‘Sorry we missed last week,’ she said. ‘We were visiting family.’
I heard her London accent.
It wasn’t Manchester nostalgia, but it would do. I’d cling to a city transplant like a life raft.
‘Aidan grew up round here,’ Asha said when she introduced herself to the group, nodding towards her husband and I was glad to see another man too, for Ed. I smiled at Aidan. ‘Got me with the house prices, obviously. It’s been about a year now.’
Cora wasn’t listening.
‘Let’s add your number to the group chat,’ she said, brusque; there was no option. But Asha nodded happily, squeezing her husband’s hand. This is what we’d all come for, after all. We could learn to change a nappy from Google; it was the mates we were paying for.
So we swapped numbers and arranged, after our babies were born like painful dominoes, one after the other in the space of one week, to meet up.
And we did. We had the same desire to pour the caffeine we hadn’t been allowed for months and now needed ferociously into our veins and so it became a regular thing, easy, us all heading for lattes, meet-ups, soft play as the babies got older. New baby lives curated by Cora, who shoved cards for her cupcake business into our hands, friended us on Facebook, asked questions, made sure our friendship gathered pace. And checking in too, after jabs, if our babies were sick, when we went back to work.
I lean back against the train seat and sigh.
My NCT friends haven’t been around long but they get it. They understand how my insides feel today. This isn’t theoretical to them, it’s close. Some have been there, some will be there, some just know how it would feel to be there because they feel a version of it when they lose sight of their child for a second at soft play, or drive away as they wave at the window at grandparents’.
A full set of messages from my mum crew but absolutely nothing, I realise, from Ed. To ask how Poppy settled in, or how I’m coping.
He’s so busy at work today, I reason. Give him a break.
Instead I reply to my mum group chat.
I can’t stop sobbing, I type. I feel awful. I hate this.
It’s much more exposed than I usually am. Usually, I prefer to put on a together front. I’m told with that resting bitch face it can seem a bit cold, a bit superior. But at least people don’t think I’m weak. At least people don’t pity me. I am struggling to react normally to anything today though.
Typing quickly as I’m at BMT, writes Emma. Baby music time. Everything has an acronym when you’re a parent. There’s no time for full words.
Don’t do that! I reply. I feel terrible, distracting her from one of her days off with Seth.
It’s fine, whole class is car crash, she replies. Everyone’s on phone. But P will be having the time of her life! Ronnie is great. In a week this will feel normal. It’s just today that’s weird. Firsts are always weird.
Thank you, I reply. Emma’s emotional intelligence on messages is special. I must make more effort to chat to her as much in person.
The train pulls into the station and I shove my phone in my bag, take a deep breath and join the throng to step off.
Thanks to Emma, I am feeling ten per cent less likely to sprint back to the countryside to sling Poppy over my shoulder and leave work forever.
And somewhere under the rubbish tip of anxiety, I realise, there is a tiny bag of something approaching excitement. I will drink a mint tea today at my desk, slowly instead of chucking coffee down my throat like a pill. I will go into a meeting where people will respect me and somebody junior will be a tiny bit intimidated by me and ask me questions to which I will – hopefully – know the answers. I will reapply lipstick in the bathroom because I will always have thirty seconds to spare and hands that have no other responsibilities to tend to.
I will eat real food, not a child’s cold leftover sticky pasta shoved in as I stack an overfilled dishwasher. I will go to shops on my lunch break and make small talk that isn’t about weaning but about a date somebody went on and the film they saw, or the risotto one of the social media managers ate on a much-Instagrammed break in Puglia.
There were pluses, weren’t there. I needed to hold on to them tightly today.
I make a mental note to message the NCT girls too and tell them what a difference their support made this morning. But the message never gets sent; the sentiment never gets shared. Because it’s less than an hour later that something blasts into my world that ruins my relationships, my life and my mind and which I am not sure I can ever find a way back from.
2
Scarlett
4 May
My feet ache as I walk into my building; they have had a chilled-out time on their year-long commuting break and they are mad as hell about getting back to the grindstone.
‘Scarlett!’ says our giant Aussie Charlie on reception as I walk through the revolving door. ‘First day back?’
I nod, bouncing from one foot to the other and unable to keep still with nerves.
‘How’s the baby?’ he says, standing up to high-five me. ‘Congrats. I’ve got three. You’ve got fun ahead.’
‘Thanks, Charlie,’ I reply.
I’m twitchy. Now I’m back at work, I want to be back at work.
‘Get on, yep, get on.’ He nods. ‘Get there on time so you can get out for the nursery pick-up, right? All different now. Go!’
He shoos me towards the lift and I dig out my pass, call it and wait. In a few minutes I will see Felicity and the thought calms me. Felicity is my boss but also my mate. Felicity came to my baby shower; I went on her hen do. She’ll talk me through what’s happened in the last year, give me the low-down on the new people and we’ll drink coffee and eat the fancy donuts and everything will be easier because of our relationship. And because of the donuts. Calm, Scarlett. This will be okay.
The lift opens and I catch sight of one of the finance guys, Jared, walking past. I know everyone in this building – it’s the best and worst thing about a business that values team-building away days and boozy Friday lunches highly – but Jared a little better than most; Ed was in his department when he used to work here.
That’s how we met, Ed and I, at work, or through both spending lunchtimes in the gym next door.
On rare Manchester sunny days, we’d meet outside and go for a run together instead, sprinting the last one hundred metres, competitive with each other. Then Ed got offered a job at another company and took it, both of us thinking that was probably sensible anyway, now we were spending most nights at each other’s flats. Jared got promoted. He and Ed kept in touch, meet for a pint regularly. But as I wave at him from the lift, Jared keeps his head down. Mustn’t have seen me.
Eventually we get to my floor and I step out, straight into a waiting Felicity.
I fling my arms around her even while I know it is unprofessional.
‘Flick!’ I exclaim, relieved, and she hugs me back hard.
‘Good to see you,’ she says and I pull out and look at her.
‘You look amazing,’ I say because this, for unknown reasons, is how you reacquaint with female friends. I love your earrings. Your shoes are hot. Where’s that lipstick from? Et cetera, et cetera. Start with the pawing of the new coat and the stroking of the cashmere, then you’re ready to move on to real subjects.