by Poppy Dolan
P.S. If you’re still not sure that I’ve been taking this seriously, have at look at blogspot.noneintheoven.com
Jules is braving the February frosts for me. We’re pushing Emmeline in her pram on a mammoth circuit of Clapham Common, stopping only when we see somewhere to buy another coffee and for Jules to wolf another brownie.
‘If you’re still on the fence about babies, just think of all the freebie cake you get to have when you’re breastfeeding – the baby eats up your calories, so you can eat more calories.’
I chuck Emmeline’s peachy little cheek. She smiles me a dribbly smile in response. ‘I’m not really thinking that far right now. Just saving the old marriage seems like the sensible first step.’
‘Well, you’re doing the grand romantic gesture bit. It always works in the films, hey? And you pretty much know you want kids, right?’ She says this like she’s asking whether I want a haircut or a new bathroom mat. Easy, reversible things that won’t turn my life upside down.
‘Um, I don’t know, it’s … God, it’s all so complicated.’
Jules crosses her finely plucked brows at me. ‘What’s so complicated?’ She fishes Emmeline out of her pushchair. ‘Here.’ And suddenly she is plonked in my arms.
The baby keeps smiling jovially at me, as if to say, I don’t know where she’s going with this either, but let’s run with it.
‘Try and tell me you don’t feel it.’
I manoeuvre Emmeline round so her weight is on my hip. ‘What?’
Jules calmly shakes her head. ‘I’m not your mother. Or your boss. OR your husband: you don’t need to fib to me. I’ve seen it in your eyes from the day Emmie was born. Do you or do you not feel baby crazy when you cuddle her?’
The dizzy feeling is most certainly there. My heart is starting to beat in a fluttery rush and I feel like I could run a marathon, cook a full roast, fight a Minotaur, anything for this little bundle of pudgy perfection. A dark part of me thinks I could kick Jules in the shins and outrun her to a bus, with the baby still in my arms. Luckily this is a very small dark part.
‘I do.’
‘I knew it! You can’t fool me, Ellie Redford. I saw you cry at Titanic each of the twelve times we saw it. You are a soft soul, a lovely soft soul. And you have got the baby crazies.’
I start to feel that dirty stickiness again, just like when I bumped into Joe. Jules picks up on the fact that my shoulders have hunched with awkward shame.
‘Hey, it’s totally fine!’ she laughs gently. ‘I know just how it feels – I had it on and off for about two years before I got pregnant. It’s strong stuff. They should bottle it. Well, possibly not. No one would turn up for work: they’d all be madly shagging. But it is really really normal, Ellie.’
I fiddle with the pearls on my ring. I count them when I’m nervous. They’ve been counted more these last weeks than I’ve had caramel shortbreads. ‘But it just feels … not right, that hormones should boss me around that much.’
Jules blinks in surprise. ‘Um, why shouldn’t hormones make you feel things? That is what they do. They make you fancy Pete, after all. They keep your body working perfectly without you even having to think about it. Hormones make babies, make babies grow, they grow babies into adults to have hormones of their own to make new babies. They’re kind of a big deal.’ She pats my hand. ‘And you shouldn’t feel guilty that they’re telling you to start a family.’
It feels like I’ve been living on a desert island all my life and Jules has just been washed ashore, magically speaking exactly the same language.
‘Really?’
‘Course. I mean, I wouldn’t give the same advice to a horny teen, but follow those hormones. If that’s what you want.’
I swallow my last dreg of latte. ‘I think I do. I think it’s all starting to fall in place.’ My bottom lip gets a chewing.
‘Good.’ Jules stares off out into the middle distance. The park is pretty much empty in this freezing wind, save for a few hard-core runners in luminous full-length Lycra. ‘I know you’ve seen more of the nitty-gritty than is maybe good for you. Becca, Georgie and I don’t hold back with the cracked nipples stories, I know. And I’m sorry for that. But it’s not all bad. Sure, it’s gross. But only for this tiny little speck of time and then afterwards you get the most gorgeous person you’ll ever see. They will be more entertaining than a million boxsets, they will smell more delicious than brownies just out of the oven, and you will love them with a bit of your heart you didn’t know was even there. It’s not all bad, I promise you, and it’s really really worth it. And just ask for the epidural, that’s my final word.’
