by Poppy Dolan
So maybe this isn’t the perfect moment to shout ‘You’re going to be a dad!’ I button my lip and swallow down this toasty warm secret. Kinder Baby will just have to sit there unwrapped for a little while yet.
The other guys have quietened down a bit now Pete has suggested I join in watching the game. I don’t mind if they call some player a prick in front of me, but for some reason they mind doing it, so it all becomes like a WI tea party. ‘What … rotters!’ is as rough as it gets.
‘You know what, we’ve got some pittas I can toast, and I can put some dips out. I think you guys could do with some carbs. Good, absorbent carbs.’ Pete follows me into the kitchen, squeezing my bum all the way.
‘I was hoping you’d come home,’ he whispers into my ear, standing so close I can smell the softener on his shirt.
I bat him away. ‘Liar. You were having bromance.’
‘I’ll kick them all out if you want me to. Say the word. But if I do, you have to do that thing I like where you—’
I can’t let Pete finish that thought. I can’t let him whisper lovely filth into my ear in the same day I tell him he’s going to be a dad. It’s not right.
‘Ha ha. No need, pervy person. All in good time. What are you drinking?’
Pete’s drunkenly hazy eyes lock onto mine. ‘Only the finest Fosters have to offer. Want one?’
‘Um, no, but I’ll grab … something then come in and join you.’ I slip my arms round his middle and walk myself right into his personal space. ‘God you’re nice. I think I’ll keep you.’
‘Damn right.’
I feel a funny ache and the urge to pee. Hadn’t Becca mentioned that – peeing constantly? Hey, we’re going to be pregnant at the same time! Oh, it will be so good to have a knocked-up wingman.
But when I go to the loo I find out the ache wasn’t a pregnancy symptom from the Kinder Baby. It was my period.
If Pete hadn’t been so drunk he might have noticed I’d been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. Luckily, he was pretty liquored up and oblivious to my pink-rimmed eyes. The guys’ howls of annoyance at the referee’s decisions cover for the fact I’m not really saying much. Finally Pete notices I’m just an inert lump on the edge of the sofa.
‘Hey you,’ he frowns at me, ‘something is very wrong.’
Man, I really need some coupley mindreading now. I need him to get rid of these guys so I can explain the whole stupid thing. I need a cuddle and a bath.
‘Very wrong.’ He wags a finger. ‘You don’t have a drink and you are so behind!’ His smile crinkles his eyes and actually I decide I don’t ever want to drag him into this stupid thing. It would put a tiny chip into his big perfect heart. ‘My friend JD is going to help you catch up.’
And when he puts the shot glass and the bottle in front of me, it seems like drinking one without thinking will be the best idea I’ve had. One, and then maybe some more.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It’s silly to be sad because you mistakenly thought you were pregnant for two hours. It’s textbook mental to mislead Paul Hollywood into thinking you’re up the spout. But it happened. And in a year, or three, I’ll probably think of this mess wistfully, chuck my chin and say, ‘Eleanor, you do get yourself into some scrapes sometimes.’ But until then I’ll just put up with these sodding period pains plus a killer hangover.
I think all the secret stress over this baby business in the last few months meant my period didn’t come and then ironically because I felt a rush of relief at the idea of being happily accidentally pregnant, it showed its unwelcome self. Thanks for that, body. And because I had gone a while without one, this period is a right mutha: making me uber grumpy and bloated, even a bit sicky sometimes. Or maybe that’s the whisky. It could definitely have been the whisky.
‘Right then. You eggs, me sausages, right?’ Pete points towards the chilled meats. Shopping for a big Sunday morning breakfast fry-up is an urgent task – the window of my hangover where I can consume fatty foods without heaving is closing fast and I’ll have to do an Indiana Jones’ style grab for the ingredients with Pete, so we’re splitting up in our local Co-op. I wonder if I can swing by the bagels before my stomach starts spinning? Carbs, protein, strawberry laces – I’ll eat anything right now if it distracts me from my idiotic mistake yesterday and the sad bitterness that still hangs about in my throat.
