The Baby Diaries

Me: Her what?

Alice: A what of her what?

Carol: Tony bought this just before he left. It says here Kiki’s handling it in his absence. Didn’t he tell you?

Me and Alice: [blank faces]

Carol: Bloody hell. Right, it’s an American import, obviously, but we’ll publish in March, the same time as them. Lucie’s an incredibly wealthy New York journalist, mainly working in the US but with a few things published over here. Her piece on arranging a prostitute for her super-rich-CEO husband went down a storm last year in the Mail.

All: Oh, her!

Carol: Quite. She’s written the book already, but we won’t bring it out until the baby is actually born.

Me: But what is it?

Carol: Looking again at the submission notes, it’s ‘a unique look at pregnancy, labour and the early years through the fresh eyes of someone appreciating the beauty and purity of the experience’.

Alice: I’ve heard about Lucie. If her eyes are fresh it’s only because she’s had them injected with dolphin endorphins at some million-dollar spa.

Carol: We’re all thinking it, Alice, but I’m afraid you must learn to love this book. Tony’s spent enough on it that we must make use of the month we’ll have her for.

Me: But how can she have finished it if she hasn’t even had the baby yet?

Carol: Because when you have that much money, you can guarantee that life will turn out how you planned. I’ll send you the latest version; she’s over next month for a meeting with us. Did Tony really not tell you any of this?

All I could think was: Christ, I really hope Tony doesn’t buy a How to Cope with Everyone You Know Dying book, or I’m going to have to keep a closer watch on my loved ones. Why does he keep predicting my life? What the hell is going on? And why the living hell would he not tell us he’d bought it?

But it felt like the right time to tell Carol about this baby, after the meeting. She took it so well, giving me a hug and asking me for all the details. She said she’d email Tony – not that he responded with any real frequency – and get all the information to me about my leave and maternity pay. Her enthusiasm was quite infectious, in fact, and for once I didn’t mind telling people. Alice pulled out one of the bottles of prosecco that always seem to dog this place, and we had a tiny toast. I even saw Norman raise his glass to Carol before he drank, that old romantic. It wasn’t so bad, after all.

A Womb of One’s Own’s publication date is in March, four months away, a month after Lucie’s baby is born. As long as there are no complications, I’ll be happy to assist Alice with Lucie’s publicity; at seven months pregnant, I’ll be delighted to be on the phone for them while I sit in comfort in the office. Who knows, maybe she can actually give me some tips. And I can practise holding another baby, too, one that, unlike Susie’s kids, it does matter if I drop. Maybe I’ll start feeling maternal.

Although that seems unlikely.

November 29th

This morning, I remembered the times we’d visited Heidi and Rich, Thom’s best man, and their new baby Megan since our wedding. I liked them both very much, and found Megan wonderful to hold, like a kitten. But I’d always been quickly bored of that little animal warmth, and was happy to pass it back to Heidi so she could uncover an udder and feed the squirming creature. I never felt broody when we saw them – ha! In fact, last time we went, we even talked on the way home about how we hoped our feelings about babies would change before we had them ourselves – and never looked forward to seeing the baby, rather than Rich and Heidi. Yet there we were tonight. Pregnant, and on their doorstep again for another visit. We had a nice enough time, but I couldn’t wait until we were driving home again.

Me: Did you see the face they made at one another?

Thom: What face?

Me: The ‘Didn’t we say’ face.

Thom: Didn’t they say what?

Me: Have you really not noticed that when we’ve told people? The second you’re married, everyone starts waiting for the womb on legs in the relationship to get knocked up.

Thom: [laughing] I can’t say I have noticed that, I’m afraid.

Me: No! I know you haven’t! And do you know why? Because –

Thom: I’m a man. I know. And I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that fact right at this moment.

Me: [laughing] Thom, I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying it’s another one of the countless things which exposes the idea of pregnancy being some kind of partnership as completely and utterly false. We are not pregnant. I am pregnant. I am the one everyone is watching. If something happens to this baby, whose fault do you think people will think that is?

