32. Molly
Chapter 32
Molly
M olly hasn’t been to a party for ages. She takes the time to do her hair nicely, pulling it up and back and securing it in place with a glittery clip shaped like a butterfly, chooses earrings that are not too big and flashy but still catch the light as she moves. It’s October and sunshine is far from guaranteed so she settles on a warm longer-length dress with a daisy pattern that she can still – just – get into without having to resort to buying something new from the maternity range. It’s an afternoon party, and there will be a lot of kids there, so there doesn’t seem a need to go for high heels or tons of make-up. She slips on some flat shoes and a cardigan and bundles the bare necessities into a huge shoulder bag, along with the chrome cake stand which only just fits if she pushes it in sideways, then carefully picks up the cake boxes.
‘Sure you don’t fancy coming with me? To meet a few new people? Carry me home if I get legless?’ She laughs as he shakes his head. ‘See you later then. Be good!’
‘Always,’ he says, opening the door, taking the boxes from her hands and carrying them down to the taxi for her. She watches him from the car window, waving her off from the pavement, as the taxi takes her around the corner and she can no longer see him. It would have been nice to go together but she can understand why he’s reluctant. Her new-found independence and her expanding circle of friends are liberating, and it’s exciting to see her business start to grow, but pregnancy is making her feel tired and inexplicably weepy lately, and she looks forward to getting back home. There’s nothing quite like the comfort of familiar arms to fall back into before bed.
Rosie’s house is small, but warm and welcoming. She has hung streamers and balloons around the living room, and the table, covered in a crisp white cloth, is already laden with plates of food. The smells of warm sausage rolls and something cheesy mingle and fill the air.
‘I’ve left space for you,’ Rosie says, pointing to an area in the centre of the spread. ‘For the pièce de résistance !’ She is lifting the lid from the first box and peering in, anxious to get a glimpse of the cakes. ‘Ooh, this is great,’ she says, her voice as excited as a child’s. ‘Come on, let’s get it all out and set up before anyone else gets here. And before those little horrors of mine wake up and start yelling for milk. I dare not get changed until they’ve had their feed or I’ll be greeting the guests with stains all down my front!’
‘When are people due to arrive?’
‘Well, my husband’s just gone to pick up his parents and his brother from their hotel. It’s only right they get here first, as guests of honour. Everybody else… well, anytime from three o’clock. I don’t expect anyone to stay particularly late. It’ll be getting dark by six, and having a small house means open doors and an overspill into the garden, so it will be getting chilly too. And I want it to be a party for the babies, not some boozy late-night knees-up! Although there will be wine, of course. And beer. Go on, have a seat and I’ll make you a coffee or something. I’m assuming you’re not into wine at the moment?’
‘Better not.’ Molly touches her tummy. ‘Tempting though it is!’
‘Won’t be long until you can have a sneaky glass again. I’m breastfeeding but the odd one doesn’t seem to hurt.’ She raises her voice as she disappears out of the door. ‘And I need it sometimes, believe me!’
Molly sits back on a squashy sofa and slips her shoes off. Her feet and ankles are feeling a bit swollen and she’s pretty sure Rosie isn’t going to mind. That’s the beauty of other mums. They understand.
She can hear the kettle starting to boil in the kitchen just as one of the twins wakes up and starts grizzling upstairs, the sound amplified through the baby monitor beside her.
‘Can I help?’ she says, padding barefoot to the doorway and finding Rosie in the small kitchen, spooning coffee grains into cups. ‘I could make the coffee, or get the baby for you.’
‘Thanks, Molly. Instant okay for you?’
Molly nods. ‘Of course.’
‘It’s not easy, this trying to be in two places at once lark! That’s Jamie you can hear, and Becca won’t be far behind. Honestly, I need the arms of an octopus sometimes. Be grateful you’re only expecting one. But the coffee’s done now, so if you don’t mind taking them through, I’ll pop up for his lordship.’
Like a well-oiled machine, Rosie soon has both babies fed, changed and ready to party, and leaves them lying quietly in their baskets while she goes up to get herself ready.
The front door opens and Molly hears voices in the hall. The family are here already, and she feels a sudden nervousness as they pile into the room, carrying wrapped gifts and champagne and an enormous bouquet of flowers.
‘Ah, hello. You must be our cake lady. Rosie said you’d be here early. I’m Syd, the other half!’
‘Molly.’
