in a child. All of whom are a bit weird. Michael’s brother has been married and divorced four times and not one of his ex-wives will speak to him. I’ve met him seven times and on at least three of those occasions he has hit on me or offended me in some way. Their sister is single at forty-eight. She lives in a house share in Canary Wharf and is obsessed with conspiracy theories. I can’t handle more than a thirty-second conversation with her. When I had Tommy, she turned up to the hospital high on ecstasy and told me that she thinks Tommy is the reincarnation of Benedict Cumberbatch. I reminded her that he isn’t even dead, to which she answered, ‘Yes, but how do you know?’ Luckily, she hasn’t come to see us since.
My mother-in-law will, however, speak of her children like they are perfect and as if she did a sensational job of raising them. I just nod and smile. Janet is prim, thin and neurotic. I am informal, fleshy and balanced. If his mother and I met in any other capacity, we would very likely scratch each other’s eyes out. But because of Michael, we somehow keep our claws in. I am willing to restrain myself even more knowing that her hideous proximity to our house means that she will be available for regular babysitting in the future. This is OK with me, because I will be out, far away from her.
She arrives at 6.30 p.m. as requested and insists that she puts Tommy to bed. My evenings with him are precious and I look forward to his bedtime every day, but I sacrifice this one to get a night out with my husband. It’s OK, it will be worth it. I get changed. I have a pretty standard uniform for work at the moment: my skinny maternity jeans – I know it’s been four months, but they are soooo comfy – and a long shirt that I can open easily for breast feeding. I wear low-heeled boots and subtle make-up. It works for both sitting alone with Risky all day, and popping out for occasional meetings. But tonight, I want to spice it up a bit.
I try on a few pairs of my pre-pregnancy trousers. None of them fit, which is OK, I haven’t even tried to shift the weight yet so there is no point getting upset about it until I do. I try on a black pencil skirt, but it won’t get past my bottom. I try on a few of my favourite dresses, but none of them do up. I then remember a black body-con dress that I bought online around three years ago but have never worn. I’m not sure what mood I was in when I decided to get it, because it really isn’t my style. It only fits now because it is ninety-eight per cent elastane, but who cares, it’s on. I put on some three-and-a-half-inch stilettos that I haven’t worn in around ten years and totter downstairs. Michael is wearing a grey t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans with trainers.
‘My goodness,’ Janet breathes. ‘Is that the underwear that’s supposed to make you look thin?’
‘No, it’s a dress,’ I tell her.
‘Well have you got any of the underwear that makes you look thin?’
I ignore that.
‘OK, so you don’t need to bath him. At six fifty take him up, put him in his sleeping bag, give him the bottle and lay him down. The white noise is already on. If he wakes up before we come home please don’t bring him out of his room or give him more milk. Just rub his belly to soothe him if he gets really upset.’
‘So cruel,’ Janet says, putting her empty cup on the table. ‘Poor baby.’
‘Pardon?’ I ask gently, as Michael ducks into the kitchen. He hates it when his mother and I are in the same room. He thinks I will cause problems.
‘All this leaving the babies to cry, it’s so cruel. If a baby cries, you cuddle them. Those terrible parenting books telling mothers to neglect their children.’
‘It’s important to have a schedule. And of course we cuddle him, but we also want him to sleep well and not be afraid of being alone,’ I say. I don’t want to talk about parenting with Janet. ‘Michael, shall we go?’
As he comes out of the kitchen, I hold my tummy in and stand up straight. I am waiting for a compliment.
‘You’ll be cold,’ is all I get, and he passes me my ugliest and biggest coat from the cupboard. I swap it for a black leather jacket, which I regret instantly but pretend to wear with pride. I look like Kim Kardashian’s horny aunt. Although I am sure she would at least have had a manicure.
I pick up my bag and walk over to Tommy to give him a kiss. As I do, my heel gets stuck in the floorboards and I go flying across the living room. I land splat on my tummy and the contents of my bag empty all over the floor. Risky’s pink vibrator rolls slowly towards Janet’s foot.
‘Oh, what is this?’ she asks, picking it up. She turns over the bottom of it and realises it has three settings. ‘Oh Tommy, look!’ she says, gently running it over his face and body, at which he smiles and giggles. ‘He loves it,’ she says, joyfully. ‘Isn’t Mummy clever, I’ve never seen a toy like it.’
‘No, Janet. That isn’t a toy,’ I say, imagining Risky’s vagina juice rubbing all over my baby’s face.
‘What is it then?’ she asks, holding it up.
‘Yeah, what is it?’ Michael asks, going over and taking a closer look. Horror drenches his face as the realisation comes.
‘I’ll take that,’ he says, snatching it from his mother’s hand, stomping with it into the kitchen and throwing it in the bin.
‘What on earth was that about?’ Janet asks, before slowly catching up. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she says, rubbing her hands on her clothes, then running into the kitchen and holding them under the hot tap, applying endless soap, as if she just picked up dog shit with her bare hands. ‘Well I never!’ she exclaims. ‘Shocking!’
Michael is now standing in the middle of the living room staring at me. I pick up all of my things and put them back in my bag. Although embarrassment courses through every inch of my body, I do what any sensible woman would do and pretend absolutely nothing has happened.
‘Bye Tommy,’ I say, kissing him. ‘Shall we go?’
Michael follows me out of the door.
We walk in silence down the street, Michael so cross he is breathing like a wild boar that is about to charge and murder a threatening female, and me trying to keep up with him in my stupid shoes. I feel like a fat tart chasing a man who isn’t interested in her. I mean, maybe that is actually exactly what I am.
‘Michael, please, slow down.’
He stops suddenly, giving me a chance to catch up. A few blocks down we come to a little cafe that is open quite late and he ducks in. This was not what I had in mind for dinner.
‘Still serving?’ he asks a lady behind the counter. She is packing everything up but asks a man who looks to be the manager if it’s OK. He says it’s fine, and she starts putting the trays of sandwich fillers back out for display.
‘We’ll stay open for a bit for you,’ the man says, unashamedly giving me the once-over. Michael takes a seat and I totter up to the table. The bright cafe lights are glaring, making me ashamed of all my make-up. My fat, wobbly arms feeling like jelly, my tight dress doing nothing for me, other than showing off all the things I suddenly feel very self-conscious of. I sit down.
‘What do you want?’ Michael asks me, throwing the menu in my direction. He gets up before I have chance to speak.
‘I’ll get the prawn Marie Rose on brown, please,’ he tells the man. ‘And a glass of milk. Beth?’
I
