Authors: Joanne Phillips
Speaking of money ...
‘Has Robert asked about a pay rise yet?’ I say. Lipsy pulls a face.
‘No. He says it’s awkward, doesn’t want to rock the boat.’
‘But with the new baby and all ... Surely it’s OK for him to just ask?’
‘I don’t really want to talk about it, Mum. Do you mind if we just leave it for now?’
I do mind, but I tell her it’s fine. That’s a mum’s job, isn’t it? To pretend things are fine even when they’re not? But one thing I learned after the fallout from the fire fiasco was that it’s essential to talk about the important things. And Robert and Lipsy’s financial situation definitely comes under that classification.
But then I guess my baby does too. And I’m certainly not talking to Lipsy about that right now. So maybe I haven’t learned anything at all.
Instead we chat about the coming weeks, planning a routine for her and the baby, with Lipsy listening intently to my stories of how I coped when she was born. In the bed across from Lipsy is a woman with twins. A nurse walks past and says, ‘How are we this morning?’ and the twin’s mum says, ‘If one more person says “double trouble” to me I’m going to kill them.’
Lipsy smiles at me and lays Phoenix down on the bed to change him.
‘Should I hold his legs like this?’ she asks. ‘They feel so fragile. I’m scared I’ll hurt him.’
This is so nice. My daughter is treating me like I’m a fount of knowledge, a person with important opinions. Long may it last.
‘Mum?’ she says after a while, interrupting a very funny story of how toddler Lipsy peed all over a grumpy man during potty training. Well, funny for me at least.
‘Yes?’
‘Could you pop down to the hospital shop? Get me something to eat?’
‘Didn’t you just this minute have breakfast?’
‘I’m replacing all the calories I expended giving birth,’ she counters huffily.
‘I’ll pick you up a new sense of humour while I’m down there, shall I?’
A nappy narrowly misses my head. But it’s a clean one, so I figure she’s not too cross.
I jump out of the chair and grab my purse, only to be struck by a wave of nausea that makes me feel as though I’ve just stepped onto a ship in a storm. I grab hold of the nearest sturdy object, which happens to be Phoenix’s plastic crib. The nausea passes quickly, but it leaves my skin feeling both clammy and cold, like the aftermath of a fever.
‘Mum? Are you OK?’ Lipsy’s voice is pitched high with concern. She makes to get off the bed, holding Phoenix tightly. I wave her back.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘Must be the Chinese I had last night. I think I’ll pop to the loo on the way, just in case.’
‘No rush,’ she calls after me. ‘See you in a bit.’
Outside the ward I stop and lean against the pale green wall of the corridor. A man with shoulder-length hair is pacing up and down, talking on his phone.
‘When will you get here?’ he says, and then, on his second pass, ‘But when will you
get
here?’ He glares at me and I look away embarrassed.
I scan for the nearest toilet and push myself off the wall. Another wave of sickness hits me and I quicken my pace. I picture Paul en route to South Wales, Sharon by his side and Hannah in the back, singing travel songs and playing I Spy.
And here I am, alone and about to vomit into a hospital toilet.
OK, Stella. Deep breaths. Nothing to get worked up about. It’s just a bit of morning sickness, that’s all. You’ve been here before – albeit nearly seventeen years ago. You know the drill.
Morning sickness? Starting sooner than I’d expected. Just how pregnant am I, anyway?
How long do I have before I need to sit my daughter down and tell her that her new baby is going to have a playmate soon – a stepbrother or sister younger than her mother’s own grandson?
Thinking about it makes my head ache, and my stomach lurches again. Dropping all pretence of nonchalance, I grit my teeth and race for the loo.
I make it just in time.
Chapter 4
‘Just remind me why
I’m
doing this?’
I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen, which has been transformed into the definition of chaos by the arrival home of Lipsy and Phoenix. Gone is the aura of calm I managed to create when I refitted it last year. My beautiful granite worktops have disappeared under a mound of baby paraphernalia, and the carefully distressed oak table is now properly distressed owing to the activity taking place upon it. (Think three different colours of poo, like stripy toothpaste. Not pleasant.) With one hand I’m holding two tiny legs out of the way while the other hand tries to wrap up the nappy from hell. Unfortunately I don’t have a third hand or I could hold my nose with that one. This baby smells!