There follows a round of introductions and handshakes and a lot of cooing over the cakes, in pride of place on the table. Syd’s mother makes a beeline for the babies, hovering for a moment as she tries to decide which one to pick up and cuddle first. His dad flops into an armchair, the flowers resting on his belly while he waits for Rosie to appear so he can hand them over, and the brother, whose name Molly has already temporarily forgotten, follows Syd to the kitchen in search of a beer.
Molly is glad when Rosie comes running down the stairs, wearing a lovely blue-and-silver top and a pair of loose trousers, with not a hint of a milk stain in sight. ‘Ah, Molly, you’ve met everyone. That’s good.’ She looks at her watch. ‘We’ll be deluged soon, just you see. A houseful, and a garden full too, probably, but at least the weather’s good. I bet the girls from the group get here first. Eager for a bit of grown-up company and some free food!’ She kisses her parents-in-law, takes the bouquet to the kitchen to find a vase and comes back with Syd and his brother in tow, cans of beer in their hands. ‘Music please, Sydney,’ she says, grabbing her husband by his free hand and twirling herself around. ‘Nothing too loud or wall-shaking though. The last thing I need today is crying babies.’
All the girls from the twins and triplets club have come, along with their hordes of lookalike children, but not a single partner. ‘Oh, my Dave would hate it,’ Jo says, rocking her twin girls in their double buggy as her five-year-old son, Toby, runs around the garden chasing bubbles. ‘This is his chance to get a couple of hours’ peace, or a snooze in front of the telly with a beer in his hand. Believe me, where there are this many kids all together in one place, you won’t find many dads hanging about. Not willingly anyway.’ She laughs and takes a long swig from her can of alcohol-free lager. ‘Mmm, if I close my eyes, I can almost convince myself this is the real thing!’ she says, grabbing Toby just as he is about to whizz past and straight into someone carrying a tray of glasses.
‘At least you’ve got a partner,’ Miranda moans. ‘I’m having to manage these two terrors on my own.’ Her boys are just at the starting to walk stage now, and are tumbling about on the grass, giggling over a ball.
‘Your choice, sweetie. What did you expect when you did your thing with the turkey baster? Kitchen utensils aren’t known for their parenting skills, are they?’
‘It was not a turkey baster,’ Miranda replies, indignantly. ‘I went to a proper clinic, Jo, as you well know. Donors are checked and regulated and everything. I just hadn’t expected to end up with the two for the price of one deal.’
‘You and me both! Who’d have twins by choice, eh? Still, count yourself lucky it wasn’t three.’ Jo looks across at Berni, the only TTC member with triplets, and sighs with relief. ‘That woman’s a bloody marvel. I mean, we were born with two boobs for a reason, weren’t we? Where the hell are you meant to put baby number three? Must be a continual queueing system. One off, one on, one waiting in the wings. Like juggling three bean bags with only two hands.’
Molly leans back in a folding garden chair and closes her eyes for a moment, her hand across her tummy. One baby is just fine. Quite enough. She has no idea how any of these women cope with more.
‘Hey, Molly. Wakey-wakey!’ Rosie is at her side now, with a couple of newcomers in tow.
‘I wasn’t asleep!’
‘Of course not. Just resting your eyes, I know. My Syd says that all the time. Anyway, I’ve brought some friends over to meet you all.’ Molly looks up at the rather round red-faced woman with big frizzy red hair who is standing beside Rosie, blocking out what there is of the sun. ‘This is Fran, a possible future client for you, Molly, as she’s a great lover of cake!’
‘Cheek!’ Fran nudges her, but seems to take it in good part.
‘And this is Carly, best friend of many years standing. Carly and Fran share a flat. The other member of the gang is Fran’s big sister, Suze.’ She snorts. ‘Well, not bigger than our Frannie in the size sense, obviously, just age-wise. I have no idea where she’s just disappeared to. I seem to have lost her on the way through, but I’m sure she’ll catch us up later. She’s just got engaged so she’s probably dragged the poor bloke into the understairs cupboard or something! Now, girls, meet Molly, who made the cakes for me. And these are some of the mums I’ve met at the twins club. Or should I say other gluttons for punishment!’ Everybody laughs, although Fran is not looking quite so happy now. One dig too many about her weight maybe?
‘Excuse me a minute, all of you. Feel free to introduce yourselves,’ Rosie says, seemingly unaware of any discomfort coming from Fran’s direction. ‘That sounds like the doorbell again. More guests. I don’t know where I’m going to put them all. At least the clocks haven’t gone back yet or it would be getting dark before we know it. And we’d better hope it doesn’t rain, cos it’ll be a hell of a squeeze if everyone ends up indoors!’
