Me and Mr Jones (5 page)

‘Twenty-nine?’ Charlie guessed. ‘You’re never
thirty
?’

Hazel giggled. ‘She’s
nine
,’ she said. ‘And I’m seven.’

‘Shut up, Hazel,’ Willow muttered, glaring again.

‘Girls, that’s enough,’ Izzy said. ‘I’ve not managed to get a word in yet. Hello, Charlie. This is Willow and this is Hazel. Nice to see you.’

He grinned. ‘You too. You look even better out of your leotard,’ he said, indicating the denim skirt and pink T-shirt she’d pulled on. ‘I mean . . .’ He blushed.

His awkwardness made her like him a little bit more. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘So, what are you drinking?’

‘No, I’ll get these, it was my idea,’ he said at once. Phew. She only had a fiver in her purse, but her pride would never have let her admit as much.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d like a small glass of red wine, please, and the girls would like . . . what was it? One fizzy orange and one lemonade?’

‘Correctamundo,’ Hazel beamed. Willow was staring pointedly away.

‘Coming right up,’ Charlie said, and vanished off to the bar.

‘Pyjamas, pyjamas, pyjamas,’ Willow said, as soon as he was out of earshot.

‘Come on, babe,’ Izzy said, putting an arm around her. ‘Let’s sit down. He’s all right.’

‘But you said—’

‘I know, but we haven’t given him a chance yet. We’ve only been here two minutes – we can’t walk out now.’

Hazel had already sat down and was swinging her legs happily. ‘He’s funny,’ she said. ‘I like him.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ Willow said.

‘Give him a chance,’ Izzy said again. ‘And, before you know it, we’ll be back home in our jim-jams. Tell you what, Willow, if you’re really good, you can choose the film, okay?’

Willow nodded. ‘That’s my girl,’ said Izzy.

As it happened, there was no need for anyone to throw the word ‘pyjamas’ into the conversation from then on. Charlie turned out to be the best fun any of them had had in ages. He taught the girls how to flip beer mats and catch them. He made them all laugh with stories of his naughty boyhood. And he even charmed Willow, by producing a fossil he’d found that afternoon on Charmouth beach. ‘Have you been fossil-hunting down there yet?’ he asked, and looked appalled when they shook their heads. ‘No? Oh, you’ll love it, you can get some cool ammonites,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, I’ve still got the little fossil hammer that I had when I was about your age. I can lend it to you, if you want.’

‘Will you come with us?’ Hazel asked immediately, her big brown eyes beseeching.

Charlie glanced up at Izzy. ‘Maybe, if it’s all right with your mum.’

‘Can we, Mum? Can we?’ chorused both girls with such excitement and enthusiasm that Izzy was powerless to refuse.

‘I should think so,’ she managed to say eventually, keeping it vague. Much as she liked Charlie, she knew she had to tread carefully. Baby steps, she needed to take, nothing bigger, nothing faster. ‘Girls, we’d better be getting home now,’ she said soon afterwards.

They were both completely under his spell already though, even Willow, who’d just been taught to make her cheek ‘pop’ using her finger. (Even better, Hazel couldn’t do it; only Willow. A triumph indeed.) ‘Ohhh, do we have to?’ she complained.

‘We do,’ Izzy affirmed. Boundaries, boundaries, she intoned in her head. If she’d learned anything in life so far, it was the importance of self-preservation. ‘Thanks, Charlie,’ she said briskly, rising to her feet.

‘And . . . maybe another time?’ he asked, his gaze hopeful.

The girls looked up at her with similar eagerness. ‘That would be nice,’ she said, determined not to be pinned down until she’d had time to think about it. ‘Thanks again. We’ll see you around.’

And that was as much as she would give him. For now.

Chapter Four

OH BABY! website – for helpful, friendly advice on CONCEPTION, PREGNANCY and MOTHERHOOD

Members’ forum > Trying to conceive > New thread

Subject: New member

Posted by: EmmaJ35

Hello everyone,

I’m new to the forum so I thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Emma, and have been trying to conceive for nine months. I am starting to feel obsessed with sperm counts and am pouncing on my husband as soon as I hit my ovulation window, but nothing’s happened yet.