Pete’s long legs and cowboy shirt are quickly disappearing down an aisle so I drag myself towards the dairy section. I can almost taste the crispy edges of the fried eggs on top of some chunky sliced farmhouse bread. The older I get, the more food I need to counteract a hangover. Gone are the days of three hours’ sleep, a Panadol and slightly more eyeliner than usual to cover up a big night. Now, it’s all about healing carbs, a thick duvet and any Tom Hanks movie I can find. And that’s just to combat the nausea. The headache, dry mouth, flaky skin, eye bags and greasy hair are a whole other problem.
As I’m eyeballing the chocolate milkshake, wondering whether my rolling stomach acid could take it, I hear a cute little piping voice around the corner. ‘Humpy Dumpty sat on a waaaaall! Humpty Dumpty had a great faaaaall! All the king’s monkeys and all the bin men couldn’t put Humpty together again!’ The singing went on in a loop, getting squeakier and squeakier until the artist broke off into giggles.
I sneak around the corner of the aisle, past a tower of Pringles, expecting a Kodak-worthy scene to greet me. I need something a bit cheery today, something wholesome, something to aspire to. Maybe an apple-cheeked girl with pigtails, with a dress and those cute little lacy socks, singing a ditty to entertain her proud as punch mum.
But as I look down the aisle with the flour, sugar and eggs, what I see is less Anne of Green Gables and more Drop Dead Fred. A girl of maybe four or five in leopard-print leggings, a Hello Kitty T-shirt and mussed dark corkscrew curls is dancing around just by the egg display, happily opening the boxes, cradling an egg in her hands as she sings and then throwing it to the floor. There are two more egg crime scenes at her feet already. Her mum is much further down the aisle, reading the back of some gluten-free biscuits in deep concentration, mouthing words to herself. A pudgy baby is wedged into the baby seat on the trolley by her side.
The egg massacre goes on with another round of the song. It brings back uncomfortable memories of watching Scarface for the first time.
What’s the acceptable thing to do here? Can I go up to the eggicidal killer and whip the box out of her hands to save breakfast for the rest of East Dulwich? But maybe that will look too bullish, too bossy, borderline baby GBH. Then again, just standing here like a hung-over lemon isn’t going to help. I scoot past the carnage and approach the mum with caution and a half-cough.
She’s still studying the gluten-free snacks, her brows thickly knitted. So I cough like I mean it this time. Finally, she looks.
‘Sorry, it’s just …’ I point over my shoulder and grimace.
‘Oh Maisie!’ she cries. ‘No, Maisie, not again. Sorry – thanks – oh Christ. I’d just like to do one thing at a time …’ The mum rushes to the mess and the mess maker, leaving her trolley behind. The pudgy baby eyes me warily. I smile. It frowns. I stick my tongue out, trying to be funny. It cries. And cries.
I know for a fact it’s criminal to cuddle someone else’s baby in a public place, even if it is crying, so I stand there, my hung-over brain rattling with the sound, feebly shushing. The mum bustles back, dragging the also-crying Maisie.
‘Right, fine. No treats for you and I’ll have to get Daddy’s special food another time. So he’s going to be really pleased with me when it’s salad for tea again.’ She shoots me a look that is full of apology and exhaustion, her mouth hanging slack and her cheeks pale. ‘To think we almost got something done today.’
I can’t decide if the weird floaty feeling in my stomach is relief or guilt or sympathy: that’s not me. The only thing I know is that this isn’t the hangover for once, or PMS.
I’m allowing myself a day off work
today because of cramps. They are medium bad; I could’ve gone to work but I really fancy a wallow. I’ve ordered a dirty pizza delivery, watched Cold Mountain and felt really sorry for myself. Pete recognised the signs of a period in full swing but I could tell he was perplexed as to the timing. What with me being super snappy every time he made polite enquiries, I think he decided to puzzle it out alone: I found him staring at the wall calendar in the kitchen as he stirred a risotto for Monday night’s dinner.
