Charlotte
It’s all happening. Perfect. Perfect. Exactly how I pictured it. Exactly what the four of us need. I’d scheduled in 45 minutes for us to have a cup of tea and a catch-up and we’re right on time.
‘Woah,’ Lauren says, craning her neck around as she sips from her cup of tea. ‘I don’t know whether to be blown away by this house’s architecture, or the fact ’s managed to craft an actual pinata into a vulva. Or both.’
They all burst into hysterics while I pretend to be annoyed.
‘Personally,’ Steffi says, her iced coffee in one hand, her phone glued to the other. ‘I feel the paper-maché vulva really sets off the modern minimalism.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you get your class to help?’
‘Not with the vulva, no.’
‘Why not?’ Nicki asks. She’s seated lower down than us, bobbing on a yoga ball. ‘Surely we should be teaching kids the right terms for body parts?’
‘What’s inside the vulva?’ Lauren stands up to catch Woody who’s crawling into what I’ve already warned her is the ‘danger zone’. I’ve put red tape up, to let mothers know which parts of the house have been baby proofed, but, sadly, Woody isn’t obeying the tape.
‘Sweets . . .’ I say slowly, waiting for the joke.
‘Well, maybe you should stuff it with blood and tampons and clots so we can be educated.’ I make a giant eww face and Lauren and the others laugh warmly at me.
‘And penises!’ Steffi adds. We all giggle childishly, apart from Nicki who rolls her eyes and says, ‘Trust you to make it about penises, Steffi.’
There’s a beat as her comment lands sourly. If either Lauren or I had said it, we all would’ve laughed, but from Nicki’s tongue, it’s as loaded as the vulva pinata. Nicki, realising this, rushes to make amends. ‘I mean, I still remember the props you brought to my hen do, that’s all,’ she adds, and Lauren and I share a look of relief.
Steffi nods and accepts the olive branch. ‘Nicki, you were all against the neon blow-up cock at first,’ she says, ‘and then, if I remember correctly, you wouldn’t let go of it all night. Didn’t you end up sleeping with it in your hotel bed like it was a teddy bear?’ We laugh harder, to overshadow the awkward.
‘It was comfier than those shit Premier Inn pillows,’ Nicki protests. ‘I only slept with it for ergonomic reasons.’
Lauren splutters at the term ‘ergonomic reasons’ and dribbles tea down her dress. Woody’s delighted at this and starts belly laughing so hard I want to film it for a viral video. His joy is so contagious and we all piss ourselves for at least five minutes, until Steffi uses the opportunity to refresh her phone and Nicki notices and rolls her eyes. Why can’t they stay in this present moment? It’s so lovely. And it’s on time! People think I can’t relax but I totally can as long as it’s in my schedule. Which it is now, so I’m not even thinking about what times the various foods need to come out of the fridge, or to check on Seth and ensure they’re running to schedule too, or worry about people arriving early . . . no. I’m allowed to go with the flow for another twelve minutes and live in this precious moment, laughing with my best friends. Scheduled fun is still fun. It took a while to convince Seth that scheduled sex was still sex, and actually better sex, because I wasn’t all tense and tight because the sex was getting in the way of whatever’s on my schedule. Until it got heartbreakingly painful, scheduling sex on ovulation days was, like, my most favourite foreplay ever. The timetabling! The body temperature checks! The mucus testing! There were graphs! There were best positions to try! Best times of day! God, it was great until none of it worked.
Woody crawls around, mouth wide open in genuine joy at his new playground. He stops at Nicki’s ball and tries to stand up against it. She hauls him up for a cuddle and he buries into her and her giant bump, while we all aww.
‘He’s so adorable,’ Nicki says, stroking his back. ‘I hope my baby’s as objectively cute as Woody.’
I examine myself watching my pregnant friend hold my other friend’s child, feeling only joy and serenity for them. Woody’s cute little laugh does not demolish my heart. Nicki’s bulbous figure doesn’t make me feel empty and pointless. In fact, I’m excited.
Steffi jumps up, pushing her phone into the pocket of her dress. ‘I just need to go to the loo,’ she says. ‘Umm, where is it? Is the wall made of glass there too? Will birds be able to see me wee?’
Nicki flinches a bit, defensive of her parents maybe. ‘It’s all glass, but it’s one-way in the bathrooms, I promise. It’s just through that door there.’
‘Where are your parents?’ Lauren asks, as Steffi climbs over us, taking her phone out before she reaches the door. Luckily Nicki’s facing the other way and doesn’t notice. When they arrived, Lauren whispered that something big’s going on at Steffi’s new agency but she doesn’t want it to eclipse today which I hugely appreciate. I’m super happy for Steffi but I do worry about her pinning her livelihood on an industry as mad as publishing, where nobody really understands how to make money. Honestly, whenever she and Lauren talk about it, I basically get hives.
