Charlotte
I have to get out of here. This hell of my own creation. It’s heaving with ungrateful bitches, stuffing their faces with the food I made, plonking their plates down and leaving them without thinking who’s going to be clearing them up. I run back inside, past the peony wall, and, without even thinking about it, I push it over so it lands face-down, the petals squelching onto the wooden floor. Some people notice and gasp, but I don’t give a shit. I just need to check myself in the toilet, get my belongings, and get out of here. Let Nicki clear up the fucking mess. Let her wash all the glasses and take down the decorations. Let her sort all the wrapping paper into the recycling. I’m taking my spreadsheet with me. Ha. Let her see what ‘cringe’ really means when she can’t remember who got her what and it fucks up her thank-you cards. Oh, ’ s so embarrassing, is she? You know what’s embarrassing? Having a friend pick out a lovely gift for your unborn child and being such a selfish and ungrateful blob that you can’t even remember who gave you what?
It’s not fair. Why does she get to have a baby and I don’t? Why is my baby haemorrhaging out of me while hers swims around in her self-obsessed amniotic fluid? I dash to the bathroom but there’s a long line, and the thought of queuing is unbearable. I remember the spare upstairs that Nicki’s mum asked us not to use. I turn back only to find Matt storming in and clapping his hands.
‘Hey guys, I’m sorry but something has come up, and the baby shower has to end early,’ he booms. His voice is so low and masculine in this glasshouse of oestrogen that everyone startles. He claps his hands again. ‘I’m not kidding. Nicki needs you all to leave. Now.’
There’s confusion. Nicki’s mother heads over to him, asking what’s going on, but he dodges her and flings open the front door where Nicki is still standing with that undercut bitch, crying. He starts herding the guests like sheep.
There’s confusion and chaos as everyone struggles to digest what’s happening.
‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Is everything OK?’ ‘Is Nicki OK?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Matt says. ‘It will be OK. It’s the heat, it’s too much. Nicki needs to be alone right now.’ He says it with such authority that they all start leaving while throwing each other confused glances. ‘Thank you for coming. Nicki is very grateful. Very sorry but there’s been an emergency and you all need to leave. Thank you, thank you.’
My thank-you bags are next to the door, and, somehow, Matt manages to pick them up and lob them at each person as they leave, clutching them to their stomachs and turning around as they exit, like they’re checking if this is really happening. I should probably care he’s not giving people the right ones. I’ve handwritten everyone’s name on the sides in calligraphy but Calligraphy is done. Fuck calligraphy. Fuck making an effort and trying to make things nice for people. Especially your friends. Nobody is grateful. In fact, you’re ridiculed for it. Stupid with her stupid parties and her stupid Instagram posts and her stupid malfunctioning mystery womb.
I weave through the leaving crowd, trying to locate my handbag which has my car keys in it. I can’t find it amongst the mess of plates and presents and ungrateful carnage, and, by the time I’ve scouted the bottom floor, the room’s empty apart from Matt and Nicki arguing by the front door. I remember that I stashed it in the bedroom after erecting the travel cots.
The baby shower’s ruined. The surprise is ruined. And so, my baby is dead. I know I need to fall apart but not here. I won’t give Nicki the satisfaction of seeing that. I’ll go to the bathroom, sort myself out, maybe fall apart for ten minutes while everyone is forcibly exiting, and then figure out how to get to hospital. If Matt’s here then I’ve missed the taxi, but if everyone’s leaving then my car will be free. I race upstairs, leaving the chaos beneath me, only to find more of it on the landing.
‘I’m supposed to leave a baby to cry?’ Steffi’s shouting at Lauren. They’re in the middle of an argument too – apparently oblivious to downstairs.
I lock eyes with the Woody in Lauren’s arms and pain rips through me. His chubby cheruby cheeks, his pudgy hands, the hair curling at the back of his neck, clasped lovingly to his mother like a baby monkey. I want this so much. I want a baby so much. It aches.
‘Who’s left a baby to cry?’ I ask, trying to figure out what I’ve just walked into.
Steffi throws her hands towards Lauren. ‘Woody was screaming in his cot and Lauren’s having a go at me for picking him up.’
‘Because you had no damn right.’
‘Hang on, hang on. Why was Woody crying? Is he OK?’
Lauren wipes a stray piece of hair behind her ear and bounces Woody on her hip. ‘He’s fine. He just needs to learn how to fucking stay asleep, that’s all.’
Both Steffi and I flinch.
‘You . . . left him to cry?’ I ask.
‘He was alright,’ she insists, bounce bounce bouncing him. ‘He’s not hungry, or wet. All his needs have been met. He just needs to learn how to self-soothe, that’s all. We’ve hired someone to get him to sleep better, and she said we should—’
‘Cry it out?’
‘No! Just help teach him how to sleep. And he would’ve if Steffi hadn’t . . .’
Steffi shakes her head. ‘I’m not going to apologise for tending to a screaming baby. I know you guys don’t think it, but I am actually human! Just ’cos I don’t want babies myself doesn’t mean I’m some uncaring bitch. Do you not remember my mum? Have you forgotten how fucking caring I am – literally? I’m sorry Lauren, but he was inconsolable. I couldn’t leave him. I don’t know how you could.’
They’re blocking my way. I don’t understand how anything extra can be happening now when already too much is happening. My womb aches and I lean over. I can’t stop staring at Woody. At this beautiful miracle being rocked in Lauren’s arms. Does she have any idea how lucky she is? How vulnerable and tender he is?
‘I can’t believe you can let your baby cry,’ I tell her. ‘How? I don’t understand.’
‘Oh don’t you go judging me too.’
‘You? Of all people? Doing controlled crying?’
‘, stop it. Please. You can’t possibly understand—’
‘The research about controlled crying is mixed,’ I interrupt her. I need Lauren to understand how precious Woody is. How lucky she is. He should be treated like the miracle he is. If I ever . . . If the world ever gives me a baby . . . I will hug it every second of the day. I’ll co-sleep. I’ll do all the wakes. I’ll enjoy all the wakes because it’s time with my baby. Oh, why won’t the world let me have a baby and then lets Lauren have one, when she’s happy to let them scream themselves to sleep? It’s not fair. ‘Lauren, you can’t trust these sleep consultants.’ I start parroting what I’ve read online, because of course I’ve googled it to death, alongside best breastfeeding positions, and the Montessori method, and baby first aid videos, and Wonder Weeks – all preparing to be the best mother ever except today is ruined and now I’m never going to get a chance ‘You need to be careful,’ I say. She needs to understand what a risk she’s taking. One I’d never take, no matter how exhausted I was. ‘It could really impact Woody’s attachment. It’s not learning how to self-soothe, it’s learned helplessness. The baby only goes quiet after controlled crying because they give up hope of being rescued and wants to preserve their energy because they feel abandoned and that they’re about to die and—’
‘Shut up,’ Lauren screams at me. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up.’
Woody starts wailing again, and I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me.