I’m 35 and aware that the clock is ticking. I can’t help wondering if we’ve left it too late, or if there is something wrong with me/him. STRESS!

Friends with babies keep saying unhelpful things like ‘Just relax! As soon as you stop thinking about it, you’ll get pregnant!’ but I CAN’T stop thinking about it, and I can’t relax – it’s not as easy as that. Work is a nightmare and, since my husband lost his job two months ago (yes, just before Christmas – great timing!), I am the only breadwinner and feel under massive pressure. I work as an interior designer and used to love it, but recently have found myself getting increasingly impatient with customers dithering over a light switch or a paint shade. A light switch, for heaven’s sake!! It all seems so trivial when my mind is taken over by baby-making.

ALSO, before my husband lost his job, we were meant to be moving to a really lovely house – perfect for a family! – but at the very last minute (we were packed and everything) the vendors upped the price. I was all for coughing up – I LOVED that house – but then he was made redundant, so we had to pull out.

We went ahead with the sale of our house anyway, as it seemed a good idea at the time, but are now living in a tiny rented flat with all our stuff still piled up in boxes and, believe me, it’s not remotely conducive to getting pregnant. David, my husband, is fed up because he can’t find another job and is now saying we can’t afford a baby anyway. HEEEEEELP.

Emma stopped typing and read back what she’d written. Then she frowned and deleted almost all of it. If she posted such a long rambling rant on the forum, the other women would think she was a fruit loop. Maybe they’d be right.

I have been pregnant once before
, she began typing again, more slowly this time,
but—

‘What are you doing?’ David asked just then. He was lying at full stretch on the sofa, watching the football and slagging off the referee’s atrocious decision-making.

Emma jumped. She’d almost forgotten he was in the same room. Hot colour surged into her face and she swiftly backspaced the sentence she had begun. Had she seriously been on the verge of sharing her darkest secret with an online forum of strangers, when her husband had absolutely no idea of its existence? ‘Nothing,’ she replied, editing her post right down to the barest introductory sentences and sending it off.

She scrolled through some of the other topics on the discussion board, unwilling to leave this world of women like her just yet.
Ovulation charts – do they work? Polycystic ovaries. Fertility diet.
Someone had started a thread with the heading GOOD NEWS!!!! and Emma clicked it open to reveal some nameless woman – BroodyMama37 – announcing that, after four years of trying, including three rounds of IVF, she was pregnant with twins, whoop-whoop. There then followed a long list of congratulatory comments, but almost all of them failed to disguise the writer’s envy or self-obsession each time.

LilMiss: So pleased 4 u – hope it’s me next time. Period due next week – am crossing fingers that I have news like yours 2 share!

NicNac: Well done! Any tips???? *hopeful face*

BiddyWren: LUCKY YOU! How are you feeling? We have decided to go down the IVF route too now – wish us luck!

For some reason Emma felt compelled to write as well, as if by
not
congratulating the woman she might jinx her own chances.
Congrats!
she typed.
What lovely news. Well done!

‘Well done’ indeed. Like there was some special art of procreation that BroodyMama37 had fortuitously hit upon. Like there was any particular skill involved, any incredible talent. Luck – that was all it was. Luck and good genes and having youth on your side. None of which seemed to apply to Emma and David right now. They seemed to be getting more decrepit and unlucky and genetically cursed by the day.

‘Moan, moan, moan,’ she muttered to herself, turning off the computer. She hated feeling like this – so glum, so despondent. It just wasn’t her. Five years ago, when she and David had got married, she’d been Fun Emma, throwing parties, dancing until dawn with her friends, cavorting around the bedroom with David at the drop of a hat. Now look at her: whinging on to anonymous people online, getting sucked into a forum of other unhappy women obsessed with their wombs. Every time she saw a pregnant woman in the street she wanted to cry with envy.

‘And he SCORES! Get in!’ crowed David, punching the air. He lifted the beer to his lips and swallowed triumphantly. ‘Watch this, Em. Amazing passing.’