Nicki carefully unclamps Woody’s hand, who’s decided to yank out tufts of her hair. ‘My Dad thought it would be useful to spend the day out on his new gravel bike,’ she sighs. ‘He left about 30 minutes ago, wearing such tight spandex I think there’s going to be several car crashes along the downs.’ She places Woody on the floor and rubs the part of her head he’d removed hair from. ‘And Mum panicked that we didn’t have a reed diffuser for the bathroom and thought this would ruin the day. She’s rushed into town to get one.’
‘I’m obsessed with your mum,’ I tell her.
‘Well, that’s good, because she’s obsessed with you.’
A part of me glows at that. I know I can be a lot sometimes and it feels wonderful when people not only get me, but appreciate me. I refuse to dial down my frequency for anyone, but my efficiency definitely triggers a lot of people, which is their problem, quite frankly.
‘Are they excited to be grandparents?’ I ask. ‘Do you think they’ll be helpful?’
Nicki contemplates this. ‘Dad? No way. Not until they’re old enough to cycle, anyway. We’re so lucky to be having babies now rather than when men were all useless, smoking cigars in the hospital waiting room, and giving the baby the occasional piggyback or whatever.’
Lauren waves her finger and gets down on her knees to stop Woody straying into the danger zone again. ‘Don’t be so sure about that. I’ve got horror stories from my NCT about their husbands. Absolute horrors.’
We all turn to her, keen for details. ‘Really?’
‘There’s one husband who hasn’t done one night wake, because he’s “not good on no sleep” and “needs to be well rested for work ”. He literally works in an office, in IT. He just sits there and types. It’s not like he’s a brain surgeon or pilot. Woody no . . . not over there... See this squeaky toy?’ She picks up a ball that squawks like a chicken. ‘And another went to the World Cup for ten days, even though his baby was in hospital with bronchiolitis.’
Nicki pulls a disgusted face. ‘But Tristan’s good, right? He’s always been such a star.’
Lauren tilts her head, and, if I didn’t know her so well, I wouldn’t have noticed the change in her face. The way it falls slightly, like a scaffold has collapsed behind it. ‘Yeah, he’s better than most. But it’s mad how you do find yourself falling into these gendered roles, no matter how hard you try not to.’ She tickles Woody’s cheek and he giggles while Nicki looks so horrified that she almost bounces off her ball. ‘Sorry,’ Lauren says, sensing she’s panicked her. ‘I just wish I’d known how pointless it is to fight it. Nobody told me. And I’m very tired. As if you can’t tell by the state of me.’
We’re quiet for a second. It’s the first time Lauren’s addressed the jarring change in her appearance. I leap from my chair in my earnestness to reassure her we haven’t noticed. ‘You look gorgeous, hon. Being a mum really suits you.’
‘Yes, Lauren. You’re stunning,’ Nicki adds. ‘You always have been.’
Lauren ignores us and rummages in her nappy bag to find something to placate Woody, who has started trying to breastfeed through her dress.
‘Yeah, yeah. Anyway . . . plenty of motherhood talk to come today . . .’ Her eyes glance briefly in my direction, and I know she’s trying to direct Nicki to be careful around me. I want to shake my head and jump up and down – desperate to tell them. But today is Nicki’s day and I can’t snatch her thunder and risk the wrath of fate.
Steffi wafts back in, phone still in her hand, looking sleek and svelte as always. She pats my head before arranging herself back on the sofa. ‘Umm, Nicki?’ she asks. ‘Why is there a sign in your bathroom in all caps that says “ NOBODY LIKES POO FINGERS”? ’
‘What? There isn’t.’
I put my hand up. ‘Umm, that was me.’
‘What?’
The other two start cracking up. ‘You don’t want to get sick when you’re this pregnant,’ I protest, ‘and today is a super spreader event. I read this study about how to nudge people to be more hygienic. Apparently signs simply reminding them to wash their hands don’t work? You’ve got to shame people. They tested loads and apparently “ Nobody likes poo fingers ” was the most effective.’
Their laughter cranks up.
‘Remember when we sponsored to not google anything for Lent?’ Steffi asks, wiping her eyes.
Nicki bounces on her ball, holding her stomach. ‘And then she tried to convince us that, searching for “ are Pop-Tarts carcinogenic?” was needed for her Dickens essay? The essay we were all also writing?’
‘They ARE carcinogenic!’ I point out.