Thom: [stopping the car] Kiki. If anything – heaven forbid, times a million – if anything happens to this baby, I couldn’t give the slightest shit what anyone else says. My only concern is loving it, and loving you, and making sure that even if it’s a tiny contribution, I do whatever I can to make your lives better.

Me: [crying] I’m just so hormonal. You don’t know what it’s like.

Thom: [pulling me into a hug] I know, Keeks. I know.

TO DO:

Investigate how long these crazy hormones are supposed to last

On second thoughts, maybe don’t

Do something nice for Thom

November 30th

Pamela came in for one of her infrequent visits to the office today, so I thought it was a good idea to tell her about the pregnancy: I owe my promotion purely to her and won’t ever give her an excuse to be disappointed in me. But she was as nice as Carol, checking I felt well and wasn’t exhausting myself, asking how the check-ups had been and whether my parents were excited. ‘I hear grandchildren are one of the greatest gifts one can receive,’ she explained, ‘but I’ve long since abandoned any hope of Tony giving me such a blessing.’ She shook my hand and congratulated me again, and I reassured her that she wouldn’t be able to keep me out of this office for long.

Drinks with Jacki tonight. I was so excited, since I missed our last drinks in October and I haven’t told her about this pregnancy yet. I have so much to thank her for – my promotion (it was the success of her book that sealed it), my wedding (she offered to bankroll it), and the fact I had a husband at all (she reminded me what really mattered when her marriage to a gold-digger broke her heart) – but even if I didn’t, seeing her always makes my day. We met at one of our favourite snug bars in Soho, underneath an erotic bookshop, and clacked downstairs to a booth. We were talking over one another before we’d even ordered our drinks.

Me: Jacki! I can’t believe I haven’t seen you for so long. It’s been the craziest few months.

Jacki: I know, me too, darling. I’ve been filming two videos back-to-back for singles from the bloody Love Songs album, and I don’t think I’ve slept for a month.

Me: Well, you look well, Jacks.

Jacki: Do I? I’ll give you some advice that you won’t ever need: Don’t get divorced. [seeing my face] Sorry, love, I don’t mean you. Don’t let anyone you know get divorced either. It’s not the money – I always knew I’d be worse off after marrying Leon one way or another – it’s everything else …

Me: Jacks, I’m so sorry. Come and sit next to me. [putting my arm around her]

Jacki: I’m sorry, I’m not a complainer, you know that. But this is … knackering me. It really is. Leon, his girlfriends, the rumours, the public judging us both, and waking up on my own every day … Ugh. [shaking herself] Tell me about your life, Kiki. [swallowing hard] Is married life good for you? You look amazing on it, anyway. Glowing!

And with that, I lost my nerve. I told her all about my new role, about how her book was still selling, about Thom’s new job and Mum’s increasing anxiety over Dad, and Susie’s battles with the icing bag for yet another school event. As ever, Jacki listened so attentively, asking all the right questions and remembering everything I’d ever told her about these people. She asked about guests from our wedding too, Eve and Mike, and lovely Jim and Poppy.

Jacki: And wasn’t your best man’s girlfriend due any day? What did she have?

Me: They had a little girl, Megan. She’s … wow, almost three months now.

Jacki: And are they happy?

Me: I think so. Heidi doesn’t get much sleep, though.

Jacki: And Ped told me all about Zoe, too.

Me: [not looking at her] Yeah! It’s amazing, isn’t it? I hear he’s treating her really well. First class all the way, these days. Maybe I will work for Pedro, after all.

Jacki: That only works if you’re pregnant, though.

Me: Ha! Hahaha! Haha! Yes! Haha!

Jacki: But at least Zoe and your friend Heidi have someone to care for, and to care for them, Kiki. They’re very lucky, and they should remember that.

Me: Would you like another drink?

Jacki: Ooooh, yes please. Isn’t it my round?

But I had to go and order the drinks so she wouldn’t realise that I was having Virgin Mules and Shirley Temples. Poor Jacki. As if she needs to hear from me how I’m happily breeding with my loving husband when she’s so lonely and hurt from that conniving horror Leon. I made a useless resolution that if anyone else I know ever seems to be marrying someone who appears to be a feckless greedy gobshite, I will definitely tell them. For now, I will continue to support Jacki in any way I can (or until I start showing).

