Chapter 4
Weekday mornings generally followed the same routine. After yet another night of torturous tossing and turning, I heaved myself out of bed at seven and attempted a supersonic shower with a broken showerhead that needed one hand holding it in position before being interrupted by Isla banging on the bathroom door needing a wee. Then began the chaos of getting two kids ready for school. Every morning I made the same promise to myself as I slurped a mouthful of scalding then somehow, seconds later, cold coffee, packed and then repacked lunch boxes due to Isla suddenly deciding she hated whatever she’d loved the day before, cajoled her into eating breakfast while preventing Finn from eating everything, located lost shoes, brushed teeth, settled arguments and wiped Isla’s ever-ready tears: tomorrow, it would be different. I’d get organised the night before, go to sleep at a decent time, get up earlier. Then I’d have time to eat more than Isla’s toast crusts, and maybe even dry my hair properly so it didn’t explode into frizz.
But without fail, by the time evening arrived it was all I could do to get the kids into bed before I either taught another class, caught up with messages and other admin or collapsed onto the sofa with a bar of chocolate.
My personal life, like my house and my hair, was a mess. The problem was, I didn’t have the time, energy or brains to figure out what to do about it.
We finally set off on the twenty-minute walk through trees and fields that was yet another reason why I was so grateful to live on the edge of a country park.
‘Can I take this in for the nature table?’ Finn asked, stopping to pick up a large snail shell.
I hesitated, knowing what would come next.
‘Please, Mum. It’s perfect, see?’
It was exquisite. That wasn’t the problem.
‘Go on, then.’
‘Can I take this?’ Isla asked, bending down and grabbing something for herself.
‘No!’ Finn smacked his forehead with one hand. ‘The nature table is for interesting finds. What’s interesting about half a leaf?’
‘Well, what about this?’ She immediately dropped the leaf and picked up a twig.
‘It’s a broken stick! That’s rubbish.’
Isla stopped dead on the footpath, the corners of her mouth turning down in an expression I’d grown to dread in recent weeks. ‘Mummy, Finn said my interesting find was rubbish! It’s not fair because he always finds the good things and now I don’t have anything for the nature table.’
‘That’s stupid!’ Finn exclaimed, while I was still taking a breath in preparation for defusing the situation before it exploded into a full-on tantrum. ‘The nature table isn’t even in your classroom so no one cares if you bring anything in or not.’
‘I’m not stupid!’ Isla wailed, her voice rising to a shriek. ‘And it’s not fair! I never have an interesting find.’
‘Woah!’ I knelt on the sandy path so that my eyes could meet hers, taking two tiny flapping hands in mine and gently stilling them. I hadn’t expected my training as an antenatal educator to come in quite so handy as a mum, but my skills in calming people down had been invaluable with Isla recently. ‘We’ve got a whole stretch of path before we get to school. Let’s keep the stick for now but see if we can find something even better.’
I held my breath as her lip began to wobble, but a few more reassurances, a hug and a mumbled half-apology from Finn and we were ready to keep going. As I would have predicted, by the time we reached the school gates and she spotted her best friends in the playground, Isla shoved the dandelion, rough pebble and mangled feather she’d collected at me and, after a long hug, hurried to join them, the drama already forgotten.
‘She’s getting worse.’ Finn shot me a glance that suggested if I was a half-decent mum, I’d be able to fix it. I held back the bone-deep sigh that would confirm I agreed with both his words and the look.
‘Today was only a wobble, and she’s fine now.’
‘She doesn’t even care about the nature table. No one from the other classes brings stuff in. I don’t get why she’s started kicking off all the time.’
Neither do I, I thought, once we’d fist-bumped goodbye – our compromise since he’d decided he was too old for a hug. Even worse, I fretted as I hurried home, this was yet one more problem I had no idea how to handle.
I tried to put my worries to one side once I got back and started preparing for work. Dwelling on my failures as a mother wasn’t helpful when I was about to teach other people the fundamentals of parenting.
Tuesdays were the flip side to the Bloomer sessions. Like Mondays, we spent time in the morning looking at childbirth, with topics ranging from hypnobirthing techniques to caesarean sections. After lunch we moved on to life with a baby, including the basics like feeding and what to do when your newborn is screaming so loudly you can’t think. There were some fundamental differences between the Bloomers and my other clients – for example, the tendency to use TikTok as their primary information source. The private classes also didn’t include what my Monday mums called ‘fun time’, the couple of hours when they could simply enjoy being teenagers with mini spa sessions, crafting or music. However, I’d learned over the years that pregnancy is the great leveller. No matter their age or circumstances, what just about every new mum needs most is a confidence boost, a comfy bra and, above all, other women to hand them a hot drink and cuddle their fractious baby while providing some much-needed perspective.
