by Poppy Dolan
I wonder if the Spar’s open today? Maybe his body weight in Milky Buttons would save my bacon. Or just a barrow-load of best bacon? Either way, my costly bits of paper are looking cheap and tawdry, especially when you put them up against Pete’s carefully chosen and perfectly matched presents.
And, worse, I still have to tell him Mike’s news. That’s not going to be awkward then. Both our brothers with a baby on the way. And all I’ve given Pete is a train ticket and promise of chips and booze. I could have saved us a fortune and taken him out in Clapham Junction for a night.
‘So, Mike just told me something amazing, just now on Skype. Estelle’s pregnant again!’ I chirrup.
Pete’s face spins through emotions like a colour wheel – pleasure, annoyance, guilt, and then something I’m not quite sure of.
‘Hey, are you OK?’
He pulls at a button on the duvet cover. ‘Yes, of course. Great news. I’m just … well, sounds wrong. But I’m – I’m jealous.’ He shrugs helplessly.
I open my mouth. I’m not sure what’s about to come out, but he gets there first.
‘That’s not pressure. Well, maybe it feels like it. That’s just … me. Anyway,’ he does his fake chipper voice, like when he hears his dad has a new business idea, ‘let’s go downstairs, yeah? Your mum will be wondering what we’re up to!’ He tries to make it sound a bit naughty, as if we’re sneakily shagging teenagers.
The truth is, my mum would love it if she thought we were up here making grandbaby number four. She’d probably light some candles and put on Michael Buble.
Christmas day turns out to be a long day of sighing. Mum and Dad clearly just want to be on the other side of the Channel and I even catch Pete sighing wistfully, just the once, as we put the roasting trays in to soak. I try to be fun and entertaining – though I really think they only agreed to Jenga to humour me, as no one over five can get genuinely excited about the sound of clattering, crashing wood.
I guess it’s true what Mike whispered to me after the twins’ christening, ‘Hang up your hat, sis. Whoever has the grandkids first wins. Simple. And I had two at once, so you could ride in here on a unicycle, wreathed in flames, speaking only Yiddish and they’d still be cooing over my progeny. Sorry. And I’m not even competitive or anything.’ Yeah, OK, Mike. That’s why you put a stick in my wheel spokes as I attempted the trick jump you couldn’t do. If you’re not competitive then I don’t have a big scar behind my ear and an involuntary reaction to BMXs even now.
Boxing Day passed in the same damp squib way, but with a few sandwiches and long walks thrown in. I wore my new charm with complete pride, touching it and kissing Pete again in thanks. He gallantly looked at an online guide to Bruges with me and actually started to get into it, especially when he saw the double pint mugs you could buy dark and mysterious beers in. The next morning we thanked my parents for all the Toblerones and roast parsnips, packed up and headed to Marie and Bee’s. Which of course put me in a really perky mood.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Luckily, with all the wedding talk going on amongst Pete’s family – just a handful of days left now till the big do – there isn’t really a moment for me to relive the botched fertility job Marie forced on me, or enough time for me to calculate a way to even things up a bit. I just passive-aggressively fail to compliment her on her nut roast, and that’s probably as much revenge as my English manners are going to allow anyway.
We all drink the homemade cider, talk and laugh, plan and tick off lists. The brothers make a formidable task force when united in one project – like Challenge Anneka without the jumpsuits and with much more chest hair. There are rented chairs and tables ready to be dusted down and arranged, outdoor heaters to move into position, booze to be chilled and – Rich told me proudly – a special table being put out for the cake, with a huge red ribbon around it and spotlight angled down, to capture it in all its glory. Good Lord.
I feel my stomach wibble a bit and make an excuse to leave the table.
Text to Hannah; Lydia; Jules
NEED your help. Any chance you can dump loved ones/offspring for the day on 30th to help me with cake? PLEASE? I’ll give you my last choc tree decorations if you say yes. They’re Green & Blacks. X
I send the text from the darkened back porch, the chill of the night prickling my earlobes. I might just enjoy the peace a moment while I wait for their response. No rush to get back to the table, to Bee’s cider-reddened cheeks and Marie’s pointed looks each time I take a deep swig of the boozy apple juice.
