Nicki
My waters almost break. What’s Matt doing here? He’s watching Wimbledon all day at the pub. He’s not here at my parents’ house – ‘The Museum of Unhappiness’ as he calls it. I physically push Phoebe back the second I see him, so much that she stumbles, but it’s too late. ‘Matt,’ I say, guilt lining my throat. ‘It’s not what it . . . I didn’t. What are you doing here?’ Is he going to explode? Or cry? Or what? For a moment or two, he seems as confused about his expected behaviour as I am. He keeps shaking his head, looking at me, our bump, at Phoebe . . .
‘Today’s not just a baby shower,’ he informs me. Going for the facts first, before the emotion, maybe while he decides what emotion he’s feeling. ‘Charlotte and I have been planning a special surprise.’ His eyes land on Phoebe again and they narrow. When we decided to mend things, he insisted we go on my social media and unfriend her, out of respect. Now he’s seeing her without pixels for the first time. ‘And yet I’m the surprised one.’ He points between us. ‘What’s going on here?’
Phoebe stands in front of me protectively and I get a flash of the tattoo on her neck.
‘Nothing. We were just talking. Is that not allowed?’
‘No,’ Matt says simply. ‘Not with you, it’s not. Not after you two had an affair.’
She scoffs. ‘Hardly an affair.’
‘I think I’m the one who gets to decide what counts. Me and my wife. Who chose me by the way,’ he adds. ‘Despite your underhand efforts to undermine our marriage . . . her sexuality.’
Phoebe scoffs again. ‘What do you know about her sexuality?’
Matt laughs and shakes his head with his hands either side of it. When he looks up at me, I see such intense hurt and anger, that I know he’s saving a lot of face in front of Phoebe. ‘There’s a baby in her stomach,’ he replies. ‘My baby. Guess how it got in there.’
‘Matt?’ I yelp, stroking my stomach to try and calm the baby down. ‘I’m sorry. I know what it looks like. But we really have just been talking. Charlotte invited her. She obviously doesn’t know.’
‘And you decided to come, did you? Thought that would be appropriate?’
Phoebe crosses her arms, revealing another tattoo – the one of the Deathly Hallows on her wrist that she now regrets. ‘She chose you,’ she sounds almost bored. ‘As you say, look at her stomach. If you guys were as strong as you say, this shouldn’t bother you.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. You know it’s not about that. It’s about respect.’ Matt’s temper spills a drop or two on the steps. ‘You’re showing no respect for me by showing up here. And none for either. Who you claim to love still, I bet? Is that why you came? To tell her that? When she’s heavily pregnant and emotional and quite far into this decision to not be with you? Have you even thought about what this means for ? How it might feel for her? Ahh, no. Of course. ’Cos you’re only interested in yourself.’ Sweat’s beading on his forehead and he wipes it with the back of his hand. I can’t believe he’s defending me. Love rises in me like soufflé. He’s right. Phoebe coming today isn’t good for me. It feels good, like it always does with her, but, I am heavily pregnant. She knows this is a headfuck.
‘Can you please leave now?’ He asks, award-winningly calm, standing aside and gesturing out. ‘I need to talk to my wife.’
‘You can’t just ask me to leave.’ She twists around. ‘?’
She’s asking me to what? Fight for her? Here? At my baby shower? With my guests inside? Why did she come here? What did she expect from me?
‘Phoebe I do think it’s better you go,’ I say, watching each word land on her face and make craters. Matt and I are one, a team, about to become parents together. He’s here, defending me even when I’ve let him down. I made a choice. I have to stick to it, and I literally can’t back-out anyway. I can feel the consequences of my decision literally kick me in the guts, reminding me of the path I chose and therefore the other paths I need to let go of.
‘Fine, I’m going. If I stay here for one more second, I’ll probably turn straight anyway.’ She nods her head to the party inside. ‘Enjoy your obvious life choices. Post the pictures online to convince yourself you’re happy with them.’
Matt comes and stands by my side. ‘She is happy with them. Now, if you excuse me, I need to talk to my wife, and I can’t do that with all these people inside, playing pin the sperm on the egg.’