‘Better not eat them with poo fingers,’ Lauren butts in. ‘Otherwise you’d be dead within the year.’
I don’t mind that they’re all laughing at me. I’m just so pleased everyone’s getting along. I can visibly see the signs of effort on both Nicki and Steffi’s faces. We need each other. We’ve always needed each other. I’ll always treasure that seminar in the first week at Sheffield when we were put together. I’d been delirious with homesickness – missing Mum terribly, my whole family, and my bedroom that wasn’t directly next to a communal fire door that banged every two minutes. But, alongside that, there was this dawning horror that no-one on my corridor was going to be my friend for life when all the literature I’d read about the university experience said I’d meet my ‘Friends for Life’. Instead, I was on a floor with a bunch of girls really into Class A drugs, and music that only apparently makes sense when on them. They declared me A Martian for never having even tried a ‘spliff’, and pissed themselves laughing when I’d said ‘I don’t want to die’ after being offered ‘Molly’. In fact, they dragged in the lads from upstairs and made me repeat what I’d said to them about fearing a prison sentence, all laughing with gurning jaws.
‘More than a quarter of women in prison are in for drug-related crimes,’ I meekly chirped, while they all fell about like I was the new Michael McIntyre. (That was another thing they found hilarious, that I liked Michael McIntyre.) I spent my Freshers’ Week with clenched fists, at packed club nights I didn’t understand, too short to be able to see over the mass of sweaty, drugged-up bodies before getting a taxi home, alone, usually by midnight and crying down the phone to Mum. I was there to get a degree , she reminded me. And she’d rent me a nice flat if things really couldn’t improve. Anyway, it was all pretty terrible but I was glad for lectures to start so I could actually get my degree , which was why I was there , to excel in my studies. Plus, I had friends for life back home, anyway, in Hampstead. I was just about coping, though I did spend a lot of time crying in my pyjamas. But, luckily, in my first seminar for my American Literature module, I got put in a group with Lauren, Steffi and Nicki, and even more fortunately, they also hated their allocated friends for life. Nicki suggested we get a drink together to toast the fact we’d all only flicked through one book on the summer reading list, and that was Little Women, and that was only because of the Winona Ryder movie. I was so excited these girls hadn’t yet used the words ‘doobie’, or ‘racking up’ that I concealed the fact I’d read the entire list over the summer – and put all my notes on each novel into colour-coordinated folders based on their historical context. My mum was still hoping I’d stop wasting my clear talents on becoming a primary school teacher. But that’s the one job I wanted to do because it works with a parenting schedule.
Anyway, we went to a nearby Vodka Rev, and Nicki ensured we all got righteously drunk on these powder pink cocktails, while we talked about our favourite episodes of Sex and The City. Finally, a conversation I understood and could enjoy! Finally, girls I liked. Were these my friends for life? After our fifth cocktail, as night drew in but conversation hadn’t once run dry, Nicki slammed her glass down and said, ‘God I wish you girls were on my corridor.’
‘You do?’ I asked, sipping my dusty pink martini with hopeful intrigue.
‘Hell yes. I came here through clearing. Long story short, I was meant to go to York with my boyfriend, but then I panicked about going to uni as a couple and how that would probably make me a social leper. So, I veered last minute and the only accommodation available was in the building for the overseas students. I’m now still a social leper because I don’t speak Chinese and they’ve all been here three weeks more than me to settle in to this country.’ Nicki finished her drink. ‘Please can we all hang out more?’
I was about to nod my head furiously but was beaten to it by Lauren. ‘Hell yes. I’m on a corridor with goths. Me!’ She gestured down to her outfit made entirely out of primary colours. ‘They’re very friendly goths, but, as you can imagine, we don’t have a huge amount in common. They wouldn’t go to any Freshers’ Week stuff and instead spent the whole time dragging me to these music venues where people scream down the microphone.’
Steffi started laughing. ‘How did you end up in a corridor with goths?’
Lauren took a sip of her drink, leaving a red lip print on the rim of the glass. Even after five rounds, she was dutifully and perfectly reapplying her statement lip. ‘We’ve all asked ourselves the same question. We think it’s because of the ‘activities and interests’ questionnaire they got us to fill in for housing. We all wrote our favourite book was Alice in Wonderland .’
‘Uh oh,’ Steffi said. ‘Well, that explains it.’
‘What’s wrong with Alice In Wonderland? ’
‘Nothing, but it’s, like, the goth bible. They time-share between Alice and The Nightmare Before Christmas. ’
Lauren nodded. ‘That explains many of their tattoos.’
We all laughed again. Nicki, noticing we were running dry, pointed to each of us. ‘Another round?’
