Gigantic Baby
Saturday morning, and I’m pushing the biro back and forth on the one hundred and eighty-fifth tally line.
Couples don’t have sex on weekdays because they’re too busy adulting, right?
I’m pretty sure if we were deserted on an island, we’d sort this pickle out, but we live in London.
There is rent to pay, books to mark, an Instagram feed to scroll through, and Making a Murderer to watch.
Weekends are the windows of opportunity for intimacy, but they seem to fly by.
Before I know it, it’s Sunday night, and I’m flapping around the flat, preparing stuff for work.
There simply isn’t time to be seductive.
I doubt this weekend will be any different.
Rebecca is coming over to do Maid of Honour stuff.
Josh is golfing all day. This evening is the stepmother’s birthday dinner.
Back-to-back football is on tomorrow, so that’s where Josh will be.
I’ll be spending the day attempting to design a virtual wedding invitation.
God help us. At least when they’re sent out, that will be one less thing on the to-do list. I have given Josh one job, and that is to sort the wedding band.
He’s been to Glastonbury a couple of times, so he knows better than I do about that stuff.
The rest of the list I’ll sort. This suits me fine – we are most productive when I do it myself.
Josh walks in fresh out of the shower. He rubs the towel over his hair, and his willy dances about.
I’ve seen two willies in my life. The first one was when I was 17, and I laughed at it.
It was Rebecca’s fault. Throughout school, Rebecca and I would listen from a distance as the girls obsessively talked about their boyfriends.
They had stories about going to first, second and third base, all of which sounded disgusting and terrifying back then.
He licked what?! We avoided all of that, creating men on The Sims rather than meeting real ones.
But then, Rebecca lost her virginity and told me that the ball sack looked like Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars.
A few weeks later, feeling left behind, I attempted to lose my virginity too, but when Hugo pulled his boxers down, all I saw was the Bloated One.
I couldn’t stop laughing. Hugo shouted at me, saying I was frigid and immature, and then ordered me to leave his parents’ games room. So that was Willy One.
Willy Two belongs to Josh, and he took my virginity with it.
On the fourth Saturday after he called me his girlfriend, we went to Pizza Express and shared a Sloppy Giuseppe and then went back to his room in student halls.
As he was setting up the music, I got into bed with my clothes on.
Flo Rida began to play. He joined me under the covers and put his spicy beef-flavoured tongue in my mouth.
I was very aware that his boner, which was digging into my stomach, would soon be digging elsewhere.
He took down my jeans, so I took down his.
A Durex condom appeared in his hand. He must have sensed my nerves because he asked if I was sure I wanted to do it.
I wasn’t sure. I was scared of doing something wrong.
But I gave him the go-ahead. I needed to lose my virginity, and I wanted to lose it with Josh.
He told me it would be fine, then made a bad joke about pizza, and then said he loved me.
I told him I loved him back. And then it happened.
It was fast, painless and surprisingly uneventful.
The doorbell goes.
‘Who’s that?’ Josh asks.
‘Rebecca . . .’ I sigh. He never listens. ‘Remember, we’re doing wedding planning stuff? Like the hen party and flowers.’
‘Wasn’t her hen party rubbish? Didn’t you end up painting mugs or something?’
‘I’m going to manage her,’ I say. Josh doesn’t look convinced. We both know that Rebecca wears the trousers in our friendship. I’m about to leave the bedroom when I ask, ‘What will you do for your stag do?’
‘Not sure. Pete’s got it all in hand,’ he says.
‘Pete?’
‘Yeah, he’s in charge of the stag.’
‘Pete’s in charge of the stag?’ I repeat back. I can see it now . . . a seedy strip club with Pete cackling whilst flinging his cash at some poor semi-naked woman.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll manage him,’ Josh says, as if reading my mind.
Rebecca stands at the door looking frazzled with a bag of baby equipment and her colossal-sized baby, Benson, in his pram. He’s the biggest-smallest human in the world.
‘Say hello to Amy, Benny,’ she says. I don’t know what has happened to my longest, oldest friend, but she is the most mummy-mum-mum I have ever met.
She’s always been the more maternal one, but since she had Benson it’s been like hanging out with a children’s TV presenter.
She pushes Benson through the doorway and down the hall.
‘Weeeeeee,’ she squeals as she goes, before parking him next to the sofa. She then proceeds to ask him again and again if that was fun. He does not reply, obviously, just kicks furiously as if he’s trying to escape.
‘So, this hen party,’ I say, trying to get her attention.
‘Hen party, Benny. What noise does a hen make? Cluck. Cluck. Cluck. Cluck.’ She mimics chicken wings with her arms. She finally looks up at me and turns her voice back to normal.
‘Yes, hen party. Sorry. What are we talking? Magic Mike? Drinking from penis straws?’ We both begin giggling, knowing that neither one of us would know what to do with a thrusting man in Speedos or penis merchandise.
‘There is this thing I saw in Time Out where you can have afternoon tea on a bus. That looks fun,’ I say. Josh comes into the kitchen dressed in his golf wear. He looks like a 77-year-old. He sees Benson and jumps out of his skin.
‘He’s massive,’ he blurts out, looking at me alarmed. I try not to laugh.
‘He’s within average,’ Rebecca says defensively and then goes back to her baby voice. ‘Is Uncle Joshy body shaming you?’
