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‘Max Voss,’ I say in my best scolding voice, ‘that catsuit is what got us into this predicament in the first place, plus there’s absolutely no way this bump or these boobs are getting into that.’
There’s a flicker in his eyes and I know exactly what he’s thinking. I wouldn’t say that we’re a married couple with telepathy but I can tell in an instant when my husband’s horny.
‘Put it back in the wardrobe,’ I say firmly.
The catsuit belonged to the costume I’d made for our daughter Sasha’s first birthday. The theme was children’s books and I’d dressed as the Hungry Caterpillar, but the catsuit was more skin tight than I’d expected and I’d spent most of the party running away from The Gruffalo, aka my husband, until Sasha had gone to sleep and all the guests had left, and then the Gruffalo’d had his wicked way with me. Seven months later, we’re now expecting the Gruffalo’s child.
I’m actually a little flattered, though. When I was pregnant with Sasha we were at it like rabbits, but between moving house a few months ago, having a toddler and working demanding jobs, we haven’t been having a lot of sexy time lately.
‘I’m going to have to go in my underwear at this rate,’ I say, planting my hands on my hips.
‘Well, I for one would be very in favour of that,’ says Max, taking a step closer to me. ‘Are you sure we even have to go? Mum and Graham are looking after Sasha and we’ve got the whole house to ourselves. When does that happen?’
‘Never,’ I say, and he steps into touching distance. ‘But we’re going to these birthing classes.’
‘Why? We’ve done this before; we know what to do. I have to give you my hand to hold which you’ll crush, and I’ll tell you to breathe and you’ll tell me to fuck off.’
I pull a face.
‘That’s why we’re going this time, so that it’ll be different.’
‘Good, I’m looking forward to not having to have my hand X-rayed for fractures after.’
He leans over and gives me a kiss. My arms instinctively wrap around him and I kiss him back.
‘No, no, no,’ I say, pushing him gently away even though my heart’s racing furiously. ‘We don’t have time.’
‘Come on, that was at least a seven kiss.’
Max and I have this game that we play where we rate kisses out of ten, usually when we’re watching a film or TV programme. I don’t remember how it started, but pretty much only Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams in The Notebook have been awarded a perfect ten by both of us. Not that Max has sat through the whole film, but I did make him watch that kiss in the rain.
‘I dunno, I reckon that was only a five,’ I say, lying. Usually seven and above kisses end in sex and we really don’t have time for that.
‘Gee, thanks, and there was me trying to spice up our marriage a little,’ he says, taking the piss out of an article I was reading on my phone this morning.
‘I promise, there’ll be plenty of time for that before the baby arrives and I’m on maternity leave. We can do all the spicing, and role play, and whatever else they suggested then. Anything to make this baby come along quicker.’
I put on the very first dress I tried on and check myself out in the mirror, still not satisfied. ‘Maybe I should try and find some leggings and a tunic?’
‘If we don’t have time to have sex, you don’t have time to change again. Plus, it’s boiling outside and you’ll roast.’
I laugh. He’s right.
‘OK, OK.’
‘I don’t know why you’re so worked up about this, anyway,’ he says, shoving a black v-neck T-shirt on. Men have it so easy with clothes. ‘You do realise that you’ve already given birth and done these classes before.’
I only have to raise my eyebrows and tut. My raging pregnancy hormones are not to be messed with at the moment.
‘Yes, but we all know it’s not actually about the course. I want to find mums I can hang out with here and I don’t think it’ll be a bad thing for you to have some local dad friends.’
‘I don’t think I want to be friends with other “dads”,’ he says, pulling a face and doing air quotes.
‘You know they’re just men who happen to have a child, like you,’ I say, laughing. Why is it men never feel the pressure to make friends the same way women do? ‘Plus, you need more friends; you hardly see anything of Owen any more.’
‘That’s because he’s sowing his wild oats now that he and Sarah have split up.’
We walk out of the bedroom and I try not to notice the worn floral carpet underfoot as I plod down the stairs. I equally try and ignore the textured pink stripy wallpaper covering the walls, or the glossy pink banister, and the seascape mural that covers an entire wall of the hallway downstairs. In fact, I’ve got quite good at blocking out the decorative features that the previous owners, who seemed to be allergic to taste, had installed.