‘Mmm,’ she said dully. The screen showed a bunch of jubilant men hugging each other and the crowd going wild.
Don’t worry, David
, she felt like saying.
You sit there and watch the amazing passing. I’ll just agonize about our finances, if we’ll ever be able to afford another mortgage, if you’ll ever find another job, if we’ll ever have a baby. But you enjoy the match, won’t you?

Emma woke up at six o’clock the next morning, even though it was Saturday and there was no need to move for hours yet. Rolling over, she was on the verge of slipping back into a dream when a thought pinged into her head, a message from brain to body. Alert! Alert! Ovulation peak time has now begun! Prepare for imminent shagathon!

Sleep was instantly forgotten. It was like waking on Christmas morning when you just knew something special was in the air. Her cells felt primed for action, her womb was all a-tremble with anticipation (well, you know,
probably
; if such a thing was physically possible) and she felt a thrilling thump of joy as she imagined that brand-new egg inside her waiting to be brought to life.
Hello, little egg. I know you’re there. Please turn into a baby. A nice, fat, beaming, toothy baby. Please.

She wrapped her arms around her body, resisting the urge to molest her husband there and then. All in good time, she told herself. No point waking him too early; he’d be grouchy and not in the mood. She had to time it all perfectly.

Slipping out of bed silently to go to the loo, she noticed when passing the chest of drawers that a red light was flashing on her phone to indicate a new text. She paused outside the bathroom to open it, and saw it was from Sally, her closest friend from uni, who now lived across town with her husband Paul and baby Violet. The text had been sent at five-thirty: ouch. Violet was still not a good sleeper, by all accounts.

Hi hon
, the text read.
Are we seeing you later for V’s party?

Emma sighed. Violet’s first birthday party. She had been putting off replying because she wasn’t sure what to say. Had it really been a whole year since Violet was born, and Emma and Sally had been immediately cast into different universes? In some ways it seemed longer. Emma had
tried
to be delirious with happiness for her friend – she truly had – showering her with treats and goodies, hoping to paper over the gulf that had suddenly widened between them, with hand-stitched baby shoes for Violet and Jo Malone bath oil for poor shattered Sally, but it hadn’t been enough. Sally had crossed to the other side – the side of breastfeeding and birth horror stories, the side of broken nights and teething and nappy-bags, her life now completely dominated by the tiny pink-faced tyrant who always seemed to be crying or smelling or wanting something.

It wasn’t just Sally who’d defected. Almost all their friends were doing it. Bellies were swelling, phone calls frequently began with the portentous ‘We’ve got some news . . .’, beautiful announcement cards showing teeny baby feet plopped through the door, heralding the safe arrival of Flora or Alfie or Lola. Wild sweaty club nights and wall-shaking house parties with the old gang were a thing of the past. Nowadays she was more likely to be invited to a baby’s christening or a toddler-infested Sunday lunch than anything outrageous or fun. Their friends had joined the National Trust en masse and went for buggy-pushing walks in the leafy grounds of stately homes; they ordered packages from Mini Boden and compared notes on breast-pumps or washable nappies. Emma felt the mutual ground between them was crumbling away. She had become sidelined, left behind. Was she a bad friend, an evil person, for feeling so damn jealous?

‘You’re so
lucky
, still being able to wear skinny jeans/lie-in at the weekends/go on nice holidays,’ various friends had sighed over the last few months. ‘I would kill to lose this last stone/have a single good night’s sleep/go abroad again.’

Emma didn’t feel lucky, though. Not the slightest bit. She wouldn’t care about sleep or having a post-pregnancy muffin-top or never getting on another aeroplane for the rest of her life, if she could just hold her own baby, feel that soft new body against her skin, nuzzle into his or her fragile, sweet-smelling head. Her friends were the lucky ones, not her. She hadn’t even gone to visit the most recent arrival – baby Poppy, daughter of their friends Mike and Sara – because she was scared that if she had to hold and coo over little Poppy, she might cry actual tears onto the baby’s face.