I’d nodded, squiffy. I would stay until all these women were my best friends for life, I’d decided. It was fate. And, if I had to do a tactical vomit to keep up with their drinking with my tiny body, then that’s what the universe demands.
‘What about you?’ Lauren asked, as Nicki went to get another round in. I watched as she got served easily. Nicki was very pretty in a very girl-next-door way, and all the boys seemed to look at her.
‘What about me?’ I parroted, aware my voice was sludgy and too loud, even with the music blaring from the speakers.
‘All OK on your corridor?’
‘Oh no, not at all.’ I tried to slurp up non-existent cocktail from the bottom of my empty glass. ‘My flatmates call me The Martian because I don’t want to take MDMA. I do worry about their teeth, you know? They’re really going to wear down their enamel if they keep gurning like that and enamel can’t be regrown. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. But they think that’s hilarious.’ I sighed. ‘They think everything I say and do is hilarious but I’m not trying to be funny.’
Lauren patted me on the shoulder with a hefty whack of someone equally intoxicated. ‘They don’t understand your energy,’ she explained to me, while my heart went ding ding ding . Energy was in my top ten favourite words and she’d just used it.
Nicki returned with another tray and we all applauded.
‘And what about you?’ Nicki asked Steffi. ‘Are you in corridor hell?’
Steffi shook her dark hair. ‘No, they’re all great,’ she admitted, almost sheepishly. Steffi, I’d soon learn, was able to get along with pretty much anyone. It’s what made her such a great agent. ‘But I like you girls a lot better.’
We’d smiled at one another, all of us acknowledging The Moment occurring. I really love Moments . The word is also in my top ten. And, that was it. University experience rescued. The Little Women formed. Uni became enjoyable as well as survivable, especially as Lauren let me share her bed most nights. By the time we all got a house together in second year, I really was having The Time Of My Life , like the world promised me I would.
Now, here we are, over ten years later, and still the best of friends.
‘We must get a photo,’ I stand up, overcome by the urge. ‘Before everybody else arrives.’
The others groan.
‘You are always thankful for my photos when enough history has passed,’ I remind them. ‘ , do you mind sending those pics through that you took today? , do you have those snaps of us from when we did fancy dress as Bananas in Pyjamas? ’
‘OK, OK,’ Nicki stands slowly and carefully removes the yoga ball from beneath her. ‘Let us at least pretend we’re not clinically vain.’
‘Come on,’ I pull Steffi up off the sofa, only to reveal the phone she’s carefully concealed, screen on, in her lap. It clatters to the bleached-wood floor and she dives down, darting a look at Nicki. Luckily, Nicki’s too busy helping wrestle Woody out of Lauren’s arms to notice.
‘Shall we use the flower wall as the background?’ Nicki asks, carrying the baby over.
I shake my head. ‘No, we used that for the family portraits earlier. You want variety. How about under the balloon arch?’
I lead them out into the sweltering heat. Nicki starts fanning herself. ‘Oh God, I’m too pregnant for this. Why is God doing this to me in my third trimester?’
‘Let’s make it a quick photo. Hang on . . . I’ll just set my phone up.’
‘Umm, ?’ Lauren asks, taking Woody off Nicki so she can fan herself with both hands. ‘Is that a selfie stick you’re using?’
‘Yes.’ I screw my phone onto the end of it.
‘Wow.’
Steffi starts laughing. ‘Shouldn’t that be in a museum?’
‘Stop it! They’re a really useful invention. The only reason people stopped using them was because they felt shamed. I refuse to feel shame at using something that solves a practical problem.’
‘ Wands of narcissism? Wasn’t that what they were called?’ Lauren asks.
My phone locks in and I lengthen the stick and poke her with it. ‘Oh shut it. You’re all going to ask me to send you a copy of this picture. Why does everyone pretend this is all beneath them? It isn’t! Yeah, yeah, yeah, social media is curated perfection wa wa wa. But, like, also maybe it’s nice to post pictures of your life, and nice to see other people lives, and maybe it’s just nice for things to look nice . Maybe that’s not shallow, just nice .’
Nicki claps her hands. ‘OK, Little Women. She’s right. It’s nice. The balloon arch is lovely. Today is perfect. is amazing. In fact, I think it’s time for a sandwich!’
They all smush me into a hug, to let me know they’re only ever teasing – like they used to at uni when I felt I’d over-d and was being judged. I haven’t had a sandwich in forever and we all laugh into each other’s hair.
‘You’re all too sweaty,’ I complain, when, really, I’m the happiest I’ve been in two years. ‘Now, let’s take this photo.’