I enjoyed both types of session for different reasons, but the main motivation for carrying on with the private clients was that, after a couple of fluke referrals, I’d got a reputation for being the go-to antenatal educator amongst the region’s wealthier circles, and this meant people were now prepared to pay a serious amount of money for what Nicky and I branded ‘bespoke and discreet sessions’. These could be one-on-one, or in small groups of ‘similar minded’ people – i.e. similarly rich – usually in person – I had one couple arrive by helicopter – or occasionally online. Men were welcome, although they often dropped out or had to leave due to ‘more important’ commitments. I did draw the line at nannies or other professionals attending, after a bizarre session where a baby psychic tagged along.
Today I had four couples booked in for the first of five group sessions. It was a reasonably priced course, with clients more likely to arrive in an Audi than be chauffeur-driven. I spent an hour setting up the cabin, accepted a lunch delivery from a local caterer and checked that everything else was ready. Unfortunately, due to the delay with Isla, I didn’t have as much time as usual to then go and tidy myself up. I wore my standard uniform of cotton dungarees over a pretty T-shirt, but only noticed as the first car was pulling up that I had a smear of chocolate spread across my chest, and I’d also had no time to tame my curls or apply the light make-up that I saved for my fancier clients to avoid appearing like the exhausted wreck I felt.
I settled in Jemima, a thirty-something, and Chris, her husband, who assured me, while offering a knuckle-crunching handshake, that having four older children meant he was here for moral support only. Another couple and a single mum who’d brought her friend as a birth partner also arrived. That left only one more, and I did wonder if I might find a chance to sneak into the bathroom to straighten myself out, but while I was still sorting drinks and listening to Chris’s blow-by-blow account of his second wife’s forty-three-hour labour, the final mum appeared at the cabin door.
‘Is this the bespoke, exclusive antenatal class?’ she asked, frowning while cradling the pert bump exposed beneath her cropped tank top.
‘It is the antenatal class, yes.’ I smiled, hoping to offer some reassurance, but her scowl deepened as she marched in and took a seat on one of the sofas. I couldn’t help thinking that she looked vaguely familiar, but it was only when Jemima introduced herself, causing this new attendee to force a smile, that it hit me who she was.
I’d not seen this woman for years, and had hoped never to see her again.
When her birth partner strolled in, it only added to the tidal wave of horror surging through my guts.
‘Liz,’ Brayden, my ex-husband, said with the smile that I’d once found charming, his grey-green eyes scanning the rest of the room.
For the best part of a minute my brain froze. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice as Brayden sat down beside his partner and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as if this were the most natural, normal thing in the world.
It was only when Claudia, the single mother, asked where the bathroom was that I snapped back into action. Just in time to hear Brayden telling Chris about how he was also a veteran dad, having been through this ‘malarkey’ twice before.
Once before, a bitter voice inside my head countered. Brayden had missed Isla’s birth due to being at what he’d claimed to be a conference. That had been my fault, of course, for having the audacity to go into labour nine days early. As an expert, I should have foreseen this and warned him not to book himself into a hotel with another woman and a pot of edible body paint, his phone switched to silent.
‘Would you both like a drink before we get started?’ I asked Brayden, leading him over to the refreshments table while doing a sterling job of keeping my smouldering shock in check.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I snapped, smile intact, as I faced the table.
He shrugged, choosing a coffee pod and sticking it into the machine. ‘We wanted the best classes for our baby. You should be flattered that, after detailed research, we chose this one.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
He waited until his mug was full before offering a puzzled glance. ‘You must have seen the enrolment forms.’
I quickly ran through my mental list of the class members, all of whom had enrolled via my website. Brayden and Sarah had definitely not been on there.
‘Liz, please tell me this isn’t going to be a problem. We’re both professionals here.’
Before I could query the professional link between him getting lucky with a niche cycling app and my antenatal classes, Sarah suddenly appeared by the table, arms snaking around Brayden’s neck as she rested her head on his shoulder. The scowl was now replaced by a smirk, but there was a definite hint of fear behind her eyes. After all, who knew what the deranged ex might do when confronted by her upgrade?
‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you might want to sort that stain on your breast,’ she whispered, pulling an ‘oopsie’ face as if we were pals.
‘Green tea.’ I handed her the drink she’d requested, did my best to stuff my stunned outrage behind a smile and got on with providing the group with a brief introduction to the course.