December’s Classic Baby

‘You may, perhaps, be prepared to hear that Mrs Micawber is in a state of health which renders it not wholly improbable that an addition may be ultimately made to those pledges of affection which – in short, to the infantine group. Mrs Micawber’s family have been so good as to express their dissatisfaction at this state of things. I have merely to observe, that I am not aware that it is any business of theirs, and that I repel that exhibition of feeling with scorn, and with defiance!’

Mr Micawber then shook hands with me again, and left me.

David Copperfield

Charles Dickens

December 1st

Oh, advent calendar joy! When we were very little, Susie and I had a fabric advent calendar each which Mum had made, and which she and Dad would then fill with all sorts of gifts. When Dad had to travel with work, the calendar would include little German Christmas decorations, American sweets or even just miniature hotel jars of jam, while Mum would provide pound coins, lip glosses, single chocolates and hair clips. Despite the fact that we are far too old to indulge in such things, Mum still delivers the bags of twenty-five gifts each November 30th, with each tiny parcel numbered, so Susie and I don’t spoil one another’s surprises, although now the calendars are obviously filled with gifts for Thom, Pete, the Twins and Frida too.

Thom and I had spent last night diligently filling each pocket with the numbered parcels, and I was allowed to string the fairy lights around the bookshelves (but not turn them on). This morning, I leapt out of bed to open the first one.

Me: A hair clip!

Thom: [grumpily] Yours.

Me: Ahh, is someone feeling left out of the widdel advent caw-endar?

Thom: I hope you’re not going to talk to my child like that.

I always hug myself when he says something like that. If all goes well – a phrase I think to myself a hundred times a day – we’ll be celebrating next Christmas with three of us here. Three! Our baby! Wait. I got too excited too quickly. Won’t it just pull down the tree? Eat all the presents? Mmmm. Still not ready for this.

December 2nd

So I’ve finished A Womb of One’s Own. Wow.

Wow.

What a mixture of preachy, hippie garbage and self-congratulatory smugness. Here are some of my favourite bits:

On discovering the news:

It was a moment I shall never forget. As Bill and I looked at the doctor’s report telling us that our great blessing had arrived, we held hands. ‘Our souls are fused together forever,’ Bill’s eyes seemed to say. ‘This is a child of love,’ mine replied. Bill started to cry, then I joined in, and even the doctor wiped his eyes. ‘I’ve been doing this job for thirty years, and I’ve never been so moved when I told a couple the good news,’ he exclaimed. ‘Thank you. Thank you for reminding me of the magic of this job.’

On going into labour:

It was a swelling wave, a jungle noise that I rode, crested, becoming stronger and more powerful than I ever could have considered possible. I reached inside my soul, and found myself as a small girl, a teenage beauty, a handsome woman, a wise old crone. We stood in a circle holding hands, and they guided me to the place I needed to be, delivering me strength and love. I knew my child was being born, and that it was a journey only I could go on. I could hear my doctor: ‘One more push, Ms Martel,’ and my selves nodded at me, smiling. With one final effort, I could feel myself doubled, grown, as the love Bill and I created became a person, a name, a life. It was Creation.

On feeding the baby:

I had watched others around me struggle with breastfeeding, discovering pain and bleeding. Others had simply given up, and turned to a plastic bottle for their newborn wonder. Blessed as we were with our child, so was I blessed with his feeding. He took to it like a natural – as that’s what it was, the most natural thing in the world. We stared into each other’s eyes, and I could feel the love flow between us. I knew that no pain could ever touch me, as I was giving him the greatest gift in the world – mother’s milk, which would be with him for the rest of his life, bettering him and lifting him among his peers, wherever he went.