‘Well, I’m off to play golf,’ he says, miming a golf swing in the middle of the kitchen.
‘Don’t you think you should be planning your wedding, considering it is seven weeks away?’ Rebecca says, but Josh is not listening to her. ‘Josh? Josh?’ He keeps swinging the invisible club.
‘Josh,’ I shout. He stops.
‘Sorry, did you say something?’ He grins mockingly. Rebecca shakes her head in the way that women do when men are being boyish. ‘Don’t worry, Bex. Wedding stuff is all in hand.’
‘Rebecca,’ Rebecca corrects him tightly.
‘Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I’m off. When’s the big dinner party again?’ he asks me.
‘Seven p.m. Please don’t be late.’
‘Me? I’m never late.’
Josh waves at a vacant Benson as he leaves the kitchen. When the front door shuts, Benson lets out a moan and pushes his belly out like something is going to burst from it. (Perhaps a normal-sized baby?)
‘Can I ask you something?’ Rebecca leans in. Before I can say yes or no, she is already asking it. ‘Are you rushing this wedding because of . . .’ She points to my stomach and raises her eyebrows.
‘I’m getting fat?’
‘No, Amy, because you may be pregnant.’
I panic. ‘Do I look pregnant?’
‘No.’ Rebecca rolls her eyes. ‘I just assumed, because it seemed a more likely reason than the demented grandad one.’
Oh, Rebecca, pregnancy would be a miracle, because we will need sexual intercourse for that to happen .
. . I wanted to say, but I don’t because that would open a whole can of worms, which I can’t do with Rebecca.
Her opinion about my sex life – or lack of it – is not going to help the situation.
It’s not like she’s a sex therapist, so there’s not much she can say or do that will help.
And honestly, I don’t want her to know that my fiancé doesn’t want to have sex with me.
Especially because I am (unfortunately) very aware of Tim’s ferocious bedroom antics.
So instead, I say, ‘No, Rebecca, I’m not pregnant. ’
‘So, the demented grandad story is real?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘That’s—’
‘Ridiculous, I know.’
‘Oh well, Benny, you’ll have to keep waiting for a friend. Won’t you? Won’t you?’ He kicks his chunky legs and the whole pram shakes violently. She suddenly twists her head at me. ‘You’re still going to have kids, right?’
I force a smile. ‘That’s the plan.’
‘Good. You can’t leave me in motherhood alone.’
‘Ha.’
‘Oh!’ she yelps. ‘Can you have one this year?’
‘Ha. Maybe not this year . . .’
‘You better not let Josh’s golf dictate your family plans . . .’
‘Josh wants a family. That’s one of the main reasons we want to move out of London.’
‘Yes, the dream cottage life, I know,’ she says dismissively. Have I banged on about it that much? ‘Now, are you going to show me this dress?’
I go to my room and pull the old cardboard box down from the top shelf of the wardrobe.
I dust off the lid and open it. The dress seems a little less white than I remembered.
Still, that can be sorted by the dry cleaners.
I put it on, buttoning it up at the back as far as I can.
I’m the shape and size Mum was, so it fits me well .
. . though perhaps slightly on the tight side.
The wide taffeta skirt hides my stubby legs, pinches in at the waist and has a heart-shaped neckline that enhances the good stuff.
I’ll admit it smells a little like one of those second-hand clothes stores in Camden, and the puffed-out sleeves are a bit extra, but that’s the charm of wearing vintage.
I turn one way in the mirror and spot the tear in the sleeve that I had forgotten about. I can get that fixed.
You have a postcard image in your mind when you do your first wedding dress reveal.
Perhaps a posh shop on the high street with sofas and pink carpets, and all the women in your life sobbing with pride at the sight of you.
But when I go into my living room to reveal my dress to Rebecca, I find Benson having a suck on her nipple.
It takes her a second to concentrate on me.
The only way to describe her face is – sceptical.
‘It’s quite . . . yellowish,’ she says.
‘Because it’s vintage,’ I explain.
‘Hmm.’ The noise of the suckling takes over. ‘Maybe a dry cleaner can sort it out.’
‘That is what I was thinking, and they can fix this hole too.’ I turn and point to the sleeve.
‘Hmm . . .’
‘You hate it, don’t you?’
‘I never said that.’ Suckling . . . suckling . . . suckling. ‘It’s sweet you’re wearing your mum’s dress.’
‘But?’
‘No, but. But . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘You deserve a new dress for your wedding day.’ Benson suddenly detaches himself from the boob and begins wailing, which turns Rebecca back into a Tweenie. ‘Oh, Benny . . . Oh, Benny . . . Oh, Benny.’
I have to shout over Benson’s wails. ‘I don’t want a new dress!’
Rebecca doesn’t hear me. ‘Oh, Benny. Benny. Come on now . . .’
‘I’m going to take this off then,’ I shout again, then shuffle out of the living room. As I go past Fifi’s door, it swings open, and my mysterious flatmate appears with one eye open and matted black hair. She’s never been a morning person.
‘Who’s making that baby noise?’ she croaks.
‘Benson, the baby,’ I reply. She scans me up and down and frowns.
‘What’s with the fairy princess dress?’
‘It’s my wedding dress. Well, it’s my mum’s . . .’
‘Didn’t your parents, like, divorce?’
‘Well, yeah, but it wasn’t because of the dress.’
‘Mmm . . .’ She gives me one last look over and then shuts her bedroom door.