I look around. Asha’s right though, I think, about the footwear. There is too much neatness here for something as risky as pavement grub. Outdoor shoes bring disorder. Then again, toddlers aren’t that neat either. And they’re a little more resistant to being lined up neatly by the door.
Seth crawls in to join his mates. The toddlers sit alongside each other, some semblance of company for one another but barely interacting.
We say mates; we just push these one-year-olds together, their friendships as forced as ours were at first. When we used to function simply as something mum-shaped that escorted our babies to sit and play with other babies.
I think of Flick, Martha, the others. The friends who came for the initial post-birth visit clutching expensive baby leggings and overpriced biscuits and then disappeared back to Manchester and their real lives. With them the baby was the add-on, not me.
Where are they now though? I was too much effort for them. Consumed in Poppy, to be fair, I didn’t make much effort myself either.
My NCT friends are present. I feel a swell of love for them. How fast that’s happened.
My phone pings and this time, I check it. I can’t keep ignoring it, not when there are so many things to check for now.
Just Ed.
Gym tonight. Going to do a big session. Not back until late.
I suspect he will do anything to avoid our home and discussions about the video.
A few seconds later, another pings in.
Love you x
Guilt?
On the sofa, Asha heaves Ananya across her and feeds her, her eyes drooping as she settles back against a cushion.
Cora turns up a minute later, raising an extremely dark groomed eyebrow at me and giving half a glance in Asha’s direction. I know she means ‘Daytime breast-feeds? Still?’
I raise my own slightly overgrown eyebrow back.
With Asha back at work soon too, this will be one of the last chances in a while for this unlikely foursome of ours to get together on a weekday.
Outside, Cora’s Range Rover with its personalised number plate is parked in Asha’s drive, dwarfing Asha’s red Corsa. On the side is the branding for Cora’s Cupcakes.
Cora only lives a ten-minute walk away from here but she likes to remind us that she has a fancy car plus her limit for walking in the heels that are on her feet so frequently she totters with an upward arch around her own house in her slippers, is from car to fancy restaurant and back again.
‘Is it okay to park there?’ she asks, gesturing to the driveway from the door. Her WAG-worthy engagement ring catches my eye. I look at her forehead and think: more Botox.
‘No problem,’ answers Asha, as she scoops up a pile of toys and casts her eyes anxiously towards Cora’s feet. Cora yanks off a spike-heeled ankle boot. Her own WAG-style mansion has so much white that while she isn’t a natural clean freak, she sometimes imposes these kinds of rules too. The difference though is that if she doesn’t, there is a twice-weekly cleaner who will come and make things good as new immediately anyway. That’s a luxury Asha doesn’t have.
Cora slips in wearing something I think are called pop socks most often found in the Eighties and sits down, plonking Penelope on the floor. Penelope’s outfit probably cost more than mine. Penelope has just turned one.
Emma hangs back, twirls her fingers in her hair nervously. As usual she looks like a teenager who’s just grown an adult body. Like her five-eight frame is a surprise to her; like she’s uncomfortable in its newness.
‘Tell them your news!’ Cora says to her from the armchair. She glances at her manicure – you’d think they’d file more off for a woman who shoved her hands in cake mix for a living, I think. Told you, zero-hours workers.
Cora doesn’t look up again when she speaks next. ‘Go on, hon, go on.’
Emma shifts from one foot to the other, and yanks down her top to cover the bum of her leggings. She gives a quick checking-in glance to Seth, who is cruising along Asha’s freshly vacuumed and plumped sofa with a string of dribble exiting his mouth.
Emma looks like she might want to scoop Seth up and leave, rather than reveal to the group whatever she has just told Cora on their drive here.
‘I had Slimming World,’ says Emma, who’s probably a size sixteen, in her faded Welsh accent. Yanks the leggings this time, upwards over her tummy. Her clothes – perhaps a throwback to a pre-baby bygone era – are more like a fourteen. She looks irritated by them. ‘And I’d lost three pounds.’
‘That’s amazing,’ says Asha warmly, glancing over her shoulder at Ananya who is waving a toy car around her head. She turns back to grin at Emma and places a tiny doll hand on her arm. I suspect Asha could lose three pounds with a half-hour sweep of this house – her tiny four-eleven body moves like a kitten when she tidies. ‘Well done you.’
It’s distracted but sincere.
I glaze over as Emma talks now, staring at her hand, in its usual place over her mouth. Is it her teeth she’s covering up? They aren’t the whitest or straightest but I don’t know if it’s as conscious as that. More that Emma tries to cover everything about her body; to shut it up and stop it trying to show her up.
‘Thanks, babe,’ she says. ‘I might even let myself have a cheeky wine and a slice of pizza this weekend.’
I look down and roll my eyes. Emma is a sweet person. But if I have to hear her talk about cheeky drinks or naughty biscuits as though they are massive piles of drugs one more time, I will reach down her throat and pull out the clichés.
Emma takes a hesitant step forward and