When we outgrew our tiny flat in London, Max and I decided to move to our hometown of Fleet, which was still commutable to London but conveniently close to our parents. To get the type of house we wanted within our budget – where we wouldn’t be mortgaged to the hilt and have to sell both our kidneys and probably any future children – we’d bought one that was a bit of a ‘project’. What we’d really love to have done was gut the whole house and have a fancy renovation with a big open-plan living space, big windows and bi-fold doors, but there’s no way that we can afford that. Instead we drew up a list of all the cosmetic bits that could make the house look less like an experimental art exhibit. Only we moved in three months ago and I’m still waiting for the enthusiastic DIY-er that Max turned into when we viewed the house to make another appearance.
I sigh, looking up at the seascape that I hate so much.
‘I’ll get to it soon,’ says Max, grimacing. ‘You know, when work calms down a bit.’
He’s been working ridiculously long hours for the last month, often catching the train into London at the crack of dawn and arriving home late at night.
‘I’d forgotten what it’s like to leave the house without Sasha – look at us, just breezing out the door,’ says Max.
‘I know, no scrambling round to find shoes and coats and look! I’m using a tiny handbag for the first time in for ever,’ I say, slipping it over my shoulder.
Max chuckles as he opens the door and we head outside. ‘You know, this has definitely been the best bit of moving back home, having the grandmas around to babysit.’
‘We didn’t move back to Fleet just for that.’
‘I know, but isn’t it a bloody brilliant upside? Two sets of babysitters nearby.’
‘Well, one set. You know my parents are never here with all their cruises,’ I say, climbing into the car. My parents downsized into a tiny flat above a fish and chip shop a couple of years ago, and since then have been spending all the money they made from selling their first and only house – bought in the 1980s – on cruises around the world.
‘When do they get back from this one?’
‘In about five weeks. Don’t worry, I’ve made sure they’re going to be back in plenty of time for this one,’ I say, patting my bump.
‘I think we’re going to need all the help we can get,’ says Max, starting the car engine.
‘So, today, with the people,’ I say, choosing my words carefully, ‘can you, um, just tone things down a little – you know, with the jokes?’
Max stops reversing the car and snaps his head back at me. Usually Max makes an excellent first impression, but when it comes to talking about female anatomy, he seems to turn into a teenage boy making inappropriate jokes.
‘Tone it down?’ he says, narrowing his eyes.
‘Yeah, you know… perhaps not make the jokes you did last time. The one about the stitches.’
‘What? The guys totally laughed their arses off.’
‘The guys might have done, but the girls didn’t. We didn’t even meet for a pre-baby coffee in the end. I’m sure it wasn’t all about that joke, but I just think we should do everything we can to make friends. Just try to fight the instinct to be funny.’
‘OK, one boring bastard coming up,’ he says.
‘Oh no, you’ve got to be interesting,’ I say, as he pulls off the drive. ‘They’ve got to like you. Women judge their friends on what men they pick to be their husbands.’
‘Then you will have absolutely nothing to worry about,’ he says. ‘I can charm anyone.’
I rub my sweaty hands on my thighs hoping that he’s right. Our move to Fleet hasn’t exactly been as I pictured it, and it would be nice for something to finally go our way, and a ready-made friendship group could be just it.
‘Right then, everyone,’ says Mary, the course leader, standing in front of the class. ‘I’m glad that you’re all settled in nicely. It’s my job to hopefully ease any of those fears and apprehensions that you might have about the next few months of your life as you transition into your new role as parents.’
It’s a good job that the plastic chairs we’re sat on are so ridiculously uncomfortable or else her soft, soothing tones would send me right off to sleep. Although at seven months pregnant, pretty much any sitting down for more than ten minutes has me nodding off. Perhaps that’s why they’ve kept the chairs of torture.
Mary starts to talk about the importance of positive thoughts and I start to look around at my potential new BFFs. Discounting the husbands, there are four other women. There’s a woman who looks like she’s impersonating a royal with her perfectly styled hair, smart tailored dress and sensible court shoes; she is sat on a plump cushion, which I’m very jealous of. Another with cascading blonde curls who’s got her notepad out and is studiously making notes. One with long brown hair and a gorgeous maternity dress, who looks absolutely terrified. And finally the woman sat beside me, with a short blonde bob, who catches me looking and gives me a smile in return.
