Charlotte
Everything is melting. Everything is fucking melting.
It’s fine. It’s great. I’ll make it work. It’s fun! Fun, fun, melting baby shower. Who likes set icing on a cupcake anyway? It’s much better when it’s dripping down your fingers and ruining someone’s nice sofa. I made the mistake of leaving the ice cube bag on the counter to try and take more photos, and it’s now a bag of water. But who needs ice? Ice isn’t important! Nobody really wants ice! I mean, many guests have asked if there’s any ice left but they don’t really want it. They want watermelon! I have watermelon. That’s so naturally refreshing. I’ll cut up more, serve it about, distract them from the ice. Watermelon doesn’t melt. Hooray for watermelon!
Oh God, I do wish everyone would hurry up and eat the food before it melts. Eat. Eat! Come on everybody, eat it all, before it becomes soup. I check the time on my phone. We’re running about seventeen minutes behind schedule, but that should be OK. We’ve cancelled the egg and spoon race and can always discard another one of my games. Though it would be a shame to waste the celebrity baby billboard I’ve made. I scurry about, asking people to say cheese while I take as many photos as possible, though people are more reluctant to pose while eating. Everyone loves the peony wall. I knew they would. When the devil tried to tempt Christ in the desert, they really should have used a peony wall. People seem to be mingling. That’s good! The icebreakers must really have worked – they’re now ice melters. Cry laughing face! Whoops. I’m thinking in emojis again. I need to calm down. I saw Lauren chatting to that cool girl from Nicki’s work – Phoebe. I don’t know anything about her but there were loads of photos of her on Nicki’s account of them on nights out, so I got in touch to invite her. Steffi’s a seasoned mingler and needs no icebreakers but she’s been distracted by this business deal. Hot air hits the back of my legs and I turn to see her sneaking through the sliding door, her phone in her hand. She has a weird, glazed look in her eyes until she senses me watching her, and grins sheepishly.
‘Sorry, last duck out, I promise,’ she says, putting her phone in her pocket.
‘Watermelon?’
‘I’m alright thanks.’ Steffi never eats. No wonder she works in publishing, where she seems to live off bad white wine and canapés. She wouldn’t last a day in my primary school where the only lunch option is baked potato and beans. ‘It’s going really well. You’ve done a great job, .’
‘Everything’s melting and we’re seventeen minutes behind schedule.’
She squeezes both my shoulders. ‘And yet the day is still perfect.’
I pull her into a hug.
‘Are you alright?’ I ask her. I make eyes at her bulging pocket, ‘All going well?’
‘Yes. It’s great. I’ll be up all night. So much to do. But it’s for good reasons.’
I let go and examine her again. She won’t really make eye contact and looks on the verge of crying. ‘Then why are you sad?’ I ask her.
Her hand goes to her throat.’ I’m not, I’m . . .’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I . . . I . . . never mind.’ She forces a grin. ‘I’m great. Just stressed. And bowled over by your party throwing abilities. You’re amazing, . You know that, right?’
It’s an unexpected compliment and it’s just what I need to hear. I forget the melting stuff for five seconds. ‘Thank you.’
‘What can I do to help?’
‘Take pictures,’ I instruct her. ‘Take lots and lots of pictures while I work out what to do about the melting . . . Do you know the hashtag? Do you mind trying to get one with Nicki and everyone? At least one of her with each guest? She’s in the kitchen I think . . .’
Steffi pushes her hair back off her neck where it’s starting to curl from the heat. ‘You know what? Let’s swap jobs. You know peoples’ angles much better than I do. Why don’t you round up Nicki, and I’ll see which foods need rescuing and put in the fridge?’
I’m torn. She’s right. I do know how to best frame a shot. It drives me crazy how bad people are at taking pictures. No rule of thirds! Cutting off people’s legs. Leaving loads of weird head room at the top. It’s not hard to frame things, people. You can easily watch a few YouTube videos about ‘How to Take the Perfect Photo’ . I even made Seth watch them because I was sick to death of him taking bad pictures of me on all our holidays. However, I also don’t know if Steffi understands the urgency of the cupcake icing situation.