On the baby’s toys and clothes:

Bill and I agreed from the start that we wanted only beauty for our child. We had no plastics in the nursery, which our own interior decorator had redone completely for us, in shades of dove grey with a yellow accent. The cot was made from an old altar from Brazil, with wood which was hundreds of years old. The changing unit was fashioned from a table Bill’s family had kept for generations, while the baby’s wardrobe was an heirloom from my grandmother, shipped from France in the eighteenth century. We carpeted the room in the softest New Zealand wool, with a feature rug from Morocco. The toys were handmade – an artisan in upstate New York made a whole family of wooden animals, and an Italian craftsman designed an original light fitting in a giraffe shape. All the bed linen and blankets came from handcrafters across the country when I’d sourced throughout my pregnancy. We even had a film prop-maker fashion us the baby’s name in lights, to go on the wall – Bill and I both knew how important it was for this baby to feel at home the second we brought him in.

I cannot wait to meet this woman. Orrrr … not meet. One or the other. Probably the latter.

TO DO:

Find out if Thom will repaint our living room in dove grey and accent yellow. That actually sounds lovely.

December 3rd

My final treat from Thom’s diary of treats: a trip to the local garden centre, choosing and buying a Christmas tree, plus as many Christmas decorations as I could carry. We both got slightly giddy, sniffing the needles and displaying the baubles to one another in very, very mature ways, but eventually we left with a tree that was, of course, slightly too big for our living room, and an enormous box of extra fairy lights, baubles, bells, bead ropes, robins, ribbons and a golden, glittering star tree topper.

We blew the rest of the afternoon getting the tree positioned and decorated (Thom: ‘I think we need to soak the base first.’ Me: ‘Do it later! Let’s get it up first!’), with me tying bows everywhere while Thom kept us supplied with tea and mince pies.

Thom: Do you ever worry you might peak too soon?

Me: Nonsense. Carpe diem. And the diem I carpe is Christmas Day.

Thom: I didn’t know one could pick.

Me: One can and one does. If Scrooge resolved to keep Christmas every day, I think starting at the beginning of December is the very least we can do. It’s not like I’m making us eat turkey and all the trimmings every day for the next month.

Thom: Don’t. I know you. You start off joking about these things …

Me: [pulling him down beside me] I promise. No turkey until at least the 17th. But thank you, for all these things over the year. It’s been lovely. And I think next year might be lovely too.

TO DO:

Double check which foods I’m allowed to eat, before Christmas kicks in properly

December 4th

Time to tell Eve. Why was I nervous? This wasn’t the Eve of old, this was new Eve. Nice Eve. Thoughtful Eve. Normal Human Being Eve. Since she’d tried to seduce Thom at her last birthday party, met someone she’d actually cared about for once (the lovely baker Mike) and faced my half-hearted wrath, Eve had changed. I loved seeing her now – she no longer made me feel guilty or inadequate. Yet, still so nervous.

She’d come over to mine for lunch, and was loitering in the kitchen doorway while I got everything together.

Eve: I brought some wine – shall I open it?

Me: Yes please. Just a bit for me, though, thanks.

Eve: Late night last night?

Me: [brightly] No, it turns out I’m pregnant! Oops. Didn’t mean for that to happen. Not that I’m an idiot or anything. Just … statistically unlikely. But it’s fine. I’m fine, and the baby’s fine, although I’m still not used to it actually being a baby – I just like to think of it as a thing I’ll have to get round to dealing with sometime next year. Ha!

Eve: Oh right. Cool.

And that was it. She didn’t ask any more, and I didn’t volunteer it. We ate lunch, and talked about work and our families, then she left. I felt flat.

When Thom got home from the pub, I was still lying with my face half-pressed into the sofa, watching something dreadful on TV with my open eye.

Thom: Eve back on form?

Me: No! She was fine. It was nice to see her. She just didn’t really … care.

Thom: Wasn’t that what you wanted? Better that than her telling you how to name it and where we should live and what clever little vintage items it ought to wear, isn’t it?

Me: I suppose so.

Thom: Keeks, I know she’s been different these last few months, but a leopard can’t change its spots entirely. Just think about all the other people who do make you happy: Suse, Zoe, Alice – have you seen Greta recently?

Me: No! That will be nice! You’re right. It’s just habit with Eve. But you’re right.