‘Right, in a moment you’ll have a chance to have a think about what you hope to get from these sessions – after all, it is a bespoke course.’ I nodded at Sarah, still mentally trying to remember the names she must have used on the form. ‘But before then, I’d love it if you could introduce yourselves.’
Jemima and Chris went first, Chris again using it as an opportunity to showcase his expertise in gruesome childbirth ordeals that not one of my hundreds of previous clients had had the misfortune to experience. Claudia happily filled us in on how she’d deliberately got pregnant via a one-night stand with a neurosurgeon. ‘I mean, I’d already tried a maths professor and a lawyer. If you’re choosing your baby-daddy on a dating app, might as well pick someone smart as well as hot, am I right?’
The other couple seemed remarkably unfazed by all this, but then revealed themselves to be who Nicky and I referred privately to as the ‘naturals’ of the group. There was usually one couple. While I would fully endorse a birth free from medical intervention where safe to do so, and in fact had Isla in a birthing pool in my living room, this couple informed us that, alongside refusing any involvement from a qualified health professional, they were also rejecting registering the birth, structured education or food that they hadn’t grown or foraged themselves.
‘Are you also rejecting Child Benefit and paid maternity leave?’ Chris asked.
‘We won’t be accepting a financial sedative designed to lull us into overlooking institutional corruption, no,’ Gordon, the dad, declared.
‘Well.’ His partner, Astrid, shifted position on the beanbag they were sharing. ‘We’ll maybe see how much the benefits are, first. We’re self-sustaining so maternity leave isn’t an issue.’
Brayden and Sarah went last.
Or, should I say, Brayve and Silva, as Silva kindly spelled out when inviting us to follow her on social media?
‘They’re unusual names.’ Claudia looked impressed. ‘Were your parents free spirits like Gordon and Astrid?’
I looked at Brayden, daring him to go along with this farce.
‘We actually took the initiative during a personal rebrand,’ Silva said, while Brayden inspected the plain white ceiling. ‘Sometimes the only way forward is to dissociate from the past and embrace our true selves.’
‘Wow, that’s awesome.’ Gordon offered Brayden – Brayve – a high-five, which, after a moment’s hesitation, he reciprocated.
‘And how did your children react to your new identity?’ I asked with a brittle smile, before I could stop myself. Brayden’s true self currently saw his children one day a fortnight for fast food and a play at the park.
‘Ooh, do your kids have really cool names, too?’ Claudia said.
‘Unfortunately not,’ Brayden said, as if he hadn’t chosen the name Finn himself. ‘They were conceived prior to the rebrand.’
Okay, I thought, while trying not to gag at the reminder that this man and I had ever slept together. He’s not going to share that we were married. That’s useful to know.
‘Anyway,’ Silva snapped, as if equally revolted by her partner’s choice of words, ‘I’m thirty-two weeks and four days pregnant with our darling daughter, and we’ll be keeping our followers up to date, so please let Brayve know if you aren’t happy with images or quotes being shared on Insta.’
‘Um, no,’ I interrupted. ‘These classes are confidential, as stated in the terms and conditions on the form. You can’t take images or mention other clients online.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Claudia said, smoothing out her slick ponytail. ‘As long as I can check the images first.’
‘It’s in the terms and conditions,’ I repeated, increasingly aware of the migraine now throbbing at the back of my head.
‘But selfies are okay?’ Silva asked. ‘And general comments? I mean, this is all publicity for your little business, Liz. I can’t see why you’d object.’
I didn’t bother stating that I didn’t need publicity, or explaining the importance of client privacy. I took the kind of deep breath that got labouring women through contractions, wiped pointlessly at my chocolate-stained dungarees and got on with educating some people about the realities of birth and parenting, while trying to pretend the next four hours weren’t one of my actual nightmares come true.
To be fair, the group seemed to bond okay with each other, which always made things easier, and Chris mostly listened when Claudia’s birth partner asked him to ‘leave the horrible stories in the past where they belong’. It would have been a reasonably enjoyable class, if it weren’t for ‘Brayve’s’ subtle references to his own experiences, all of which included digs at his ex-wife.
‘Are we going to be discussing when to go into hospital? My ex insisted upon going after the first couple of twinges. We had to traipse all the way home again and come back later, which I’m sure contributed to her failure to progress.’
‘We tend not to use that term these days. It’s not especially helpful,’ I said, quietly, while resisting the urge to remind Brayden that he was the one panicking the second my contractions started, so I let him drive us in just to stop him freaking out.
‘Failure to progress?’ Brayden looked surprised. ‘That’s what the doctors wrote on the notes. No point sugar-coating it, unless you’re claiming a quick, easy birth is somehow down to how strong or capable the mother is.’