‘I promise nothing turns to liquid under my watch,’ she says, reading my mind. ‘And it gives me an excuse to check my phone a bit more away from everyone.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
I pluck Nicki from the kitchen where she’s been chatting to Lauren. ‘Come on. Photos,’ I tell her. She groans and struggles to get off her stool, while Lauren wrestles Woody like he’s a wet fish.
‘You say the bedroom is upstairs, second on the right?’ she asks and we both nod. ‘I’ll try and put him down now. He’s not had any solids yet, but he’s too tired.’
I watch her carry him off on her hip and watch Nicki’s swollen stomach dislodge itself from the chair. It strikes me then that our babies are all going to be basically the same age. How magical is that? Despite all the various odds, we’ve all ended up conceiving roughly around the same time. Maybe that’s just a 32 thing, but I still think it’s a good omen.
‘I think we’ve got enough photos,’ Nicki says as I drag her back into the main room where she’s greeted like a celebrity.
‘Just a few shots with each guest. Come on. You never regret taking photos. Especially when you’re pregnant.’ That’s what I’ve been told after reading online. Take loads of photos , the articles advise me. Document this profound change in your body. You will regret it if you don ’ t. Mark yourself in history. It ’ s a feminist statement, even. Apparently, historically, mothers always take the family photos because it’s emotional labour, so you have to make sure you’re in the photo too so you’re not erased. I explain this to Nicki as I round up various clusters, and, once I explain the feminism angle, she’s more willing to pose. I do a group shot with her ‘home friends’, and then a family shot with her mother and aunty. I get a group of her work people, which is tricky as there’s two babies in that cluster, and none of them look at the camera.
That cool lady, Phoebe, wanders back from the toilet just as I’m finished.
‘Phoebe!’ I call over. ‘We almost missed you. Come have your photo taken with Nicki.’
She raises both eyebrows as she comes over. She really does have the most remarkable freckles. ‘Here, here, by the balloons. That makes a nice backdrop.’
I gesture for them to move together but they stand almost a metre apart. ‘No. Closer. Closer.’ They are really messing with the rule of thirds here. ‘Phoebe? Maybe if you put your hand on her stomach and, like, make a big open mouthed shocked gesture.’
‘Not a chance,’ Phoebe replies. ‘Sorry. But that’s not my thing.
I lower my phone. ‘Oh, OK. It was just an idea.’
I expect Nicki to defend me but she’s giggling. ‘, just a normal shot will do,’ she says.
There’s nothing abnormal about what I suggested . . .
‘OK then. Just smile. One, two, three.’ I don’t even frame it properly. This Phoebe doesn’t deserve the rule of thirds quite frankly. My phone starts ringing. Seth’s number. ‘I actually need to take this,’ I tell Nicki but she doesn’t hear me. Her and Phoebe are taking a seat, in deep conversation, acting like I left a long time ago. I pick up. ‘Hang on, let me just run outside, stay on the line,’ I whisper to him.
I patter past guests finishing up their pavlovas – everyone leaving the eco-disposal bowls on every available surface like they think some fucking servant is coming to collect them.
Woah. Where did that come from? The stress of today must be getting to me. Or maybe this is pregnancy hormones? What a delightfully bitchy thought. I slide open the front door which burns my palms, the glass is so hot. I step down onto the decking, almost hitting my head on the pinata.
‘Right, I’m outside. Is everything OK?’
‘The important thing is to not to panic,’ Seth replies.
‘Oh God. What’s happened? Are you hurt? Are you dead!?’
He laughs. ‘Yes, . Totally dead. I’m calling from heaven. It has surprisingly good reception.’
‘What’s happened? Are you on your way? How are the doughnuts? What’s gone wrong? Why are you calling?’
‘. It’s fine.’ Seth’s using his best calming voice – the one I find slightly irksome as it’s up to me whether something is fine or not. I’m the one with the schedule. ‘The car is stuck, but it’s all going to be OK.’
