‘Hello, Betsey,’ I say, bending down to speak on her level. Then I straighten and turn to Jess, whose hand rests lightly on her little girl. It still surprises me that someone this beautiful could be my friend. She’s one of those rare, effortlessly striking women, with copper, pre-Raphaelite curls and slate grey eyes, now red-rimmed and apprehensive – perfectly natural, since no one wants their baby to be this sick. She has fine bones, and slim fingers garlanded with rings that she twists when nervous. A tiny gold star nestles in the dip of her neck. Her glamour is incongruous in this world of specimen containers, rolls of bandages and stainless steel trolleys. I think of the shadows under my eyes, the rogue grey hair kinking at my forehead I found this morning. I look a good five or six years older than her, though we’re the same age.
‘Can you run through what you think is wrong?’
‘She isn’t herself. Grizzly, clingy, listless and she was sick. Ed freaked out when that happened.’ ‘Is he here, now?’
‘No, he’s at home, with Frankie and Kit.’
I imagine her boys lost to the depths of sleep; her husband unable to settle; and Jess’s loneliness as she sits in A&E with a poorly baby who can’t tell her what the problem is.
She gives me a quick, tense smile, and pulls a charcoal cardigan around her. Her top slips, revealing a black bra strap, sleek against her blanched almond of a shoulder, her improbably smooth skin. The top of her ribs and her clavicle are exposed and I realise she is noticeably thinner than when I last saw her just over a month ago at the school nativity. Under the glare of the fluorescent strip lights, she seems more vulnerable; less assured. And very different to the woman I first met ten years ago, who buzzed with excitement at the thought of having her first child.
LIZ
Thursday 22 November, 2007
Two
‘Shall we give him another five minutes – and then we’ll need to start?’ Cathy, the antenatal teacher, tilts her head at Jess, the only expectant mother with an empty chair beside her.
‘No, let’s begin. He’s in a cab now, but he’ll be a while longer.’ Jess smiles at each couple. I’m so sorry, her expression says. That look dispels any momentary irritation and I feel a rush of sympathy for a fellow mother-to-be whose partner hasn’t been able to make the 7.30 start. Beside me, Nick shifts in his seat and I am grateful that his job as a secondary school teacher means that, though he will never be rich like Jess’s hedge fund manager husband, he is unlikely to ever be late for such things.
We have been waiting for Ed Curtis for nearly fifteen minutes now and the very pregnant woman who introduced herself as Charlotte is breathing heavily: possibly as a result of having the largest bump among us, though it’s difficult not to read bad temper in each sigh.
Charlotte strikes me as someone who is always five minutes early. A corporate lawyer, she has already told us it is imperative she quickly establish a routine. She favours Gina Ford and will be pumping breast milk to stimulate her supply and provide her husband, Andrew, with enough to do the night feeds. ‘It’s the least he could do,’ Charlotte says with a sardonic, surprisingly sexy laugh, and it isn’t clear if Andrew will be doing this to compensate for getting her pregnant or because so much of the burden of early parenthood lies with a breastfeeding mother. ‘He’ll be doing all the nappies too,’ she says, and she doesn’t appear to be joking.
There are nine expectant parents, sitting on black plastic chairs and smiling nervously at each other, this Thursday evening. Five women, all over seven months pregnant, expecting their first babies in the new year. Three of the fathers have rushed straight from work and look out of place in this preschool nursery decorated with collages of dried pasta and finger paintings. Andrew’s suit trousers ride up to expose red silk socks and an inch of hairy ankle, and it seems unimaginable that this man, who looks a good ten years older than me, will be getting down on a floor with a baby any time soon.
But it is going to happen to us all. The tiny pegs in the hall with their laminated labels and names in Comic Sans font tell of a world we are going to have to get used to. One filled with human beings so alien even their names differ from those of our childhoods: Olivia, Ethan, Jade and Ayaan; Callum, Chloe, Mia, Zac. There are small icons on those labels – an umbrella, a football, a butterfly – and pairs of bright wellington boots, neatly stacked under each bench. And it is something about the care with which these have been placed, and the sense that each preschooler is seen as an individual – Millie with her fish; Ollie with his cricket bat – that reinforces the magnitude of what is going to happen. These aren’t babies we are having but small people for whom we will feel responsible for the rest of our lives.
‘Well, if you’re sure?’ Cathy, neat and grey, a mother of three girls in their twenties, looks relieved to be getting started. ‘Let’s begin by introducing ourselves properly and explaining why we want to do this course.’
She turns to the pregnant mother on her right: a slight, blonde woman with rosy cheeks, an eager smile, and a partner whose body language – crossed arms and legs, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance – suggests he’d rather be anywhere but here.
‘I’m Mel,’ the woman says, ‘and this is my husband, Rob. I’m a primary school teacher and I want as natural a labour as possible with minimal intervention.’ She beams as if she knows she’s given the right answer. ‘Ideally a home birth.’ She turns to her husband, who grunts his assent. ‘Rob?’
‘I work in the City, and I’m here because my wife told me to be,’ he says. A ripple of laughter from Charlotte and Andrew, and from a younger man with a broad physique and reddened skin.
Mel’s cheeks redden but she smiles, indulgent. ‘As you can see, there’s no pretence with Rob.’
‘Supporting your partner’s very important,’ Cathy says, as she fiddles with the felt beads around her neck. ‘Birth, and the whole perinatal period – the time around the birth – can be deeply unsettling. It’s crucial mothers feel supported by their partner. Now.’ Her tone brightens. ‘Who’s next?’
‘Me. I’m Susi,’ the girl sitting next to the youngest man says. She smiles broadly and, like her partner, speaks with an Australian accent. ‘I’m in HR; Andy’s in IT. We’re over here from Oz, half a world away from our families. So being taught how to give birth, and meeting some other mums, seemed like a good idea.’
‘Do you have any friends who are having babies?’ Cathy frowns slightly. Susi looks younger than me, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six; tall, strong and wide-hipped. She shakes her head.
‘No! They’re all out on the lash and having a fine old time!’
‘Getting pregnant was a bit of a surprise,’ Andy adds. ‘But people have been having babies forever without much hassle, and I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.’
He smiles broadly at his wife and I wish I could view birth and motherhood as this easy. I know too much about the potential difficulties of childbirth and the lottery of a happy childhood to relax about it all.
I shift uncomfortably while Charlotte introduces herself and her husband, who looks genuinely embarrassed as she describes him as a leading intellectual property lawyer. (‘Not leading, Charlotte.’ ‘Well, that’s what The Times said.’)