Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
I arrived home, shook off my shoes and went in search of Angus and Mum. I found them playing chess in the living room adjacent to the kitchen, a plate of Christmas sugar cookies in front of them.
Bugs, our favourite bunny, was draped around Angus’s neck, Rupert lounged in the corner on a cushion –my favourite Designers Guild emerald-green velvet fringe cushion (yeah, I was asking for trouble – and yes, have a penchant for green and velvet) – and Cleo was swinging on a nearby fly-screen in search of an elusive fly. I glanced over at the fish swimming in their tank. At least they were behaving themselves.
I clapped. ‘Cleopatra!’
All eyes turned to me, startled. Cleo dropped to the floor and slunk into the pantry.
‘Thanks for picking Angus up from school today, Mum.’ I bent over Angus and kissed the top of his head. ‘How was your day, darling?’
‘Okay,’ he replied vaguely, before taking Mum’s queen with his bishop .
‘More to the point, how was your day?’ Mum asked, standing to hug me. ‘Two days on the job. All good?’
‘I guess.’
‘Well, you certainly look glamorous.’ Glamorous? Only a mother would say that. She held up the plate. ‘Candy cane or Christmas tree?’
‘Yum.’ I took a cane-shaped biscuit with red icing and white sprinkles. ‘But a bit early, don’t you think?’
‘Less than five weeks, Katie, and it’s never too early for festive treats.’
Inwardly, I groaned. There was so much to do before then.
‘When are we putting up the tree?’ Angus asked.
I turned to him. ‘Excellent question, darling. Maybe tomorrow.’
Angus beamed.
It was almost six o’clock. ‘Any sign of Lexi?’ She played netball Friday afternoons but was usually home by now.
Mum shook her head and peered back at the chessboard, tutting. ‘I’m as confused as a goat on Astroturf.’
Poor woman. A king and three motley pawns were not going to win the game for her.
Lexi didn’t answer her mobile, so I texted:
Where are you?
In the kitchen, I opened a bottle of Sauv Blanc and poured a couple of glasses. I handed one to Mum and waved a takeaway menu. ‘Pizza?’
‘Sure.’ Robyn wafted through the laundry door at the side of the kitchen. Immediately, she eyed my wine. ‘I’ll have one of those, too.’
I shrugged and poured her half a glass. Who was I to be the pregnancy police with my single, soon-to-be-a-mother, sister ?
As well as being a pregnant social influencer, Robyn’s a tad neurotic. I guess I’d be anxious, too, if I was facing parenthood alone. But I’m here for her. I go to her antenatal classes, I’m her birth partner (God help us both), and I listen to her with sisterly interest when she chatters incessantly about her Insta posts and likes.
In recent months I’d shot:
Beach scenes – Robyn glowing in full sun, (yes, SPF 50 applied), Robyn smiling through high winds, pounding surf, and torrential rain, most complete with seagulls and pelicans.
Fashion – Robyn dressed in body-hugging knits and huge flowing caftans (bell-shaped sleeves, the whole bit) in swirling tutti-frutti colours, a flattering cross-section of ALL maternity fashion, most showing her growing baby bump.
Hair – platinum updo, sleek auburn bob, shaggy blonde wet-beach, don’t-care hair. (All wigs.)
Miscellaneous. Too extensive to list.
‘How was your day, Robyn?’ Robyn said loudly as I handed her a drink. ‘Thanks for asking, family.’
‘Give me half a chance,’ I replied. ‘I’ve only just arrived home.’
She sipped her drink. Grimaced. ‘Yuck.’ She set the glass down on the kitchen bench. ‘I’ll tell you: I was up painting the baby’s shoebox until three this morning. Three! It’s now fluorescent lime.’
My eyebrows raised. ‘Lime! I thought you were going for canary?’
‘Thank you, I was. But because you were so mean about it, I switched colours. ’
‘Lime?’
‘I know. It’s awful.’ Robyn’s eyes welled with tears.
Mum wrapped her arms around Robyn. ‘I’m sure it’s lovely.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s foul! A sickly apple green. Definitely not Insta perfect.’ She turned to me. ‘All your fault.’
‘What did I do?’
Mum raised a warning finger at me. ‘Katie, why don’t you like canaries?’
Robyn eased herself into a chair at the kitchen nook. ‘I wasted all my time painting and now there are baby things all over the apartment.’ She took a breath. ‘I can’t breathe. The tabloids are saying Kylie Jenner is pregnant – again! Another yummy mummy social media influencer to compete with.’
Compete? I almost choked on my wine.
‘It’s hard enough being pregnant without seeing celebrities strutting around in their third trimester wearing Jimmy Choos… let alone bikinis two weeks after their baby’s birth.’
‘Scrummy mummies?’
‘Exactly. Why can’t there be more women like me who eat pizza and chocolate cake?’
‘Slummy mummies?’
‘Shut up.’ Robyn closed her eyes and rubbed her stomach.
I set my glass down on the bench. ‘You can talk. What about your Insta posts showcasing your perfect pregnancy? Hashtag LivingMyBestLife. Hashtag Blessed.’ My neck ached and I rolled it from side to side while breathing deeply. ‘Your latest post…’
She glared at me. ‘What about it?’
‘Do you think it’s wise advertising baby formula before you’ve actually given birth?’
Robyn waved me away. ‘I wasn’t advertising a brand. I was simply putting it out to the universe that I’m open to the idea of a formula-sponsored post or two. I need the money.’ She clutched her stomach and yelped. ‘I’m having the baby. ’
I groaned. ‘You’re not having the baby.’
‘How would you know? It’d be better to have it now than on Christmas Day.’
‘You’re not due until after New Year,’ Mum soothed.
‘At least then I wouldn’t have women in shopping centres coming up and touching my stomach,’ Robyn continued, as if Mum hadn’t spoken. ‘They’re freaking me out. I was walking through the cosmetics department and three women attacked me, spraying perfume, patting my stomach. Invading my personal space. Why can’t they leave me alone?’
‘Hang on. You’re the one putting yourself out there for the world to see and comment, like with the baby formula.’
Robyn glared at me. ‘Sometimes I turn off the comments section. Anyway, I was so overcome with fumes and panic, I almost fainted.’
‘Poor love,’ Mum said.
‘But I couldn’t faint. I had to pull myself together and head to the baby department to buy extra coat hangers. I don’t have enough baby coat hangers.’
Robyn’s apartment is full of baby coat hangers.