Monica leaned in – expensive perfume – and said, ‘So. Where did you find him?’ I turned, saw her nod at Aaron, who was chatting to Kelly. They’re closer in age, I thought with a pang. If Kelly looked too young to have a baby, did that make Aaron too young to be a dad?
‘Oh. Well, we just met, you know. In a bar.’ That was the official story, even if the truth wasn’t quite that.
‘Lovely.’ I blinked at her naked admiration of him. Was this the way men talked about their trophy wives? ‘How old is he? Twenty-one?’
‘Twenty-four.’
She cackled, digging me in the side. ‘Good on you, girl! Isn’t it funny, Ed’s son from his first marriage is twenty-four.’ I glared at her, and despite the undeniable deliciousness of her cupcakes, decided I did hate her after all. She didn’t seem to notice the glare – how I envied that, the ability to not see real slights, let alone not imagine fake ones. ‘Must dash, I have prenatal yoga and then a spot of acu, have you tried it? I’ve got a wonderful lady if you want the number, byeee.’ She beckoned to Ed, who I hadn’t heard speak yet but already knew I wouldn’t like – I didn’t trust men who wore pastels – and they went out, and Kelly followed them, zipping a hoody up to her acned chin. She looked about fifteen. I saw Aaron was now talking to Nina the facilitator, and as I watched, she squeezed his upper arm, which I knew from experience was firm and muscled, and although it was probably just an encouraging gesture, something about it made my heart lurch, and I crossed the room to them a little too fast. ‘We should go. Don’t forget your jacket.’
He looked surprised at my tone. ‘OK, babe. Nina was just recommending me some parenting books.’
‘It’s wonderful he’s so involved,’ said Nina in her husky voice, as if Aaron was some precocious child. ‘Not all young fathers are the same.’
‘Yes, well, I was two by the time my dad was his age,’ I said, taking the car keys from my bag.
She saw this. ‘It’s hard to drive at this stage of pregnancy. Dad should think about doing it, if possible.’
‘Hmm, yeah, shame Dad doesn’t know how.’ It embarrassed me that he didn’t have a licence, though lots of people didn’t drive these days, especially in London. It made him seem even younger, I felt. My mother always commented on it whenever we saw her.
Nina was watching me. ‘Jax, may I give you a piece of advice?’ Aaron had moved just out of earshot to get his jacket from the chair.
I wanted to say no, but why else was I here? ‘What?’
‘It’s hard for the younger guys. Especially when there’s . . . an age gap. Look after him too, yes?’
Before I could think of anything to say, Aaron was back, his arm around my shoulders. ‘Thank you, that was great! See you next week!’ He was so polite. I just gaped at her. Was she supposed to say things like that to me?
Nina let us go with a sort of namaste gesture, and I saw that she, like Monica, had the kind of unaffected confidence no one could pierce. I was jealous of that. Aaron might have been young, but I was the one who so often felt like a sulky teenager, stuck forever with my mother’s criticisms echoing in my head.
I still couldn’t believe I was joining this new group. Mothers. My friends had started to drop off into it, sidle off quietly to the other side of the curtain, ever since I was in my early twenties. Some of my school friends had teenagers, grown from tiny babies in what seemed like months, to semi-adults with massive feet and sulky faces. Time was speeding up. When I met Aaron I was thirty-six, and it was like I’d woken up one day and realised – oh my God. This maybe isn’t going to happen, this whole motherhood thing. I wasn’t the kind of person who’d been desperate for a baby, for marriage and nurseries and soft plush bears – I was more MDMA and festivals and tantric sex workshops just for fun. I was afraid I’d miss something if I settled down. But when I turned thirty-six I realised – I did want that. Or rather, I didn’t want to never have that, and if I didn’t do it soon there was a good chance it wouldn’t happen at all. I tried to imagine being in my forties, knowing it was too late. If I’d be peaceful, still enjoying my life and my disposable income, never having to wipe up anyone’s vomit (unless it was a particularly hard-core night out), being able to pick up and travel as the whim took me. That could be a lovely life. The trouble was I just didn’t know. I didn’t know if I’d regret it, and that tormented me.
It tormented me so much that I went speed dating. I let my friend Mariel, who’d been divorced for three years and was similarly panicking about the future, drag me along to an over-thirties meet-up in some smelly City bar that reeked of bleach and spilled beer, and I felt my heart sink when we walked in. The men had a hopeless, hunted look in their eyes, sweat patches blooming under their arms. Not one was under forty. Mariel all the same threw herself at a soft-bodied, hard-faced banker with a Rolex, tinkling laughter at his sexist jokes. I went through the motions, smiling and chatting to each man – several hadn’t even turned up so there was just empty air in their slots – and filling in my thoughts on a little scrap of paper. Each time I ticked: Just friends. Just friends. I had no intention of being friends with any of them. As Mariel resolutely failed to let me catch her eye, I drifted to the bar, determined to drink till I felt less hopeless. I didn’t feel old. I’d always imagined there was still love and passion out there for me, and yes, a baby too when I felt ready. Maybe I was wrong.
‘Rough night?’ I hadn’t looked properly at the barman as I ordered my gin and tonic, but I did then. He was very cute, mixed race with blue eyes and close-cropped hair. But so young. So very, very young.
‘Do these things ever work? Do people hit it off that way?’ He shrugged, placing the drink in front of me. I watched the shift of muscles in his shoulders, the long, lean span of his back. He was delicate. A boy, really. ‘You probably don’t know. I guess your generation does it all over the phone.’
He looked me right in the eyes then, and I gasped a little, corny as it sounds, the air punched from my lungs. ‘Personally, I like to meet people analogue-style. Offline.’
‘Oh? And how do you do that?’
He shrugged again, ironically. ‘I work in a bar. I meet people all the time.’
‘I bet you do. I bet pissed-up middle-aged women are always trying to grope you. Hen dos pulling off your trousers.’
He blushed. ‘A bit like that sometimes, yeah.’
‘And you? What kind of girls do you like?’ Nineteen-year olds, I was thinking.
‘I like women,’ he said, wiping the bar with practised swipes. ‘Older. Mature, you know.’
I wanted to call Mariel over and laugh (though she was by now practically wearing the banker as a scarf). The barman was hitting on me! Maybe he thought I’d be easy, a desperate older woman who couldn’t score with the sad divorcés here, or that I had money. That I’d finance his band or stand-up comedy career. Little did he know I worked for a charity and barely ‘earned my age’, as we had once been earnestly encouraged to benchmark ourselves against others. I laughed. ‘I bet that line works a treat as well. Bye.’