TO DO:

Stop having high hopes for Eve

Start enjoying the rest of our friends while I can

Remember I’m not dying, just having a baby

December 6th

An evening to try again with Jacki. She’d emailed me this time, asking if I wanted pre-Christmas cocktails at the Dorchester after work, even though we’ve only just seen one another. I knew I had to get there before her, to order my soft drinks again, so I left the office at 5; walking up Oxford Street towards Marble Arch, admiring the windows, but hurrying. I got there almost half an hour early, bursting into the bar in a sweat, and grateful that I’d have time to compose myself. But Jacki was already there.

Jacki: [waving] Woohoo!

Me: Jacki! Hello? Didn’t we say six?

Jacki: I thought so. Thirsty?

Me: I am, yeah.

Jacki: [gesturing to a barman] Here, it’s coming over now. [taking two drinks from the waiter]

Me: [smelling it] Oh … lovely. Thank you. What is it? [lifting it to my mouth]

Jacki: It’s called a Belladonna.

Me: [wetting my lips with it] Mmm, what’s in it?

Jacki: Gin and rum. And apricot liqueur.

Me: [still holding the glass to my lips] MmmMMMm.

Jacki: And a double whisky.

Me: [putting glass down] Alright, enough. [wiping mouth] Oh, that is good though. How long have you known?

Jacki: I had an email from Polka Dot telling me they were looking for my replacement editor and would let me know as soon as they could.

Me: What?

Jacki: Which is exactly how I felt. Why the hell didn’t you tell me, Kiki?

Me: Well, partly because I only found out really recently –

Jacki: So you didn’t know last time I saw you?

Me: Um.

Jacki: Was this a pity silence? Was I so sad that you couldn’t even tell me you were pregnant?

Me: No, of course not!

Jacki: So what was it, then?

Me: It wasn’t pity, it was just tact. You were sad, because of course you would be, because your husband …

Jacki: He’s not my husband.

Me: I’m sorry, Jacks. You know what I mean. Of course you would be sad, and we were talking about that, and I didn’t think it was appropriate to say, ‘Hey, guess what! I’m having a baby!’

Jacki: [quiet] OK. Alright, Keeks. What a pair we are, hey?

So Jacki drank both the Belladonnas, and I drank some amazing ginger and apple things, and we stayed there for a while. I told her about the scan, and how my family and Polka Dot were taking it.

Me: Hey, Jacks, do you want to be godmother to this baby? Well, not godmother godmother. Non- godmother. What do you say?

Jacki: Did you just think of that?

Me: Nope.

Jacki: Kiki?

Me: Please? It’s all so medical I could do with a little laughter and colour in the mix. As long as the colour isn’t flesh pink or wound red.

Jacki: Oh, you do know how to sell it, Kiki. Can I think about it?

We kissed and said goodbye, and I headed home to collapse on the sofa and tell Thom the good news.

Thom: Jacki Jones Jacki?

Me: Yes.

Thom: As the baby’s godmother?

Me: Non-godmother. I’m not dunking my baby for anybody.

Thom: Jacki Jacki Jones?

Me: Yes, Thom.

Thom: [thinking] Sure, that sounds nice.

December 7th

Thom woke me up this morning.

Thom: Uh, Kiki?

Me: Unnnnn. What?

Thom: What was the last thing you got in the advent calendar?

Me: Nnnnidunno. Mm. Maybe … oh, a lip balm. Why? What did you get today?

Thom: Look.

I finally opened my eyes to see what it was. Thom was holding up a slightly chewed stumpy pencil, the kind of thing Dad always keeps behind his ear at college. I felt baffled, then I realised that Susie had finally excelled herself.

Me: Oh my God … it was Susie!

Thom: How do you work that out?

Me: When she was over the other night, she had me rooting around for ages, trying to find a top she’d lent me. That bloody crafty wolf.

I roared with laughter, and we agreed that Susie deserved to be congratulated on her effective sabotage. I also determined to swap one of her parcels for her own little surprise before she got our congratulations. I was pretty amazed neither of us had had this brainwave before, to be honest. But if she wants to play mean, we can play mean.

At work today, I asked Carol about the email Jacki had got.

Carol: Jesus. Well, I assume that means Tony is checking his emails. I only told him last week, but he’s clearly back to meddling, wherever he is. Was Jacki OK?