He clasps my shoulder as he passes me, heading inside, and I hear him tell everyone the party’s over. That I’m too hot and need a rest. There are shocked murmurings, the collective sound of dozens of women packing up their stuff in a gossipy hurry. My mind hums while it struggles to metabolise everything that’s just happened. I’ve upset Charlotte. I’ve upset Phoebe. I’ve upset my husband. I’ve just ruined my own baby shower. I can hear Matt reiterate that they all need to leave immediately. I get this huge urge to nap, but Phoebe still hasn’t left. She’s staring at me, jaw set, the sun behind her, lighting her silhouette with gold.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling tears itch my eyes. ‘I . . . I . . . I don’t know what’s happened today.’
‘I shouldn’t have come.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘You shouldn’t.’
‘You won’t hear from me again.’
It’s a childish move. One designed to break my heart, to give me a terrible choice. Incinerate my life, right now, sweating on this porch, or never see someone I love again. It’s a mistake on her part as it shuts my heart and makes the following easier. I can’t be around people who behave like children just as I’m about to have one.
‘OK then. I guess I won’t hear from you.’
She blinks away her own tears. ‘Fine. Your funeral.’ She turns away and shoots me a look I can’t quite read. Is it hate? It looks terribly close to that.
I open my mouth to say one last thing. I’m not sure what, but something profound and caring, something suitable to give this an ending – whatever it is. She senses it, waits for it, and I’m about to talk, but the front door swings open again and a stream of guests pour out, clutching goody bags and rushing to hug me goodbye.
‘, darling. Thank you so much, I’ve had the best time.’
‘, I hope everything’s OK. Are you sure you’re alright? Thanks so much. Let me know when baby comes, yeah?’
‘You’re going to be such a good mother.’
‘Go put your feet up and have a nap, mama. You got this.’
‘Sorry it had to end early, but I’ve had the best time. Now go have a cold bath.’
I’m lost in an ocean of hugs, air kisses and people clutching my bump. I say thank you, thank you, act the part, trying to distract from the inevitable curiosity of this party’s abrupt ending. The stream of people keeps on running as the glass house empties, and I’m told what a good mother I’ll make, and what a lucky baby this is, and how exciting, and I bet I can’t wait to meet them, and oh, if I get a moment, can I ask Charlotte to send over all the pictures she took. By the time the stream runs dry, I scan the driveway for Phoebe, wanting so much to have one last moment – one that does us justice – but she’s gone. There’s no time to mourn this, to mourn her, and us. I want to cry but I can’t go into that house to sort things with Matt if I’m visibly upset that she’s left. I can’t believe he’s forgiven me again . The forgiveness is a balm that I apply over the pain. I’ve made the right choice with Matt. He’s an amazing man. He defended me. He’s supported me. It’s all going to be alright. I push inside, sighing in the lush blast of air conditioning, and find Matt leant against the kitchen counter, drinking a glass of the non-alcoholic punch. It’s neon pink and filled with edible glitter that catches the light as he tips it down his throat. I point to it, smiling. ‘Careful, that stuff is called emasculation potion. If you finish the glass, your penis shrivels up.’
I wait for a laugh to break the tension, but he gulps it to the bottom, and when he’s done, the look he gives me over his stork cup makes my blood stop.
‘I can’t believe you, ,’ he says. ‘What the actual hell is wrong with you?’
‘I can explain. I thought . . .’ He holds up his hand to stop me.
‘Are you the most selfish person alive? Seriously? Who the hell have I married? Who the hell am I having a baby with?’
I realise then the show of solidarity outside was a facade. An exercise in saving face. I’m not forgiven. ‘Matt!’
Mum rushes into the room with a pile full of empty cups in her arms. ‘? Darling? Is everything OK? Are you too hot? Should I call 111, just in case? You look OK, but still . . .’