We wander in silence for a few minutes as my hollow brain tries to hold on to her words of wisdom. Since Pete went, I am so numb with the loss and guilt that even the simplest thing slips right out my brain. Mum had to politely ask when I last had my hair done. That was when I clocked I hadn’t washed it for three days.
‘But let me just add,’ Jules gives a quarter-wince, as if she knows she’s being interfering but can’t help it, ‘are you starting to feel sure because you’re making the decision, or is Pete’s … absence doing it for you? He’s a great bloke – and you’ll be the best parents – but just don’t let those hormones be fuelled by fear of losing him, of letting him down. Make sure they’re the good ones, that come from a good place.’
Emmeline spits up on me just then, as if to add her thoughts.
I just wish my own instinct was as gut-driven as hers.
Chapter Forty-Five
The universe of baking has changed its laws of physics without even so much as a postcard to me. And I’m buggered.
I measured everything, I sifted, I did level teaspoons, my oven was warmed and not even that dirty, my tins were of the required diameter. I measured with a ruler, as I always do, even though the size of the tin is unlikely to have multiplied in the dark of the tin cupboard.
But still, my Victoria sponge is more like a Victoria dishcloth – flat and dry and no use for anything except maybe absorbing a spill. I can’t take this round to Skye. I couldn’t take this round to anyone unless they were deaf, blind, had lost their taste buds and were also on the point of starvation. It wouldn’t be kind. Grievous bakerly harm.
The only bit I like about this cake is the damp thud it makes when it hits the bottom of the bin. It’s the only familiar sound I’ve heard in the flat for days. As I’ve been fruitlessly baking, I haven’t had the radio on, just in case Pete replies to my email and I miss the beeping of my phone. I haven’t even done a running commentary to an imaginary James Martin as I cream and stir: for the same sound-cancelling reasons, but also because it reminds me of The Time I Lost My Head on a TV Show.
Luckily the texts and Tweets from confused friends have slowed down – I haven’t had a ‘Was that YOU I saw on telly!?’ for a little while now. I decided to use my powers of sneaky avoidance for good this one last time. I’d just reply: ‘Ha ha! No, I’m not going to be on a TV show. Anyway, how are you?’ I’d finally broached the subject with Sam, telling her why I had to drop out of the show, even though I knew it would have been valuable to Crumbs. She’d been baffled, but good about it.
I’d also had to let Gina go when she finally regained the use of her arm and leg and could hobble into the office. She admitted it had been a sneaky move to sell ad space to her own sister, but she really wanted to make an impact.
‘You certainly did that,’ I’d replied, deadpan.
Her face was blank and ashen. ‘I thought … I thought I would impress people, help out with the cash flow problem.’
‘Hey, how did you know about that?’ I had a vision of some seedy seduction of Martin with a bottle of brandy, a pork pie and a peephole bra, anything to get up the corporate ladder.
She picked at her thumbnail. ‘I maybe saw some emails on the printer.’
Hmmm, so my mind is a little warped at the moment, that’s a given. But if I had had the energy to have any kind of emotion then, I might have
thrown a pencil at her in sheer annoyance. ‘That is not good office behaviour. Keep it to yourself if you ever want another job.’ Her shoulders drooped; I must have gone too far. ‘You’re really smart and capable, I’m sure you’ll find something else. And let this be a lesson to you.’ This whole thing just exhausted me.
Gina picked up her coat and bag, ready to leave. ‘I just feel better when I’m in control, when I make things happen the way I want them to.’ Her eyes went wet and she shook her head. ‘And I’m really sorry that I went too far.’
After that I had to hide in the loos for a while, feeling like a giant hypocrite.
I’d been stalling a little on signing the new job contract: asking for more details of contract wording and pushing for an extra day’s holiday. Not because I think I particularly need it, but because I still need more time to think. I have an exciting job offer of a role that would take up so much more of my brainpower and creative energy. But I also have an absent husband, and if I got him back, I’m pretty sure I’d need to dedicate plenty of time to reassuring him I’m not a deceiving wench. Do I work on me, or do I work on us? This is the mantra that makes me feel freezing cold in a hot shower and that leaves me wide awake at four a.m. The mantra gets longer each time, too. If I don’t work on me, will our relationship go sorry and stale, because I’ll be bored and restless? But if I think of what I want over what Pete wants, will there BE a relationship to go stale?