The other reason I didn’t want to go to work was that I knew at the top of my to-do list, written in smugly confident red pen, was ‘Brainstorm Maternity issue ideas: features/advertisers/ special guest editors’. Lovely. Perfect timing. What I really want to do back at work is talk about pregnancy, Google pregnancy, project-manage pregnancy until I’m blue in the barren face. But that is precisely what I will do, as this could be a big break for Crumbs. Plus, I appreciate that Sam is giving me this insight into something vaguely interesting; I genuinely don’t want to let her down. And I still have to make it clear to Martin and Sacha and every other sod that I’M NOT pregnant. Better CC Paul Hollywood into that memo too. Gah. Triple Gah. And it’s baking class tomorrow and I really can’t find the energy to go. Perhaps if it was a lesson on how to eat more than three Krispy Kremes without feeling sick, I might manage it. I know Joe and Hannah will cheer me up, but wallowing is pretty comfy right now.
My work phone bleeps again and I muster enough curiosity to check my emails.
From: Gina Trible
Subject: Cow & Gate
Hi Ellie,
Hope you’re feeling better. Was it something you ate during those social plans you mentioned, do you think? Poor thing!
Anyway, just wanted to keep you in the loop on Cow & Gate. I had a really useful meeting with them last week and they’re very interested in getting involved in our maternity project. They’d like to work up some advertorials when I can get them some figures.
Best wishes,
Gina
Good gravy! What is this girl on? Yes, I gave her some recent praise for bringing forward her Cow & Gate contact in the Features meeting but I never said, ‘Please, go off and have a meeting alone, make promises on behalf of Crumbs when you aren’t actually an employee, make deals in my department, why not just do my job!’ I reply straight back, telling her to hold her horses, do nothing till I get back and put down in writing everything that was said in the meeting. And to that I get this:
From: Gina Trible
Subject: Re: Cow & Gate
Sure.
Best wishes,
Gina.
I might eat my fifth doughnut. I think I need it.
None in the Oven
Close, but no cigar
Peoples out in the ether,
Recently I thought I was pregnant for five minutes. It was shit scary then totally lovely. Then I realised I actually wasn’t and it feels pooey. I even dragged a celebrity into my meltdown so now I feel all of these things: stupid, awkward, barren, fat, alone, hungry and lazy. It may come as surprise, to all 312 of you, that this is not my best look.
I know to say I’ve ‘lost’ a baby is self-inflated and frankly wrong – I haven’t even got close to the horrible depths of sadness that must cause – but I do feel like I lost the promise of something great. It was so warm and exciting to be in the midst of that promise; it felt real to me, though it very clearly wasn’t.
So does this mean I’m ready or am I now on the rebound? Would coming off the Pill tomorrow be tantamount to getting a dodgy fringe after being dumped by a rubbish boyfriend? Have I wasted my rush of love for a baby-to-be on a stupid assumption? I can’t help but think I’ll be wary and brittle about the next time, just in case.
And I said no more waffling, only action. Sorry guys. I’m going to wait till my PMT has abated and then get back on the action wagon. Because my husband’s looking at me weird and I’d like to do something, anything, to stop feeling so all-at-sea.
Definitely Still Sprogless x
Sam is looking at me very very oddly. Probably because I am still being odd.
‘What I mean is, a feature about the last-chance saloon recipes to make the most of before you fall pregnant – really runny scrambled eggs and caviar; mussels in white wine; bloody steak, still mooing. To make the most of your life before it changes.’ I nod and gesture in a way that I hope resembles Assertive Business Lady.
‘Yes. I get that. But you’re making it sound like life will be ending. You can eat these things again, you know. It’s only nine months.’
‘OK.’ I swallow nervously and look down at my notes on my iPad. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like … to seem …’
Sam saves me from my mumbling. ‘That’s OK, let’s move on. What else have you been thinking of? I want you to have a lot of input into this, Ellie. It would be great for your profile in the company and it might open some doors. Look,’ she checks to see if the meeting room door is properly closed and then carries on, ‘I’ve always liked your attitude to working here and how you embrace the company ethos, the brand.’
I do?
She doesn’t seem to be joking. ‘And so if this project really makes a splash, in terms of media exposure and profitability, I think I could put forward a serious case for finding room for you in the Creative team.’
