it into everyday life and her marathon yoga sessions. The rest of us might dress to camouflage the baby tummies we haven’t quite lost yet. Samantha’s got thighs that could crack walnuts.
Naturally, it gets Samantha’s back up when Garnet and Emerald try excusing their husbands, which happens a lot.
It’s not just Samantha’s lack of employment that frustrates her. It doesn’t sound like her husband appreciates her thighs, walnut-cracking or not, any more than all the work she does. Like I said, she channels a lot into yoga.
And Garnet and Emerald are very nice women once you get used to their rivalry. They only ever turn it on each other and have a long-running disagreement over which precious stone their parents think is more precious. That sums them up, really.
Not only were their first babies due within days of each other, but their husbands work for the same bank and their houses are one road away from one another. Both think theirs is the better neighbourhood. And the better husband.
Garnet was over-the-top smug about getting to the finishing line first in the maternity ward, pushing out her ten-pound daughter a day and a half before Emerald. But Emerald had the better time when her son was born in under six hours, and they’ve been competitively parenting ever since.
The sisters are closest in age to me, twenty-seven and twenty-eight, and both think they’re the perfect age. Samantha is in her mid-thirties and Melody’s age is anyone’s guess, so of course we all do. I think she’s well over forty because of her long frizzy brown and grey hair, but since I’ve got a few greys too (thanks to Mum for pointing those out), maybe she is younger.
‘It will be all right, you know,’ Melody says, fixing me with her pale blue, wide-set eyes. Combined with a longish face and big-toothed smile, they make her look a bit like a goat. I don’t mean that in an insulting way. It’s just so you can picture her. Because her hair is salt-and-pepper, though, instead of goat-coloured, the resemblance ends there.
Melody is even more of a tree-hugging yogurt-knitter than I thought when we first met, the kind of person who makes her own baby food and sews up holes in socks even though there’s usually an uncomfortable lump in your shoe after, instead of just buying another pack of twenty for a fiver.
You won’t be surprised to know that she gave birth to her daughter in an inflatable paddling pool in her lounge, with the sound of wind chimes and whale noises for pain relief. All her friends were there to see it and it sounds like it was a bit of a party between contractions. She claims it was the most magical three days of her life, especially when her then four-year-old cut the umbilical cord and her husband made an afterbirth smoothie for Melody. I imagine the other guests stuck to the hummus and kale chips.
I wouldn’t have been much of a hostess at my own birth party. I cried through most of my labour because, holy hell, it hurt. Daniel did too, come to think of it, in solidarity and helplessness at seeing me. We were basically that nightmare couple in labour for the first time. But anyone who tells you it’s not that bad is either lying or has had their memory erased by those post-birth hormones.
‘I hate to be the one to break this up,’ Samantha says, ‘but I’ve got to pick up Dougie. It’s been fun as always. Same time next week at my house?’
She doesn’t need to ask because I wouldn’t miss these get-togethers even if I ended up in hospital with appendicitis. I’d crawl on all fours with tubes hanging off me and a packet of biscuits clenched in my teeth. And to think that when I first had the babies I thought I didn’t need the mums I’d met in antenatal class. Naïve, deluded Emma.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say. ‘Sorry we were out of milk.’
Everyone starts to shift as Samantha perfects her lipstick without looking and pulls out her hairbrush to give her chestnut tresses a swipe. Which reminds me that I forgot to brush mine this morning. At least I cleaned my teeth. I’m a winner.
‘We should be going too,’ Garnet says to her sister.
Their toddlers are already in day care, though that’s not what they call it. ‘It’s pre-Montessori, like Eton is a feeder for Oxbridge,’ they explain.
‘I bet you’ll be excited to start school in the autumn, Eva,’ I tell Melody’s five-year-old, who is busy drawing orange trees on her sketch pad. She’s got her mum’s clear blue eyes and long face.
‘I can’t wait for school!’ Eva says, but Melody looks troubled. I’m not sure what she’ll do then. Will she turn up at snack time in her nursing bra?
Talk about putting the cart before the horse. Or the staff before the café, in this case. My glance falls on the stack of boxes leaning precariously beside the bar. One more thing to put away. It looks messy, unfinished and unprofessional. Ditto the half-painted walls, filthy window glass and stripped but yet-to-be refinished tables and chairs. It looks like a building site.
It is a building site. But in four weeks it needs to be a welcoming café. With staff.
So far none of this has seemed altogether real, despite the loan from Daniel’s parents or the official two-year extendable lease from the council. Just paperwork, I’ve convinced myself. If it all goes pear-shaped for some reason, I can always find a way to pay my in-laws back and cancel the lease. No real harm done to anyone but me.
Until now. As soon as I put teenagers into the training positions they’ll be depending on me for the job. And they deserve the chance to do something that could give them a leg-up in life. Lots of charities do after-school programmes and run youth centres and activity groups, not to mention everyone campaigning to get more funding. But training programmes are harder to come by.
I never imagined I’d set one up myself, yet here I am fidgeting over a stack of CVs and notes from Social Services, checking the door every two seconds for my first interviewee.
The lady at the council who has been helping me was uncomfortably vague about the applicants’ details. I know they’ve all had reason to catch the attention of the authorities, which is why they’re being put forward as potential trainees. But when I asked her what they’d done – just to know whether I’d be dealing with someone who’s run red lights or run drugs – she went tight-lipped. And she wasn’t exactly chatting like my BFF to begin with.
‘We can’t disclose any details about the cases,’ she’d said, rapidly clicking the top of her pen. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
I nodded like I did. ‘When you say cases, do you mean their Social Services cases? Or their court cases?’
‘Both,’ she said. ‘Either.’
‘Uh-huh, I see. Would those be criminal cases or civil ones?’
She just stared at me over her reading glasses. ‘Everyone we’re referring has needed intervention by Social Services, and in each situation we feel that the opportunity to work, to get training, will benefit them.’
I felt like such a dick then. Here was this lady, working with troubled kids every day, probably for little pay and little thanks, and I was swanning in sounding like I only wanted the cream off the top of the barrel. ‘Yes, of course, of course, that’s why I’m here,’ I said as my face reddened. ‘To offer them that
