that’s a nice grin. What are you thinking?’ Hannah breaks into my thoughts, twiddling a huge forkful of seafood pasta. I eye it jealously as I think of a safe response.
‘Did I ever tell you about Pete’s mum’s homemade bath products?’ I begin.
On the Tube on the way home, I’m still feeling a bit sick but I wear it like a badge of pride. Better get used to it, I mock-sternly tell myself. You’ve got months of this and then swelling and aching and then the bit that’s not worth imagining right now. But we’re in this together, Kinder Baby, and I think we’re going to be OK. And if we’re not, then Daddy will put the kettle on and we’ll make a sensible plan. I feel a warm throb in my stomach as I put my hands to my tummy, through my duffle coat. Maybe Kinder Baby is already listening to me? Suddenly I have to blink a lot and hide my eyes from the other Tube passengers behind an abandoned Stylist. I may be pregnant and hormonal but there’s no excuse for breaking the cardinal sin of looking crazy on the Underground.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I turn my key in the door and every millimetre it turns feel momentous: I am seconds closer to telling Pete the news that will change everything. How will he react? How will I react to his reaction? Will he drink celebratory booze without me?
As I open the door, it smells like he already has. And then a wall of sound hits me – roars, insults, yelps of laughter.
Filling my living room with their big feet, big trainers and big noises are three of Pete’s rugby mates and some seemingly life-or-death match is on the telly.
‘Hi love. Hey guys.’
Pete leaps up from his sofa slouching. I get another wave of beer fumes as he grips me in a tight bear hug. ‘Wifey! You’re back so soon! But now you can watch the game with us. Oh baby looooove,’ he growls this last bit into my ear. Fosters tends to make him handsy.
