of wine under my nose. I think for a second, but my face must speak volumes because she retracts the glass and says, ‘Too early to drink?’
‘Oh, no, never too early. I just had a big night last night. Feeling a bit shaky.’
‘Oh come on, hair of the dog, it works wonders,’ says a man in a blue shirt approaching us.
‘This is Pete, my husband,’ she says. Something in her face shows me she is angry with him.
‘Hi,’ I say, reaching my hand out to meet Pete’s. He is tall, with a mouth that takes up a lot of his face, and really flirty eyes.
‘I could whip you up a Bloody Mary,’ he says. ‘I was a bit shaky myself this morning. I’ve got some already made up in the fridge?’
‘You know what, that would be perfect. Thank you!’ I say, as he goes inside.
‘Annie’s costume, it’s … it’s brave.’
‘Thanks, Amanda,’ I say, taking that as a compliment and making it clear I have her name right now. ‘I like to encourage her to be her own person, rather than just do whatever everyone else does.’ We look over at Annie. She is stepping out of the box and into a princess dress. ‘It doesn’t always work.’
‘Sure.’
We stand together, pretending to be engrossed in what our children are doing, trying to think of something to say, but something negative is in action between us. It’s cosmic, out of our control. I don’t have the energy to fight it.
‘Here you go,’ says Pete, handing me a Bloody Mary and breaking the silence.
‘Wow, celery and everything. Cheers.’ We chink glasses, and I take a big sip. It’s delicious.
‘OK, well, have fun,’ Amanda says, walking away, as if she has hit her limit on what she can handle from me. ‘Pete!’ she says, ordering him away. I can’t help but notice him glance at my tits as he goes.
‘Hello, hi, hey, hi, hello,’ I say, walking over to the table of food and the small crowd of people around it. ‘Mmmmm, bright blue cupcakes, yummy,’ I say, taking a paper plate and loading it full of food. Everyone is looking at me with ‘isn’t she fascinating’ faces. There are as many dads as mums. I feel very conspicuous. Very solo. How is it I can be so confident at work, but put me in a group of parents and I want to bury my head in the birthday cake?
‘A Bloody Mary and carbohydrates, that can only mean one thing,’ says Tracey, Gabby Fletcher’s mum, coming over to me. We’ve chatted a few times before; she’s generally quite friendly but also has that air of primness about her that so many women seem to get when they get married and have kids. Even the wildest ones, like Sophie, even though she doesn’t have children. They used to be hard drinking, slutty drug munchers, but now they’re boring, safe, and married to men who would implode if they knew the things they used to get up to. I get the impression from Tracey that she has a past she doesn’t want to admit to. She always takes a second to answer questions, as if she is reminding herself of the right thing to say. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe not.
‘Yup, killer hangover. This table has everything I need on it.’
Pause.
‘I haven’t had a proper hangover in years, I just couldn’t do it with my two,’ she says, and the rest of the parents mumble in agreement.
‘Oh, I know. My mum has Annie on Friday nights, so I can go out and have a sleep in. I’m not sure I could handle it otherwise.’
Tracey glances back at the group. I wonder if she’s been sent over to get information.
‘And I suppose you can do weekend swaps with Annie’s dad too? I mean, God forbid anything ever happen with me and James, but a bit of child sharing must be nice?’
It’s not unusual for people to presume that Annie’s dad and I split up. It is unusual for me to be asked about it in front of an audience of mums and dads at a Disney-themed birthday party. This topic gives me extreme anxiety at the best of time. Mix that with hangover fear, and I suddenly realise that my face is very sweaty.
‘Oh, actually Annie doesn’t have a dad,’ I say, stuffing half a blue cupcake into my mouth and hoping she moves on.
‘Oh. Yes, some of the girls and I were just saying, we don’t really know much about you, we just wanted to get to know you a little better.’
Girls, I think. Why do women refer to themselves as girls? It’s so weird.
‘Oh, right,’ I say, eating more cupcake.
‘So, was it a bad breakup?’ she asks, after watching me chew and swallow the whole thing.
‘No, nope. No, we were never actually together.’
The other mums have now moved closer. I wonder how many cupcakes I can get in my mouth at one time, so I don’t have to speak.
‘Oh, sorry I shouldn’t pry!’ Pause. ‘So, what, just a fling?’
I could just say yes, but as the Bloody Mary kicks in and joins last night’s alcohol that is still buzzing around my system, I have an unfamiliar wave of bravado.
‘Nope. Not a fling, a one-night stand. Well, there was a bit of flinging, I suppose. In that he flung some sperm up my vagina and into my uterus.’ I laugh, thinking that was pretty funny. Then I look at all of their faces, and realise it wasn’t.
‘That’s quite the image,’ Tracey says, picking up a cupcake she obviously has no intention of eating. ‘So he didn’t want to be involved?’ she asks, like a human lie detector that I know I won’t beat.
‘Nope. Actually he never knew. I never told him.’
Silence. For what feels like a very long time. I eventually realise this isn’t one of her weird pauses, she just has no idea what to say. My nerves keep speaking.
‘Anyway, now I’m dating and looking for love, not sperm. Real, actual love. So don’t worry, your husbands are safe, ladies!’ I let out a raucous and crazy laugh. What am I doing? Who am I being? Why the hell did I say that about their husbands being safe?
‘Pete,’ shouts Amanda across the garden. ‘Pete, let’s get the cake.’ I hadn’t realised that he was standing behind me again.
The crowd of parents disperses and spreads themselves into small groups around the garden. Every wife is making some sort of physical contact with their husband. I am left standing at the table alone, me and approximately 40,000 calories’ worth of blue puddings. I feel like the smashed-up sausage roll that nobody wants to eat.
After a minute or two, my anxiety wins.
‘Annie, Annie, come on, we have to go,’ I say, rushing over to the bouncy castle and elbowing parents out of my way to get my daughter.
‘But Mummy, we haven’t had the cake yet,’ she says, looking embarrassed and worried that I am serious.
‘We’ll have cake at home. Come on, grab