I arrange them into the right height order and position them so the balloon arch is framing us perfectly. ‘Say Little Women, ’ I instruct, taking at least two dozen options. Woody isn’t facing the right way in any of them because he’s spotted the balloons and strains to reach them. Lauren lets him squeak one, while the other two scroll through my phone, telling me which ones I can use.
‘Aww this one is perfect,’ Nicki says. She holds it up and we all crowd around to see.
‘I agree your selfie stick is most brilliant,’ Steffi says. ‘I’m going to find my old one buried in my flat somewhere and resurrect it.’ Her phone buzzes twice in her dress but she dutifully ignores it.
‘Thanks, ,’ Nicki says. ‘As always. You’ve pulled a blinder.’
And, with all of us huddled together like this, getting on so well, the news fizzes on my tongue. You’re supposed to wait twelve weeks but . . .
‘Guys,’ I start . . . But we’re interrupted by a car crunching into the driveway. As we turn to look, Steffi grabs the opportunity to check her phone and strides back inside. Woody makes the balloon squeak so hard he starts crying. The car door opens to reveal Nicki’s mother, waving something over her head like she’s in The Railway Children and she’s trying to stop a train with her red bloomers.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ she shouts to Nicki. ‘I’ve got three reed diffusers!’
‘Thank God,’ Nicki calls back. ‘I was going to cancel the whole thing otherwise.’
I’m the only one who waits for her before retreating into the air-conditioning. ‘Thanks, Jane,’ I call back. She’s right – an event really isn’t an event without a signature scent. As I wait to greet her, I look at the picture of us still up on my phone screen and smile again.
Perfect.
Crime Stoppers Speak up. Stay safe.
Thank you for deciding to tell us about a crime. We know it can be a really difficult decision to speak out so it’s great that you’ve taken the first step. Crimestoppers takes information about crime 100% anonymously.
What is the crime or incident you would like to tell us about?
Arson
Where did the crime take place?
Honeysuckle Lane, Surrey
Tell us more about the crime. What you saw, heard, or know about.
I don’t think it was an accident. The big fire. I was at the baby shower, and it was carnage. People were full on screaming at each other, multiple people were crying, and then we all got shoved out, half way through, and told to leave. I’m sorry, but we’re supposed to believe it’s coincidence that, moments later, a fire just accidentally broke out??? Those women may claim they’re the best of friends, but they seemed to hate each other.
BABY SHOWER BLAZE BECOMES SHOCK ARSON ENQUIRY
A wildfire allegedly started by a malfunctioning smoke grenade at a baby shower is now being treated as an arson enquiry.
Police say emerging evidence suggests the fire wasn’t started by accident and have brought suspects in again for further questioning.
Inspector George Simmons, of Surrey Police, said: ‘The community has, rightly, been horrified that the careless actions of these women have caused such devastation. But after interviewing eyewitnesses at this baby shower, we’re increasingly convinced the circumstances of the fire could, legally, be considered arson.’
Last week, the story of the fire went viral and made international headlines, sparking conversations about the progressively grotesque nature of baby showers. This shocking development is likely to renew media interest in this incident, nicknamed the ‘Blaze-ic B*tch BBQ’
Inspector Simmons added: ‘Even if the fire wasn’t started deliberately, an arson charge may still be considered appropriate if we believe it was started recklessly. We encourage anyone who might have any information to come forward, no matter how seemingly insignificant.’
Feminist101 has shared this story:
Alright. Who did it? Reveal yourself so I can buy you a drink.
ThirtyFlirtyAndThriving has shared this story:
We’ve all WANTED to start a fire at a baby shower, now some legend has actually done it
TakeTheRedPill has shared this story:
Bet it was started by some ugly bitter bitch who can’t get anyone to knock her up
Transcript: Inspector Simmons interviewing Nicole Davies
Nicole: OK, so explain to me, please, why I’d set fire to my own parents’ house?
Simmons: You tell us.
Nicole: I’m full term, you know? My waters could break at any moment, but you want me to explain all the reasons why I wouldn’t burn down my own parents’ house, while heavily pregnant, ruining our lives, and risking my unborn baby?
Simmons: It would be useful to have them on record, yes.
Nicole: OK, reasons I’m not an arsonist. One, me and my unborn baby almost died. Two, it has destroyed my parents’ lives.
Simmons: Didn’t they get a big insurance payment?
Nicole: deadpan Yes. That makes everything they’ve lost worth it.
Simmons: Were you enjoying your baby shower, Nicki? Witnesses say you looked uncomfortable.
Nicole: It was 38 degrees and I’m heavily pregnant.