I open my mouth to squeak in excitement but she holds up her hand like a traffic policeman pulling me over. ‘But at a very junior level, of course. You should think about that quite seriously. A step down in pay, OK, but a new avenue opening up. Perhaps a bit more … fulfilling for you, in time. But if you were thinking of having any time off,’ from her meaningful look I can tell she doesn’t mean two weeks in Devon, ‘it might not be the best move for you. I mean, I don’t mean that your career will be over, just that I’m pretty sure you’d be on a probation period for three months, maybe six and that doesn’t come with any … benefits.’
I don’t really know what to say. So I don’t say anything.
‘Shit,’ Sam half-whispers now, ‘I don’t mean that to sound forbidding – you have to put your personal life first, always – but I just want to level with you on a practical note. Because I think you’re good, and could be great.’ Her eyes flick to her BlackBerry. ‘Christ, I’m late for a lunch. Ellie, let’s catch up at the end of the week, OK?’
‘Yup, OK,’ I say brightly, trying not to show that what she’s just said has added to this week’s emotional earthquakes. I just need an evil twin to turn up and I’ll be at a Richter drama scale of twelve.
She stops by the door and drops her voice again, ‘And Ellie, what’s with that intern of yours? She BCC’ed Martin and I in on her catch-up email about Cow & Gate, did you know that? I would just … keep an eye out. Yeah?’
I dare to pass up a last-minute invitation to lunch with Martin. I don’t think anyone’s refused his open expenses account ever, if his slow blinking with a simultaneous open mouth is anything to go by. But I just couldn’t face it: either he wanted to interrogate me about being preggers by insisting on foie gras pâté followed by a sashimi platter, or he wanted to grumble about how low on funds we were and expect me just to absorb his anxieties. I wasn’t capable of doing either today.
But the sushi was a good idea.
‘Well, I shouldn’t have had that LAST TUNA NIGIRI,’ I say in a semi-bellow, to no one in particular, when I’ve finished my sushi takeout at my desk, like I’m in the worst advert for Yo! Sushi ever. ‘I’m going to walk it off! Anyone need anything from the world? No? No? OK, bye!’
Strolling along the very cold and blustery Thames, having power-walked from our titchy Borough office to the river, I’m trying my best to switch my brain off from work mode, for just an hour. I need to get my action plan back on track. I might have had a huge wobble at the weekend but that didn’t stop the countdown to Valentine’s Day racing away from me. I had made some headway into Being Nicer to Pete, before my PMT turned me into Kathy Bates in Misery: I was
snappy and off when he was home, but God forbid he try to go out and enjoy himself! I pouted and sulked and shackled him with the worst emotional blackmail over the weekend. Pretty much, I’ve gone backwards in the nice stakes. I’ll have to pull out all the stops to just get back to neutral. And I haven’t bought his Christmas presents, so that’s going straight to the top of the list:
1. Kick-ass Christmas present for Pete.
And after my near-miss at the expo, I can say one thing for sure: being pregnant won’t send me batshit. Well, not past the first few hours. After I peel myself off the ceiling a second time, I’ll be happy, I’ll feel excited, positive, warm and very lucky. So no more Alien scenarios, I warn myself. The basic human biology bit is totally within your capabilities. And just remember that bit about having a licence to eat like a heifer for nearly two years.
So if I now know I could – theoretically – carry a baby, the next thing to work out is could I actually look after one once it was free of my uterus? As Hannah would say, I need more field research. And there is a perfect place for that.
1. Make a coffee date with Jules. Bake her a cake.
Being such a rock-solid mate, Jules won’t mind if I gently pick her brains about being the prison guard, nurse, chef, maid and psychologist all at once to one tiny dictator. She’ll tell it like it is. Plus, I haven’t even had a chance to discuss Kim, Kayne and North’s new photoshoot with her. Vital. And hey, if those guys can procreate why the Dickens shouldn’t I?
If Jules has me convinced that what I really want in my life is all that joy and fulfilment and paranoia and guilt that parenthood brings, I will have to put some serious thought into:
1. Do I want to join Sam’s team? Pros and Cons list. Talk to Pete about it. Could we afford a sort-of demotion? Would have to wait a year for a you-know-what. Will Gina steal my job in the meantime?
Three things feel like plenty to be getting on with. Plus, I’ve just realised I’ve walked all the way to Westminster Bridge and now it’s 2.45. Shit. I’d better watch out or Gina will announce my late return on the homepage.