Maybe the mantra was lurking in my brain as I baked, and it’s why this cake is just a revolting disaster. I was probably using a ladle to measure out the baking soda while my head did a Grand Prix lap of my thoughts – too fast, and seriously swerving at the tricky bits.
Never mind, I have spare butter, I have more flour and sugar. And two eggs. I’ll start again.
But you don’t get a spare marriage, do you? You don’t get to scrape your mistakes into the bin. If you screw up – if you underbake your behaviour, if you ignore something and feelings get burnt, if you get lazy with the ingredients or the details – it never goes away. It will leave a nasty taste in your other half’s mouth, maybe every time they look at you. So how do I take that away for Pete? How do I change the taste of our marriage from bitter disappointment to a sunny lemon hopefulness?
As I have no idea, I’d better just crack on with Victoria Sponge 2: The Return, and hope it rises.
And hope Pete turns up at St Pancras. Really, really hope. Because I can’t remake our relationship without the key ingredient: him.
Skye’s face is momentarily confused as she opens the door but just as my heart plummets and I fear she’s going to slam it in my face, she smiles and steps back, opening it wide.
‘Hey you! Come in.’
I hold my cake box with two white hands. ‘Are you, er, on your own?’
‘Yes, actually. Rich is at rugby.’
‘The sport or the place?’ My limp little joke gets a forgiving laugh.
‘The sport. I think. Unless someone is roughing him up and splattering him with mud in Rugby.’ She takes my coat and holds it as tenderly as if it were silk, rather than pilled green felt. ‘How are you?’
‘Well, I’ve been baking!’ I try breezily, holding up the box. ‘A Victoria sponge for you and your bump. And your husband, of course.’ Although I trot the last sentence out, for a moment it sticks on my tongue like a spoonful of treacle. She has a husband, and a baby. And now a cake. I don’t have any of those.
I blink furiously. ‘Ooh, don’t you hate it when you come in from the cold and your nose runs and your eyes water? Ha ha!’
‘Yes. Right. Well, let’s make some tea to go with this lovely cake, shall we?’
She hangs my coat on the balustrade end and we go into the cosy kitchen.
‘So how’s married life?’ I plop down on one of their mismatched kitchen chairs. If I can get through this cup of tea with a smile, hopefully the message with filter through Pete’s family ranks that I’m not such a heartless bitch after all. Otherwise I’m worried Marie and Bee will break their bond of vegetarianism and hunt me down for their May Day feast.
As I’m imagining my own CSI-style flashback of death-by-in-laws, Skye clears her throat. ‘It’s lovely, thanks. And we’ve just had a scan. It’s a girl!’ She puts her hands up in a mock-jazzy wave.
‘Ooooh! How exciting. So lovely! Everyone must be over the moon.’
Skye fiddles about with the kettle and some mugs. ‘They are. But they’re also a bit worried.’
A chill tingles at my fingers. Oh God, the baby. ‘Why, what’s the matter?’
Skye looks at me, her head on one side. ‘You and Pete, Ellie. We’re worried about you. Rich says he can’t remember a time when you haven’t been together and, well, sorted. He’s freaking out, if I’m honest. I know Marie and Bee have had a really long, happy marriage, but it’s not the kind of lifestyle you want to recreate for yourself, if you know what I mean. Too much uncertainty and chaos, however much fun. I think Rich looks at you guys as something like a model marriage. And if you’ve hit a bump in the road, what hope do we have?’ She swipes her hand, taking in the whole kitchen. I think that means: very newlyweds, baby coming, no cash, no idea.
‘Oh.’ I look deep into the mug she’s just put in front of me.
‘But the TV thing, well, I didn’t actually see it – Rich was calling Pete about something to do with the wills and all of a sudden he said he couldn’t talk, he was getting on the Eurostar, and the whole story sort of unfolded.’
‘Right.’ I just want to die. I want to boil in a pan of my own steaming shame.
‘The thing I want to say, Ellie, is … well … I got drunk when I first found out I was pregnant.’