But just as I lean back on the door, it nudges against me and Skye’s neat face appears through a crack.
‘Oooops, sorry, Ellie. I was just taking a breather.’ She sneaks out into the frosty air with me.
‘In-laws, huh?’ I roll my eyes.
She looks sheepish. ‘No, not really. I just keep getting these hot flushes.’ Her hand rubs at the small bump at her waist. It’s about the size of a big meal pushing against her jumper, but it’s definitely there.
‘Oh, of course,’ I mumble.
For a few moments, we just look out at the frost-sparkled garden, the odd shapes of abandoned gardening gear and deflated footballs making strangely beautiful silhouettes in the thin moonlight.
‘How are you feeling, Skye?’
‘Good, good. I mean, no cold feet just yet but I might feel differently when I’m walking down the aisle in the barn, about to commit to something for the rest of my life.’
‘Ah, yes, course.’ I chew the inside of my lip. ‘I meant the baby, too, actually. How are you feeling … with the pregnancy stuff?’
I wish I knew Skye better right at this point. I wish I could just turn to her, lock eyes and say, ‘Is it odd that a person is growing in your organs? Can you feel it swishing around? Do you want to eat charcoal and tapioca? Are you bricking it just even the littlest bit?’ I wish I could shake her by the shoulders – ever so gently, mind – and yelp, ‘How can you live without blue cheese, woman?’
She exhales and it leaves a misty little cloud in front of her face just for a beat. ‘Honestly? I’m pretty scared. Um, shit-scared you might say.’
The bark of relieved laughter that bursts out of me is possibly not the reaction she expected, given how her head whips around.
‘God, sorry. Sorry, Skye. It’s just so good to hear you say that. I mean, good to hear that there’s someone else out there who doesn’t have all the answers.’
I can see the whites of her eyes widen in the moonlight. ‘Are you—?’
‘No! Christ, no. Well, not right now but it’s definitely,’ my hands twirl in circles as I think of the right words, ‘on my mind. In a good way.’
‘Oh, we were wondering, Rich and I.’
‘Yup, you and his parents and my parents and my boss and my best friend. And Pete. And me.’
Skye purses her lips in a half-smile. ‘You’ve got the “Is she, isn’t she?” sign hanging over your head. I’ve got the “Did she trap him?” hanging over me. I know which I’d rather have.’
Now it’s my turn to whip round like she’s just pulled on my arm hairs. ‘What?! No, no one thinks that. No way.’
‘Yes way,’ she replies firmly, in a context Bill and Ted could never have fathomed. ‘People think I’m some sort of floozy, or an idiot, or a calculating minx. I know it. But not the important people, that’s what I have to remember.’ She tucks her hair behind her ears.
I reach out my hand to her forearm. ‘We all know you are bloody clever and totally lovely. And you’re not a floozy, just gorgeous and hot. Rich is lucky he knocked you up accidentally, because you’re so out of his league.’
Skye closes her eyes as she laughs gently. ‘Thanks, Ellie. Nice to know I have a sister-in-law on our side. Gah. I am so excited about so many things, yet terrified about others. You know?’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘So I just thought, sod it. I only get one wedding. Hopefully. So I might as well forget all the niggles and get on with enjoyi
ng it. Can’t wait to taste that cake of yours. If I can’t have champers on my wedding day, I’m certainly going to have seven helpings of my cake. Which reminds me, I need seconds of pudding. Well, the baby needs it. I love that excuse already.’
She nudges me gently in the ribs and slips back inside.
I think I’m going to make Skye a membership card. The Messed-up Thoughts About Babies Club. It could catch on.
And I think I’ll start baking something wholesome for her every other week, and drop in. Not just for field research, as Hannah would say, but because she’s clearly a) scared b) sensible and c) another ally against Marie’s bonkers behaviour.
None in the Oven
Happy accidents CAN happen.
So, someone in my extended family is accidentally knocked up. And it’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened. Yup, it’s sped up their life plans by 100 miles per hour and they have the normal kinds of worries, but overall it’s a bloody good thing for them. It means a baby, and babies generally mean happiness.