‘Stuck? Stuck?! Where? Is Matt with you?’ I knew this wasn’t fine. I’ll have to talk to him again about the appropriate time to use his calming voice.
‘He’s with me now. We have a plan. I’ve told you, it’s going to be fine. You’re never going to believe it but the car is stuck in tar. It’s so hot one of these country roads has actually melted a bit.’
‘The road has melted? ’
This is what happens. You plan and organise and spreadsheet and account for all possible outcomes and everyone tells you to just CHILL but you can’t ever chill because you’ll never have accounted for everything. My brain didn’t know, up until this precise moment in my life, that a road is capable of melting, especially in Britain! We’re already 22 minutes behind now. I’m running out of slack time.
‘Yes, it’s just turned to tarry mush. It’s crazy. I’m going to have to wait for the rescue people to come tow me. Matt and I have tried pushing, but the car has sunk surprisingly deep.’
‘But you’re supposed to be coming here. For the gender reveal! The big surprise! You have the wall of doughnuts!’
‘Babe, I know. I have a plan. I wouldn’t call you before I’d made a plan.’
Oh, I love him, this man with a plan. My husband.
‘A taxi is on its way to pick up Matt. He’s the star guest, so he’s the only one that really needs to be there. I’ll wait here and sort the car out. I’ve rung the taxi company twice and they’ve promised they’re almost here. He won’t even be late. We’ve kept the engine running so the air-con can protect the icing on the doughnuts. I’ll probably go to hell for ruining the planet, but I knew you’d kill me if they melted.’
‘OK, OK,’ I nod. I’m still panicking. So much could go wrong. Taxi companies are notoriously unreliable in the countryside, everyone knows that. Oh, why is this happening to me? What did I do in a past life to deserve this? If Matt turns up too late, guests will start leaving before they realise the Main Event hasn’t actually happened. They all think opening the presents is the Main Event, but they’ve been beautifully manipulated by me for the ultimate surprise factor.
‘Are you OK though?’ Seth asks. ‘Really? I know you’re not a fan of change of plans.’
‘I just . . . he needs to get here in time.’
‘He will, I promise. He’s going to have plenty of time to surprise Nicki and whack out the gender reveal firework and the day is going to be perfect. How’s it going over there anyway?’
He’s trying to distract me by asking questions. He knows I’m spiralling. I cross my legs and bend over. The stress of all this has made me need a wee. I always need to wee when I’m stressed because I drink eight glasses of water a day using a special pink motivational bottle that gives me set measurements to drink each hour. Then, whenever I do a wee, I check what colour it is on the urine scale to ensure I’m not dehydrated. I used to have to hold my phone up to the toilet to check the colour, but now I know the WHO urine scale, and can tell if my wee is a two or a seven by sight.
‘It’s alright. Everything melting, of course, but Steffi is helping refrigerate the important bits. The games were fun. Presents to come. And the surprise if you get here on time.’ I glance over at the firework which is still wedged where I left it. I get this sudden urge to pull it. All it would take is one small yank . . . My fingers twitch with this weird urge to sabotage everything.
‘He’ll get there in time. He’s psyched. Can’t wait to surprise Nicki. How are you doing anyway? I hope you’re resting some, looking after yourself. Any sickness or anything yet?’
I shake my head. ‘No, just a few cramps, but the internet has told me it’s nothing to worry about.’
‘And you’re doing OK? It being a baby shower and all?’
I smile down the phone at Seth’s emotional intelligence. Lots of women complain men are terrible – Steffi mostly – but they pick such awful men and value such random stuff. I’ve trained myself to only fancy good men with emotional intelligence. I read an article on the School of Life that your choice of romantic partner is probably the biggest decision you’ll make concerning your odds of long-term happiness. Training oneself away from fuck boys is therefore essential.
‘It’s nice to be attending one and not feeling like sobbing every five minutes, yes,’ I say.
‘I’m so excited, I love you babe. I better go check in with the taxi company. Matt’s on his way, I promise. Save me some melted cupcakes. A fertilised one please.’
‘Okay, I love you too.’