The two newcomers pull up chairs and settle down beside Molly, each already carrying a glass of wine. The smaller one, Carly, puts her hands around her drink protectively as Toby hurtles past again, clutching a mangled sausage roll, and almost knocks it out of her grasp. ‘Kids, eh? Who’d have them?’ she huffs, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Molly is actually having one, but Molly doesn’t put her straight.
‘So, you made those fab-looking cakes in there?’ Fran says, positively drooling at the very thought.
‘I did, yeah.’
‘A great idea, the two halves being so different. Something for everyone, and not your traditional christening cake either. Our Rosie’s never been the religious type. I just wish they’d hurry up and cut the damn things, so we can all have a piece. It’s bloody torture, all this look-but-don’t-touch stuff!’
Molly laughs. ‘I hope they live up to expectations.’
‘I find cake usually does, even if men may not.’ Jo has wedged a squirming Toby between her knees now and is bribing him to sit still with yet more food, most of it sugar-coated, piled high on a paper plate. ‘Excuse my cynicism, but they’re only really good for one thing, aren’t they? Men, I mean.’
‘What? Putting up shelves?’ Miranda has finally settled her two in a sleepy heap on a blanket, and collapses on the grass beside the others. She pulls what looks like a hand-knitted cardigan together at the front and starts doing up the buttons. ‘I’d just as soon have a go myself.’
‘Yeah, we all know you don’t need a man. For anything!’ Jo makes a rude gesture that even Miranda can’t help but laugh at. ‘Sisters are doing it for themselves! With a bit of help from the turkey baster.’
‘All right, Jo. Joke over now, okay? Anyone would think you were on the booze. Oh, look.’ Miranda takes the can from Jo’s hand. ‘This one’s the real thing. A strong one too. Not an alco-free at all. You’ve mixed the lagers up. Accidentally on purpose, I wouldn’t be surprised. And we all know, the more you drink, the looser your lips get.’
Jo bursts out laughing. ‘I reckon we’ve all got pretty loose lips after giving birth to this lot!’ She waves her arms around to indicate the gaggle of assorted children surrounding them. ‘No wonder Rosie’s put us down here at the bottom of the garden, away from all the normal well-behaved people. Like we’re a different species. Still, you’ll be next to join us, Molly. Believe me, your life, and your nether regions, will never be the same again. Better start those tightening exercises now, before it’s too late!’
Some of the other mums laugh, but Miranda has been quiet ever since the quip about doing it for herself. They all know Jo wasn’t talking about shelves. Molly wonders if Jo has gone too far, discussing what must be a pretty private thing for Miranda with anyone who’ll listen. She can’t imagine what would lead a woman to go to those lengths. Having babies without a partner. Using donor sperm. It’s not as if Miranda is that old, grabbing at a last chance before her fertility levels plummet. But it’s none of her business. Or theirs. Somebody really needs to change the subject.
She turns towards the women sitting beside her. Time to start a new conversation. ‘So…’ she begins, intending to ask them about their jobs or their shoes or anything unrelated to baby-making, but Carly is staring at her in a very strange way, as if she’s suddenly seen a ghost or something, and Fran is staring at Miranda, as if… well, as if she fancies the pants off her. And it looks pretty much like the attraction could be mutual. Ah, maybe that explains the lack of a partner in Miranda’s life. A male one, anyway…
‘Oh no, Toby!’ Jo’s strident voice rings out as her son suddenly slumps forward, lets out a strangled gulp and, without anywhere near enough warning, is promptly sick all over her lap. There is a frantic scrabble among all the mums as they delve into changing bags looking for cloths and wipes.
As Molly turns her head away, the sweet sickly smell making her stomach churn in sympathy, Carly stands up, abruptly, making her chair totter. ‘Are you okay?’ Fran says, her gaze pulled abruptly away from Miranda. She reaches out a hand, but Carly shakes her off and walks back into the house, without saying a word, her face as white as a sheet.
‘Sorry,’ Fran says. ‘Not sure what that was about. She’s usually the life and soul of the party. And a bit of vomit’s never bothered her before. Probably needs the loo, or starting a period or something. Now, when are they going to let us at those wonderful cakes? Tell me, Molly, are they fruit or sponge?’