I think my problem with the notion of getting accidentally fertilised is that I took those sexual health videos at secondary school TOO seriously. I mean, it’s good that I did back then, so that my mum didn’t have to adjust my pleated skirt with an elastic stomach-band, but how can you switch all that stuff off, even fifteen years later? It’s like everywhere you went then, there were leaflets and signs telling you to practise safe sex, avoid unwanted pregnancy – at school, in the doctor’s waiting room, even Hollyoaks had a stab at it. But then no one sent out a follow-up pamphlet to say ‘It’s OK now, you’re old enough. Go ahead and get pregnant.’ Did they sound the Shagging Klaxon and I somehow missed it? Because that niggling sense that I’m not capable enough to have a baby, not mature enough, not responsible enough is still there. Even though tomorrow I could go out and sign a six-figure mortgage agreement or rent a speedboat or take home a pack of husky dogs, I’m still waiting for someone to come along with a gold star and say, ‘Very well done, Eleanor, you’re a big enough girl now to have a little girl of your own.’ Maybe it’s like some weird modern offshoot of the Peter Pan complex: the Wendy House Rules. I’m fine playing house and tying on the pretend apron of being a mum when it comes to nice furnishings and a wicked food processor and taking Emmeline for a walk: but I’m not ready to go back to the real world and be Mrs Darling all of a sudden.
When was that golden five minutes between being too young and too old for babies? The posters I notice now are the ones warning me that my eggs are going wrinkly. Tube ads tell me which Harley Street clinics can help me with my faulty junk and every other soap story is about barren ladies stealing someone else’s baby.
But my lovely preggy rellie has made me start to accept the thought that a ‘surprise’ wouldn’t be ALL bad. When I thought I was pregnant that time before, I kind of liked it for a full half hour. Hmmm, interesting. Maybe I’m warming up to the baby notion, after all. And all it’s taken is loads of blog wittering, twelve dozen nervous conversations and a false alarm which has now meant I might be on TV. Oh, I haven’t told you guys that bit yet. That’s for another day, when my in-laws haven’t sucked up all my enthusiasm for life.
Laters, bakers,
Sprogless x
‘I’m calling false advertising on this,’ Jules sweeps her arm across my icing-sugar dusted living room. ‘Actually wait, no. False imprisonment. You lure away a poor, defenceless woman – making her cash in one of her “Mummy Needs a Break” vouchers that her husband made her for Christmas – on the promise of cake. And look at us.’
Hannah wipes her forehead on the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of red food dye that I’m not sure will come out in time for New Year’s Eve. Lydia has her eyes screwed up in some of the most intense concentration I’ve ever seen from her, just like when she applied false eyelashes at uni after a family-sized bottle of Lambrini. Actually, it’s only Jules that looks at all relaxed, feet tucked under her on the sofa, sipping wine, eyeing me like a cat eyes a goldfish. To be fair, there’s a huge splash of vivid green across her white pinny, making it look like she’s been in a zombie remake of Reservoir Dogs. Since I spilled that ivy green dye on her, she’s not been entirely on-board with the cake-making production line.
‘I’m sorry, Jules, honestly. I just blurted that text out in a moment of panic. You know how crucial – how life-affirming – a good wedding cake can be, and I have to make it the best possible cake for Rich and Skye. How’s that snowbride coming along, Lyds, love?’ Lydia is using a cotton wool bud to push tiny holly leaves into the snowbride’s hands, for her bouquet.
She looks at me like I’ve just asked her if she’d enjoy a smear test in a thunderstorm.
‘Ooooh kay. Maybe it’s time for a tea break. Excellent work, ladies! And Jules, now you finally get to eat some cake. I bought in some excellent brownies from the deli up the road. If you can manage a whole one I’ll give you a fiver.’ Somehow my sweatshop workers don’t really buck up, despite my super perky tones. I’ll have to hope that chocolate really does generate endorphins because I need a few more hours’ work out of them yet, if this cake is going to earn its own spotlight and photo op.
My pastry chefs tuck into the brownies with what I hope is silent gratitude. Those eye rolls could be from pure foodie delight or from exasperated annoyance but I’m choosing to be glass half full about it.
‘Are you not having one, Ellie?’ Hannah asks through a gooey mouthful.