‘Could you pass me a nappy sack, at least?’ I snap at Lipsy, who is sitting as far away as possible, sipping tea. The tea I made for her, right after I’d unloaded the mountain of equipment I’d been instructed to go shopping for, which was right after I’d picked her up from hospital. I don’t mind – really, I don’t – it’s just that I’d quite like to sit down myself at some point today.
‘Hello? I’m in a bit of a pickle here.’
Lipsy leans forward, pulls a nappy sack from the bag and drops it next to Phoenix, never once making eye contact with me.
‘Well, gee, thanks. You be careful now, Lipsy. We don’t want you overdoing things.’
Oh, I’m a crabby one today, aren’t I? It’s not Lipsy’s fault. Note to self: don’t take your problems out on your daughter. I can see she’s knackered, and I can remember only too clearly how it feels to come home to your parents’ house with a new baby. Except when it happened to me I was alone. I didn’t have a loving, caring, hands-on man like Robert to help me. Lipsy’s dad had hotfooted it to God-knows-where by the time Lipsy was born.
Good riddance, of course. Except I didn’t think that at the time.
Also, technically this isn’t her parent’s house anymore. As Lipsy and Robert reminded me this morning, in exactly eleven days this will be their house. Their chance to find out how hard it is to manage on one salary and run a household and look after a baby without the bank of mum at the ready.
I keep this to myself too.
I finally manage to get the offending article into the oddly sweet-smelling plastic bag, and then I grab a fresh nappy from the pile on the table and quickly fold it around Phoenix’s bum. While I’m doing up the poppers on his cute little Babygro I think, Hey, I’m quite good at this.
And it is really good practice.
‘I’m going to bed,’ Lipsy announces, yawning, and I move from feeling sorry for her to feeling outraged all over again.
‘What about Phoenix? Won’t he need a feed soon?’
‘That’s what all this is for.’ Lipsy gestures to the heap of plastic bottles and boxes of formula littering the worktop.
‘But I thought you were breastfeeding,’ I say, feeling my cheeks grow hot. Saying the word breast to my daughter feels acutely embarrassing for some unfathomable reason.
‘Well, I was. But I’m not anymore.’
‘What? That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’
‘What do you care? You didn’t breastfeed me, did you? So why are you so bothered about it?’
‘I’m not bothered about it. What are you getting all worked up for?’ I take a deep breath. This is how arguments used to kick off in the bad old days, when Lipsy was still in her sulky teenager phase and hated everything I did or said.
‘You’ve just been out to buy all this stuff, Mum. What
did
you think it was for?’ she says, sounding very much like a sulky teenager.
‘I thought,’ I say carefully, ‘that it was for Phoenix. For in a month or so’s time. Or maybe as a stand-by if you, you know, if your ...’
I want to say breasts again but just can’t bring myself to. Wishing this conversation was over, I point in the general direction of Lipsy’s chest (which is unnaturally large at the moment, something Robert is no doubt chuffed to bits with).
‘You can remember what to do, can’t you?’ she says, tipping back her head to eyeball me. ‘Feeding and all that. You’re not nervous, are you?’
It’s a challenge, is what it is. I’m old, she’s saying. Past it. And the only way to prove I’m not is to take charge and look after Phoenix for her. Unless I can’t remember what to do, because it was so long ago.
I’ve always been a sucker for slights about my age. They get me every time.
‘Of course I can remember,’ I tell her haughtily. ‘And I’m not nervous. Didn’t you see me change his nappy then? Like a pro?’
We both look at Phoenix, who is lying on the changing mat waving his arms and legs happily. His nappy, I notice, is on back to front. I grab him and hold him up to my shoulder before she can notice. ‘It’s not so very long ago I was changing your nappies, young lady. You’re not that old. Old enough to have a baby though, eh? And what was it you said to me, all those months ago? That you could cope with a baby perfectly well on your own? That you didn’t need anyone to help you?’
‘Fine,’ Lipsy says, hauling herself out of the chair. ‘I’ll take Phoenix up with me. Wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’
Now I feel terrible all over again. My emotions are up and down like a bungee jumper today. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, placing my free hand on her arm. ‘I’m not in a good place today. You go on up and have a rest. I’ll make up some bottles and give Phoenix a feed, then I’ll put him down for his nap. OK?’