‘Now,’ says Mary, ‘you’re not far off the end of your pregnancy journey, and you’ve got so much to look forward to.’
‘Yes, like delivering a watermelon out of your vagina,’ says the woman with the blonde bob.
Her husband groans.
‘What? We’re all thinking it and it’s terrifying,’ she says, and I give her a nod in solidarity before we turn our attention back to Mary.
‘Yes, it’s true that birth can seem very daunting, but we will come to that. By the end of these sessions, you’ll realise that no matter how big the watermelon is – and sometimes the watermelon can be very big – your body will be able to cope. In fact, last month one of our course members gave birth to a ten-pound baby,’ she says, and the woman next to me almost shrieks in horror.
‘Who was that, Mary?’ asks the smartly dressed woman.
‘Ah, Anneka, I forgot that you took last month’s class too.’ That at least explains how she knew to bring a cushion. ‘It was Aimee with the long blonde hair.’
‘Oh,’ Anneka says, nodding her head.
‘Now, before we get into all the serious stuff, I thought that it might be quite fun to do an ice-breaker,’ says Mary, getting us back on track.
The woman with the blonde bob next to me mutters what sounds like ‘FML’ under her breath.
‘I’m going to give you all a pack of ten different coloured bits of wool, which are all different lengths. You’ll also see that around the walls there are cards with writing on them, like length of cervix when fully dilated, length of bump at full term, and what you’ve got to do is match the different lengths of wool with the cards. Don’t forget the idea is to talk as you go round and discuss it with your fellow classmates,’ says Mary, handing out our packets of cut string.
I’m sorting through the strands of wool when Max holds one up and looks at it.
‘Length of my penis,’ he says with a grin.
‘Firstly, what did we say about anatomy jokes, and secondly,’ I say, taking hold of his piece of string and dangling it in front of his eyes, ‘only in your dreams.’
‘Ouch,’ he says, laughing and snatching it back.
There’s an uneasy scraping of chairs as people get up and walk about.
I separate from Max and start looking at the card closest to me. Circumference of average baby’s head during birth. I wince. Despite the fact I’ve already gone through this once, I tried my best to block out the memories of it.
‘Do you reckon any of this wool is big enough to wrap around our necks?’ says the woman, who was sitting next to me, attempting to do it. ‘Sorry if that was really bad taste; I pathologically hate ice-breakers.’
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I’m Ellie.’
‘Helen.’ She turns to read the card and pulls a face. ‘You know there have got to be better ways to make friends with other mums-to-be. You know, some kind of Tinder for pregnant people. That way we could swipe left and right and select our friends without having to be traumatised for the rest of our pregnancy.’
‘Probably pretty niche, isn’t it, in Fleet?’ I say, laughing. ‘Plus, what if people lied on their profiles? At least this way you get to vet them.’
‘True,’ says Helen, nodding. ‘And I bet you’d get pervy men catfishing. You know, ones who have a thing for pregnant women.’
‘Do men have a thing for pregnant women?’
Helen nods again. ‘I bet they do.’
The woman in the royal blue dress walks up to us and has a quick read of the card on the wall before she looks us up and down and then breaks into a polite smile. ‘So, November babies, huh?’ she says, pointing at the bumps. ‘When are you due?’
I look at her incredibly neat bump that almost looks like she’s just shoved a beach ball up her dress.
‘Fourth,’ says Helen.
‘Third for me,’ I say.
‘Oh, that woman over there is due on the fifth. Isn’t it an amazing coincidence that you’re all due around the same time?’
‘I know,’ says Helen. ‘It’s like there’s some kind of romantic day that happens in February that results in all these early November babies.’
We all giggle, even though I know mine was more to do with Sasha’s birthday party on 12 February rather than Valentine’s Day.
‘I’m Anneka,’ says the woman, and Helen and I introduce ourselves.
‘When are you due, Anneka,’ I ask.
‘Twenty-fifth of October, although I’m having a C-section the week before.’
‘How are you smaller not bigger than us?’ asks Helen.
‘My gynaecologist says that I haven’t put on one pound of non-baby weight.’
‘Sod that. If I’m not allowed gin for nine months I’m damn well eating cake,’ says Helen.
‘Me too,’ I say.
‘Gestational diabetes is a real thing you know,’ Anneka says horrified.
‘Oh, so you’ll be the first one out of us to have the baby then,’ I say, trying not to spoil the group harmony I’m so desperate to create.