‘Um, no,’ I fiddle with my mum’s borrowed holly cutter. ‘No, not that hungry.’
‘What?’ Lydia’s not buying it.
‘Yeah, a brownie going begging and you’re not going to put it out of its misery?’ Hannah smiles.
I put my hands at my middle, over my squidgy love handle parts. ‘I’m actually cutting down. Getting a bit podgy. Starting the New You thing early this year.’
Jules nods, as if she knows she’s about to start down that road herself – just not till after the chocolate brownie – and Hannah munches on happily.
‘Nope, that’s not it.’ Lydia scans me up and down. ‘You look fine. Apart from those first few months at Crumbs you’ve been the same size all the time I’ve known you. You could probably still fit into those Miss Selfridge jeans with the knee rips. What’s going on?’
I aim for nonchalance. ‘Well, I just want to look my best, carry a bit less under the old chin. Because I might be on telly,’ I end on a whispery low.
‘Whoah!’
‘Telly! Actual telly?’
I flop down on the sofa and spill the baking beans about me and Joe trying out for Best Dishes and how it’s all one big misunderstanding. I still don’t confess the Jeremy Kyle-worthy ‘I Told Paul Hollywood I Was Pregnant!!’ debacle, I just blurt a line about how I thought I was signing up for a free BBC magazine and must have joined the wrong queue.
‘So why don’t you just say no?’ Jules asks reasonably.
‘Wait, this is what you were ringing Joe about the other day?’ Hannah asks.
Lydia’s mouth falls open. ‘Joe? My Joe?’
‘I’d hardly call him yours!’ I roll my eyes. ‘I was going to interview him for work, about the show, then I found out I was on it too, and it would really help at the magazine, with bringing in more hits to the site, better advertisers. I’m talking to the TV producers about letting me have an exclusive, if I get through. It’s kind of a big deal.’
Hannah fiddles with the few crumbs on her plate. ‘But reality TV? It just … it doesn’t sound like you, Ellie.’
‘Exactly.’ Lydia folds her arms over her chintzy print apron. It clashes pleasantly with her neon-yellow sweatshirt and green plastic bangles.
I slurp my tea. ‘Well, no, it isn’t the usual Ellie. But I’m trying to give my career a bit of a push. And sometimes that involves stepping outside of your comfort zone.’
‘OK,’ Hannah nods. ‘And it just so happens that you can give your career a boost while spending time with a guy who could mod
el for Hollister? Pete must be delighted.’
‘Right, I need to know who Joe is, please. I am totally lost in this.’ Jules comes over to perch on the armrest of my chair.
‘He’s just a friend! He can’t help it if he’s also attractive!’ I say, my tone a little pinched in the midst of this attack. I turn to Jules. ‘Right, I signed up for this baking course because Lyds wanted me to check him out, meanwhile she finds herself another bloke – Guy the Potato Guy – and I make really good friends with Hannah,’ I point, ‘and Joe, on an equal, no sexual agenda kind of level. Well, OK, I do kind of flirt with him but it’s just stupid banter, like you get in any workplace.’
‘Not in mine,’ Hannah adds in a stern tone.
‘No, and we’re thankful for that, love. But Joe is just a mate. There’s nothing to it. He signed up for the show, I signed up by accident. No biggy. It’ll save the day at Crumbs and open me up to some new stuff. The producers really liked us; we might even get through. Really, I don’t see that I have any choice but to do it.’ I stop to catch my breath.
‘And Pete is totally fine with it?’ Hannah raises an eyebrow.
‘He will be.’
‘So he doesn’t know?’
‘He doesn’t know yet. There’s so much going on, with the wedding and Rich’s baby. So I’m going to tell him first thing after the wedding, when our heads are clear. But honestly, it’s no big deal.’
I’m met with a half-grimace, a chewed cheek and a slow exhale. Three little doubting monkeys in a row.
‘Right, let’s get back to the serious stuff, shall we? Cake. I think we might be ready to assemble it, you know. Lyds, will you pass me my sketch? No, the bird’s-eye one. Thanks.’
The girls stayed for another half an hour but it wasn’t quite coming together just as I wanted, so when they all started to look longingly at the door, I said of course they should go back to their real lives.
