‘Thanks for travelling all the way here. You still got insomnia?’ I ask.
‘A little bit, god, it’s been awful. I’m feeling much better now though – Bea, thanks for your recommendation on that sleeping app. What an idea! Celebs reading bedtime stories. I’ll tell you what, it’s really helped falling asleep to Matthew McConaughey’s voice.’
‘Oh yes, it was a godsend when I was having Amelia. I was like a zombie I was so tired – and that was before she even arrived!’
‘I honestly don’t know what I’d have done without your advice,’ Cec says, sliding herself onto a stool.
They carry on discussing and comparing pregnancy notes. Their different symptoms, private jokes, funny moments, advice and anecdotes.
I open my mouth to say something but realize I have nothing to add.
I’ve noticed that Cecily and Bea have got closer recently; they’ve been bonding via late-night discussions on babies. Cecily is currently in full-blown preparation mode. She is hoovering up all the parenting blogs, magazines, and any ‘advice’, which people seem to love dishing out to her. She wants to make sure everything is done correctly. She has paid an obscene amount for an interior designer to Laurence-Llewelyn-Bowen-up her baby’s new nursery. It feels a far cry from my carefree Cec, who used to dance around our student house in a thong.
We go to sit down in Bea’s spacious but messy living room, Moroccan rugs hanging on the walls, half-used scented candles everywhere, and cushions all over the floor from the kids making a den. Cec shows me a picture on her phone of the monogrammed blanket for Oscar Arnie Pinkington – aka, OAP – and I can’t help but laugh. Everything related to the baby has been personalized with initials.
‘Cec … sorry, but you’re naming your kid after a pensioner.’
‘Oh Ol, you overthink these things,’ Cec says, snatching her phone away grumpily.
‘OAP though,’ I snort.
‘Piss off.’
Bea giggles behind her cup of tea.
I burst out laughing some more and Cec rolls her eyes before her face softens into a smile. She’d picked his name before she’d even conceived. It was always going to be Oscar.
‘I can see you’ve left the price tag on – £75 for that? Ouch,’ I say.
I can’t help thinking that you could get a cheap flight to somewhere sunny in Europe for £75. That is a lot of money for a miniature blanket that will soon be covered in sick and shit.
‘I want everything to be nice for him! It’s his first muslin.’
How did our lives diverge so quickly? Every tiny moment of OAP’s babyhood is going to be scrapbooked and diarized and Instagrammed to within an inch of his life. The first time Oscar touches his thumb and forefinger together! He’s so clever! The first time Oscar does a smelly poo! The first time Oscar screams the house down! The first time he eats a bogey!
‘It’s so weird, being pregnant now and immediately getting all this attention, you know,’ Cec says. ‘I feel like Mother bloody Teresa or something. People talk to me on the Tube! They stop in the street to let me walk past; people actually smile at me. In London! Can you believe that?’
‘Must be quite nice,’ I say, running my fingers through the front strands of my hair.
‘It is, but it’s also a bit sinister. Without a bump I’m just someone else to elbow out of the way and stamp on, and now suddenly for a few months I’m a radiant goddess who can do no wrong.’
‘Yeah, I noticed that too. I still keep my “Baby on Board” badge in a drawer in the kitchen to remind me of those times when I felt like a superstar,’ Bea agrees.
‘Me too,’ I say, jokily. They both ignore me.
‘At least it’s one good thing about being up the duff. I am hating that I can’t wear my own clothes at the moment, though. I’ve been wearing this same grey dress for weeks. It stinks. I do miss my old wardrobe,’ Cec says, pulling at the fabric of her dress.
Our phones beep in unison. It’s Isla messaging the group chat to say she can’t make it. We had kind of anticipated that, as she’d not been replying much when we were organizing timings. She says she’s feeling poorly, which might be true, but we all know she’s been really down for some time now. The crux is that her and her boyfriend Mike have been trying to get pregnant for a couple of years, and she’s now trying IVF. She’s been keeping herself to herself, and doing her classic self-defence manoeuvre of withdrawing from everything and everyone. At university, she would withdraw quite often, bolting her bedroom door and putting loud music on. We used to slip handwritten notes under the door, asking gently for her to come down for a cup of tea and a cuddle.
All cosied up on the sofa with more cups of tea spread out on a tray on the ottoman and blankets over us, we arrange to videocall Isla instead on Skype. As the call connects she appears propped up in bed wearing a black beanie and dark kohl eyeliner. Her dark thick fringe looking greasier than normal.
‘You OK, love?’ Bea says, tilting the screen of her MacBook so we can all see, and turning up the volume.
‘Hi guys, I’ve felt better. Sorry to miss out on tonight, god I miss drinking wine. Thank you for understanding. What are you all up to?’
‘Oh, not much! We miss you,’ Cec says quickly, leaning back on the sofa in her pyjamas, holding her protruding bump.
‘I miss you guys too. I have major cabin fever. But it definitely feels good to be resting and just having some time to reflect. Cec, how are you feeling?’
‘Good thanks. The nausea seems to have subsided. Bit uncomfortable now, though.’
‘I bet. So soon though! Exciting,’ Isla says, forcing a smile. I can tell it’s taking a lot for Isla to ask Cec about her bump so chirpily.
I turn the laptop slightly and poke my head into frame. ‘What’s going on, Isla? We could have cheered you up if you were here.’ Bea looks at me, frowning. I return her stare as if to say: ‘What? I’m just asking.’
‘Oh, hi Ol. It’s our IVF – the first round, it hasn’t worked … my body hasn’t responded very well to it.’ Isla looks down at her lap. ‘We’re going to give it another go, but, well …’ She trails off.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
‘Oh Isla, love,’ Bea says.
Isla puts her head in her hands and starts crying.
I sit there wishing I hadn’t asked – I hate seeing my friend in pain – but, then again, she needs to talk to someone about this and we’re her best friends. She’s been keeping everything so quiet.
We all feel like we are trying to do an impossible thing: comfort someone through a screen.
‘It’s OK, guys. I just need some … time, to wallow. Alone.’
‘Of course you do,’ Cec says.
‘Darling, you can’t beat yourself up about this,’ Bea says. ‘It’s not you.’
‘It feels so … personal,’ Isla says. ‘Like my body is betraying me.’
‘But it’s not your fault. I have plenty of friends who have had such positive results from their second or third time. I know it’s expensive but please don’t lose hope.’
‘Thanks Bea,’ Isla sniffs.