‘I guess you’ve saved us from any awful ice-breaking games of guessing who’s going to be the first to have their baby,’ says Helen.
‘Well, you never know. I did one of these classes last month and one woman went into labour just after the class, at thirty-two weeks,’ says Anneka.
‘Was the baby OK?’ I shudder at the thought.
‘Oh yes. It turns out that there had been a bit of a miscalculation of the dates. But mother and baby are doing fine – or at least as fine as you can be after your boyfriend walks out when he realises that he can’t be the father of the baby.’
‘Crikey. Sounds a bit dramatic.’
‘I know, if only Jeremy Kyle was still on air, they would have been a shoo-in for the show.’
‘So how come you’re doing this group twice?’ I ask.
‘Because my baby is due late October, it straddled the two groups, so I thought I’d do both and pick which group I preferred.’
‘And how are we doing compared to the last group?’ asks Helen.
‘Gosh, they weren’t my type of people at all. Didn’t have a single thing in common, and did I mention the whole Baby Daddy scandal?’ she says, coming across as a bit of a snob. ‘Despite that, I’m sure I would have picked your group as you all seem lovely.’
‘Hmm,’ I say, not knowing quite what to make of her.
‘I’m going to go and talk to the other ladies over there.’
She points at the other two members of the group who are chatting away.
‘FYI,’ says Anneka, ‘the string you were going to use here for the baby’s head is actually the length of your birth canal. Try this one instead,’ she says, selecting one of the larger lengths of wool in her pack.
I gasp in horror at the length of it as she pins it up.
‘I think I preferred it when I only thought it was a watermelon coming out,’ says Helen. ‘Isn’t this class supposed to ease our tensions, not scare us silly?’
‘I know. I’ve actually been through this all before with my little girl, but I think there are some things I’d rather not know.’
‘Come on, ladies, rotate, rotate,’ says Mary, clapping her hands.
‘How much more have we got of this?’ says Helen, raising her eyebrows as she goes off and talks to one of the husbands who’s looking cluelessly at another card.
I start to relax, feeling like this whole making friends malarkey might not be so hard after all.
By the time the intensive course draws to a close I’ve met all the other couples. I’ve particularly warmed to Helen with her sharp wit, and Polly reminded me of myself in my first pregnancy – like a rabbit caught in headlights. Anneka took a shine to Max and his charming personality, and despite his risqué jokes she still prefers us to her previous group. Then there’s Nina with the cascading curls who’s funny and friendly.
‘You see,’ says Max, as we climb back in the car, twenty minutes later. ‘That went pretty well. And I wasn’t embarrassing and at least I showed up, unlike Anneka’s husband, what’s his name?’
‘George… I think he went last month with her and what do you mean you weren’t embarrassing? At one point you licked the poo from the nappy.’
‘I didn’t lick it; I licked my finger, which it had leaked on, and it was Nutella. But despite that, I think everyone liked me and you, so that’s the main thing, right?’
‘Yep, I guess so.’
We all swapped numbers after the session and Anneka had put us all in a WhatsApp group, and set up one for the men, before we’d even made it to the car.
‘See, I told you there was nothing to worry about, and, as Mary says, you’ve got a couple of months to sit back and chill out before the little one arrives.’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I say, laughing. ‘I’m going to still be working, even if it is from home.’
‘Yeah, yeah, you’re going to be working in your PJs on the sofa with This Morning on in the background,’ he says, taking the mickey. ‘Plus, you’ve only got another month of it, then you get a whole year off,’ he says.
‘You know maternity leave isn’t actually a holiday, right?’
‘Come on, this new little baby will be as easy-going as Sasha.’
I splutter a laugh. ‘Sasha, easy-going?’
‘Yeah, she is when I have her.’
‘And how often do you look after her alone?’ I say, meaning it as a joke, but it comes out a bit sarcastic.
‘I’d take her more, but you always want to do things as a family at the weekend.’
‘Yeah, because I want to see you too,’ I say, trying to soften the mood. ‘It’s all going to be fine, isn’t it?’
‘Relax, Ellie,’ says Max, starting to mimic Mary’s dulcet tones. ‘Your last two and a half months of pregnancy are going to be completely calm and stress-free, I’ll make sure of it.’
I laugh and hope that he’s right.
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