I hold my stomach after he rings off, feeling so full of love for him – so delighted a combination of our DNA now resides inside me. All our fertility issues only brought us together, not apart, which I know is rare. And now we’ve somehow got pregnant, I feel so connected to him it’s insane.
I notice the air con on re-entry, though it’s still way too stifling in here. The food seems to have been successfully eaten and Nicki’s mum is dutifully collecting up the scattered plates. There’s a general air of stuffiness, and I see condensation growing in the corners of the window wall, but everyone’s having too good a time to mind. Perked up by lunch, the peony wall now has a queue of people wanting their photo in front of it. And Nicki is reigning supreme, as she should, sitting on a yoga ball, glowing, and chatting to everyone. She laughs with that freckled Phoebe and I feel pride bloom at what I’ve curated today, what I’ve managed to give a friend through my own hardship.
As I pause, a toddler, not Woody, totters towards me and starts using my leg as a climbing frame.
‘Hello there,’ I say, bending down to help them up. It’s a little girl, judging from the darling hair bow elasticated to their head.
Their mum scurries over, apologising. ‘Sorry, she’s obsessed with legs at the moment.’
She takes the child from me, and I wish I could say, ‘No, don’t,’ as I was enjoying it.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ I tell her, as she’s scooped up into Mummy’s arms and leans into her neck. I get a pang of broodiness so strong I have to bite my lip.
‘You won’t think that at 2am,’ she replies. ‘Then she’s the devil.’
I make a sympathetic smile, though I do find it hard when mothers complain about sleeplessness. When they complain about their babies at all. It’s not like anyone has ever proclaimed it’s easy, so why is everyone so shocked? I want to shake them and scream, ‘ You don ’ t know how lucky you are to be woken nightly by this gorgeous creature I crave so desperately. ’
She puts her down and holds her daughters arms.‘Sorry. It was nice to meet you . . .’ she follows her daughter’s lead without saying goodbye.
I watch them tiptoe away and feel the broodiness swallow me like Pacman. I allow myself 30 seconds of contemplative thought before realising I really do need the toilet. I’ve overdone the water drinking to keep my urine on the right gradient in this heat. I’m back in schedule mode as I close the bathroom door and pad past the roll-top tub. Right, time for one more game. Twenty minutes of celebrity babies . . . then presents . . . more drinks to serve as the presents are unwrapped? People will be thirsty. I start peeing and run through the logistics of the gender reveal as I wipe. Get everyone outside, pretending we’re going to smash the pinata. Then, boom, off goes the smoke grenade, in comes Matt. ‘Surprise!’ I must make sure I’m standing at the best angle for photos.
I stand and get ready to pull up my cotton knickers.
I’m not sure what gets me to glance down, otherwise I could’ve easily missed it. But there, in my white knickers, is a speck of blood.
Transcript: Inspector Simmons interviewing Nicole Davies
Nicole: So, I’m supposed to have, what is it I’m accused of? Deliberately burned my whole parents’ house down, with a firework I didn’t even know was there? A firework buried into the decking, when I’m so pregnant I can’t even get off the floor without some kind of crane. I’ll get on the floor now, if you’d like? See if I can get myself up? No?
Simmons: We don’t think you started the fire.
Nicole: Brilliant. Also, duh. Of course I didn’t. So why am I here?
Simmons: Because we think you could be covering for someone.
Nicole: Excuse me?
Simmons: You didn’t know the firework was planted there, but several other people did. [Silence] Who are you protecting, Nicole?
Nicole: No one.
Simmons: Who knew about the firework, Nicole? And why would you cover for them?
Nicole: Why would I cover for someone who burned down my family home and almost killed me in the process?
Simmons: I don’t know, Nicole, that’s why I’m asking you. [Silence] We received a phone call yesterday from an eyewitness. A cyclist said he saw the figure of a woman standing on top of the valley, watching the fire burn. Do you know who that was, Nicole?
Nicole: It could have been anyone.
Simmons: Or it could’ve been the person you’re protecting, watching their handiwork .