We stand, suspended, in our fight, both of us adjusting our posture like we’re teenagers trying to hide we’re drunk. ‘Thanks Jane,’ Matt says. ‘But is fine. I’ll look after her. We actually need to discuss something very important and private that’s just come up. I know it’s your house, but do you mind giving us some space?’
Her eyes go straight to me, wanting to protect her baby. ‘Is everything alright ?’
‘We’re fine,’ I lie. ‘But, Matt’s right. We need to talk. Can you give us an hour?’
There’s one good thing I can say about my mother and that is she’s always been able to cartwheel with the punches. ‘Of course,’ she says, like it’s a totally usual request to be evicted from your own home. ‘I need a breather after all that. I’ll go treat myself to an iced coffee before addressing the clean-up. Charlotte promised she’d do it, but she’s gone all funny. I think.’
We’re interrupted by shouting upstairs. ‘You know what? I’m just going to head off. Leave the kids to it.’
She grabs her handbag and is out within seconds, checking in with her eyes one last time. There’s more shouting upstairs. What the hell is going on? Why does the world keep ending? Why has everything gone berserk?
‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing upwards where the shouts are getting increasingly shrill.
‘I don’t care.’
‘Matt, please . . . I didn’t know she was coming.’
‘Until when? Did it surprise you when she walked through the door?’
I wonder about whether to lie and, sensing it, he shakes his head. ‘She messaged me early this morning saying Charlotte had invited her,’ I admit.
‘And, let me guess, you said, very clearly, “ it ’ s not appropriate for you to come because you tried to ruin my marriage ’’?’
‘No . . .’
‘Show me! Show me what you messaged her. Where’s your phone?’
‘I’m not showing you my phone!’
‘If you wrote something innocent back, you wouldn’t mind.’
‘You can’t go through my phone. That’s, like . . . abuse.’
‘Oh my God.’ He crushes his stork cup with his fist, truly exasperated. ‘Are you actually? Fucking hell, . Are you literally the victim of everything? I can’t . . . I need . . . I can’t talk to you right now. Fucking hell . . . Fucking actual hell.’
‘Matt, come on. You have to trust me. I . . . I’m having your baby.’
‘No, I have to stay with you because you’re having my baby.’
The words slap me with their significance. ‘What did you just say?’
He thumps the counter, runs his hands through his hair, and looks mildly deranged. I clutch my tummy and have to perch on a stool, such is the fear of what he’s just said. It took a lot to get him to trust me and forgive me, to get us here. To where I so desperately wanted.
‘I actually don’t think I can talk right now after all,’ he says, leaning over on the counter. ‘I need to calm down. You know I came here as a surprise, right? I know the sex of our baby. I rang the hospital to talk me through the twenty-week scan. I know you want to know. Charlotte has this firework thing all set up . . . After everything you did, I’m still trying to be so nice to you, and . . . fuck . . . have you just used me as a sperm donor or something?’
‘What! No. Matt, I love you.’ I start crying again. He can’t be saying these things. This moment can’t be my life, surely? He knows the sex of our baby ? Despite everything that’s happening right now, I’m desperate to know. I’ve been gagging to know for so long. He knows me so well and I’m ruining it. Ruining it when I’m weeks away from giving birth and us having to look after this thing forever.
‘If you did you wouldn’t have let her come.’
‘I . . . I just got confused . . .’
‘No. Stop it. I’m going to get too angry if you try and this right now. I need to walk and sort my head out.’
‘It’s a million degrees outside.’
‘I don’t care. I need to just . . . not be here with you.’
He pushes outside before I can get myself off the stool, punching the balloon arch on his way out. I waddle after him desperately, but I’m only hit with a blast of heat that’s rushed through the entrance as the door shuts behind him. My hand goes to my mouth, my heart hurting. What have I just done? It’s too big. Too much. My brain physically hurts in my skull as it tries to comprehend the possible fall-out of all of this. I need the father of my baby. I need my husband, holding my hand as I give birth. I need us to be a family together. That’s what I chose, and it wasn’t without a cost. I can’t lose it. I . . .
. . . but my spiral’s interrupted by even more shouting upstairs.