‘What?’
‘I took the test on a Tuesday, in the work loos. I had a gut feeling which a very expensive stick told me was right. But I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t feel happy or sad, just shocked. It was such a big thing to take in, to try and process that I just … didn’t. I went back to my desk, sent emails, went to meetings. I didn’t tell Rich, or my mates, or my mum. I just did nothing.’
I sip my tea and listen.
‘That Thursday was our team’s big quarterly karaoke night, where we all go and get blotto after hearing the quarterly results. It was a bad quarter, so there were going to be a lot of Jägerbombs. And I was still in this calm, shocked mood thing. So I got drunk with them. Seriously drunk. I think a stupid part of me thought, “Pregnant women don’t drink. So it shouldn’t be possible for me to drink if I’m pregnant. So each Bomb I have means I’m a little bit less pregnant.” That was my logic. When I looked your trailer up on the BBC site …’
My shoulders slump.
‘Sorry, I was too curious. But when I looked it up and saw you laughing and mucking about, I thought about that night, as I threw back shot after shot. I didn’t think anyone could see me. I didn’t think I could see me. I thought I was hiding, really. Does that ring any bells?’
This time I can’t blame the cold outside or the central heating in here. I blot my eyes on the back of my cardi sleeve. I look at Skye and nod.
There are two small spots of red on her pale cheeks. ‘I hate myself so much for that night. I’ve never told Rich, or actually anyone. Just you. Well, and the doctor when I blurted it all out in hysterical tears.’ She moves her chair next to mine, so our knees are almost touching. ‘I remember getting home, stumbling up the stairs and into the loo, and just staring at my pasty face in the mirror. It was the most awful sight. I made myself sick then, straightaway, but it probably didn’t do much good. Damage done. And I still hate myself for what I might have done to my baby. It’s serious shit, you know, Foetal Alcohol Syndrome. My GP says I’m not in any danger, as it was just that one time, and plenty of people get drunk before they even know they’re pregnant and it still … turns out OK.’
‘Exactly. Of course.’ It’s nice to reassure someone else for a change, but it sends a twinge to my heart that her eyes are wide with worry and regret.<
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‘But I knew. Somewhere in me, I knew it was wrong. I think I was just scared of this thing happening around me, to me. It was my life, but suddenly I wasn’t in charge.’
‘Yes.’ I exhale so deeply my whole body feels like a deflated party balloon. It’s like Skye has read my blog or something – well, she could be one of the 273. You never know.
She gets up and switches the kettle on again. ‘After a while, though, after loads of looooong conversations with Rich and my parents and my friends, I came round to accepting that no, I wasn’t in control – but that’s not always a bad thing. I wasn’t in control when I bumped into Rich in a bar on my mate’s car crash of a hen do. Veils, penis straws, pink Stetsons,’ she adds as a side note. ‘But that worked out pretty nicely.’ Her right thumb and index finger twiddle her wedding band back and forth. ‘I didn’t get into my first choice uni but at the second I met my best-ever friends. I can’t control buses being on time; I can’t control the sunshine; if the triple dip happens it won’t be down to me.’ Skye shrugs. ‘I think when you’ve worked so hard to get your education, get your career, you feel like you should be in charge of everything. And you know what?’
I lean forward a little, eager for more stress-relieving truths.
‘It’s just exhausting.’ She laughs a little as she refills our mugs. ‘Exhausting! I can’t have all the right answers, you don’t, my mum doesn’t – God knows Marie doesn’t.’ She gives me a knowing look. ‘In fact, the only thing you guarantee if you wait around for the absolutely right answer? That you’ll miss it. It’s not all shiny and perfectly packaged. It doesn’t have icing on top.’ She nods in my direction.
For a minute I just sit there, her words bouncing around my head. ‘Whoah. Does the wisdom come with the pregnancy hormones?’
Skye gives a real belly-laugh now. ‘I wish! It’s more the sobering thought that you’re about to drive a lorry out through a mouse hole in nine months’ time. Kind of puts everything else in perspective. Now, let’s cut this cake. Though I must say, I’m a bit disappointed you haven’t used the glitter today.’ Skye bites her bottom lip, concealing her smile badly.