She smiles weakly and nods. She must be really, really exhausted because ordinarily Lipsy would ask me what’s wrong. She used to be very nosey – before she became a worn out mum like the rest of us without the time or the energy to think, let alone speak.
Now, where did
that
come from? Phoenix is only two days old and already I’m talking like it’s the beginning of the end for Lipsy. It felt like that for me, but things will be different for her.
Like they’ll be different for me, this time around.
I pop Phoenix in his bassinet and shuffle Lipsy up the stairs to bed, tucking her in like I used to when she was still a little girl, then I creep back down to tackle the formula problem. Truth be told, I can’t remember what to do at all. There was, I think, lots of sterilising and measuring and powder going everywhere. And then there was water to boil and cool, and more measuring. Lots of mixing.
Phoenix looks up at me from his bassinet, his nose a little wrinkled. I notice the nappy sack on the table beside him and quickly sweep it into the bin. But that won’t help, will it? We’ll need one of those special nappy bins with the scented cartridges and the sweep-around top.
The list of equipment is never ending. But at least we’ll have it all ready for when the next baby comes along.
It’s when I’m tidying up I notice the calendar. I’ve been counting the days – literally – until the due date, and now it occurs to me I need to start counting the days until the wedding. Robert and Lipsy are doing that for me, of course, but I can’t blame them for wanting their own space. But now one milestone has been reached and passed, it’s time for me to focus on the rest of my life. Let go of Lipsy: put some distance between us, both physically and metaphorically.
And then I realise that today is the fourteenth of February. The most romantic day of the year, so they say, and where is the love of my life? He’s living it up in a field somewhere in deepest Wales with his nine-year-old daughter and Milton Keynes’ answer to Gwyneth Paltrow.
While his fiancé tries not to nurse a grudge, and wonders how to tell him that his plan for just the two of us is soon to become just the three of us.
Even I can see that doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
*
At half past seven the phone rings. I’ve been staring at a half-empty bottle of dry white wine for forty minutes, wishing I was ignorant of current health care regulations regarding mums-to-be. When I was pregnant with Lipsy we weren’t told to avoid alcohol and pâté and rare steaks and Brie. The last three I can live without, but wine?
Funny how before I peed on that little white stick it didn’t seem to matter if I had a tipple or two, even though I knew there was a possibility. Now I have the evidence in my handbag, I just can’t bring myself to pour a glass.
Paul’s voice is husky, which makes me feel all funny inside. Until I realise he’s probably whispering so Sharon won’t hear him.
‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ I say mournfully.
‘Oh, sweetheart. Did you get my card?’
I sigh. ‘Yes. It arrived this morning. Lovely, thank you.’
‘I found the one you left at the flat. Thanks, Stella.’
‘That was before I knew you were taking you-know-who with you. Cracked open the champers yet?’
‘Still sore about it, huh?’
I stare into the phone. You think?
‘So, anyway,’ Paul says, wisely changing the subject, ‘How’s Lipsy? And, you know, the baby?’
‘Phoenix and my daughter are both fine, thank you.’ I don’t mean it to come out so stiffly, but he’s right, I am sore about it. I should have said no. No, Paul, you can’t take her with you. No, it’s not OK. Fine, go off on a jolly with your daughter to salve your conscience now that you’re moving eighty miles away and getting married to someone other than her mother, but taking said mother along with you? A step too far, in my opinion.
There is an uncomfortable silence on the line.
‘How is Hannah?’ I ask eventually.
‘Fine.’
‘Weather any good?’
‘Not really.’
Poor Paul. Always trying to do the right thing, always getting it slightly off. I take pity and ease the tension by telling him how Lipsy and Robert have popped out for an hour to celebrate, leaving me to babysit.
‘You can’t let them take advantage of you, Stella. Should they be going out so soon? Phoenix is only two days old.’ This is more or less what I knew he’d say, but once he’s said it I bridle.
‘But Lipsy’s only got me for another fortnight. I
want
her to take advantage.’
‘What were you moaning about, then?’
Who was moaning? This is called sharing, I explain: a bonding exercise undertaken by two individuals with the purpose of cementing the understanding between them.