‘Is it important?’ I say. Poppy starts crying for lunch. ‘I have a lot on and that post did well.’
Her face clouds over.
‘No disrespect, Scarlett, but you have no clue why I’m concerned about privacy; what may have happened in our lives to make me ask,’ she says, thunderous. ‘So yes. It is important.’
I go to answer back but don’t get chance.
‘And FYI, there could be a million reasons that a parent wants their child’s picture offline so maybe in future you should check before you post, especially as an influencer,’ she rants.
‘Okay,’ I say, chastened and in shock. ‘Sorry it upset you.’
But before I can emphasise my apology, Cora has waded in.
‘Hon, most parents want to show their children off,’ she says, haughty, on my shoulder. ‘Most parents are proud of their children. And you should be happy he’s on Cheshire Mama’s Insta. It’s kind of a big deal.’
I flush pink.
‘Is she serious?’ says this woman, gesturing to Cora as though she is my child and I am responsible for her. ‘Are you insinuating I’m not proud of my baby just because I don’t want him plastered on the internet like a trophy?’
This is escalating fast and I’m on edge. I don’t want a confrontation. I don’t want another enemy. I feel the panic that engulfed me at Asha’s coming back. I need to get out of here.
I usher Cora away and I see the woman ranting, furious, at her friend and I look around suddenly, on high alert. Do they know about the video? Is that why she wants it taken down, really? Does she not want her child associated with my blog when she knows that about me? Am I not safe here now?
Poppy isn’t strapped into her buggy, isn’t even wearing a sun hat despite the hot spring day when I bolt out of the door as fast as my heart is pounding.
I consider stopping at the local but then I remember: someone would see me, it would fly around, I would be a daytime drinking unfit mum. This claustrophobic place.
14
Scarlett
22 May
Mundane chart music that doesn’t make you feel anything booms around a bar that has no defining characteristics. There is a cocktail list that contains every obligatory cocktail choice and nothing unique. Men drink pints. Women snap pouting selfies.
‘You hate it, don’t you?’ asks Asha, next to me, anxious.
‘Of course I don’t hate it,’ I say, but I feel myself grimace.
Cora gives me a strange look.
She chose this place for tonight; booked the table.
Asha blushes.
Emma reaches over us for a chip. ‘Oh, babe, the points,’ she groans, singsong in that hint of a Welsh accent. ‘Nau-ghty.’
And I roll my eyes but it’s fond now; part of me thinks she’s playing up to her role.
I drink my cheeky glass of wine. Eat a naughty chip. Post a #mumsonthewine picture of all of us on my Instagram and then pretend to need the toilet so I can sit in there for a few minutes and watch the likes roll in.
When I come out an ice bucket of champagne lands on the table.
‘Babe, you didn’t!’ squeals Emma, mouth full of a chip, to Cora.
‘Emma, I did,’ says Cora, mock serious, unscrewing a cork with a delicate hand that is heaving under the pressure of its jewellery and violent nails.
The cork pops.
‘You’re so generous,’ I say warmly to Cora, as I place a hand on her arm.
She pours me a glass.
‘Not at all,’ she responds. ‘Just a little something.’
Emma is looking at her phone.
‘Does anyone know how many points are in champagne?’ she asks. ‘Is it more than a gin and slim?’
On a whim, I take her phone out of her hand.
‘I have looked it up,’ I declare. ‘And there are, officially, one hundred fun points in a glass of champagne.’
Emma laughs at herself as she rummages in her bag and pulls out a hair bobble, tying hair back in a ponytail that is frizzing in the humidity of the bar.
I down my own drink. Pop her phone back in her bag.
They all look surprised. They don’t think I’m fun because I’m often not, I suppose, distracted by my daughter or my sex tape or my blog. Dismissing the bar, cringing at the locals.
I down the gin that was sitting next to me before the champagne arrived and then I drag Emma with me to the dance floor. Through a slight tipsy fog and in dim lighting, I still see Emma flush with pride.
‘The Welsh one has a girl crush on you,’ Ed said with a laugh a few weeks ago, when I told him a story about my mum friends. ‘It’s obvious.’
‘She’s not Welsh, just lived there when she was little,’ I had said but it didn’t matter, he had taken a couple of characteristics of each of them and scribbled out a picture. Emma with only her hint of a childhood accent was Welsh, overweight, in awe. And where had he built that picture from really, barely having seen them since NCT classes over a year ago? From me and how I painted her.
‘What I don’t get is what you get from her,’ he added.
I had looked at his head then, turned away from me, knowing that what I got from Emma – and Cora and Asha – would be impossible to describe to him, unemotional as he is.
They bring comfort; support. Not the sharp humour I have sought from friendships before, no. Not the podcast recommendations or the gallery tips or the acerbic political commentary. But I sink into them like they’re my own bed after a newborn night feed. I trust them to hold my baby while I pay. I know that when I meet them, somebody will bring me a cup of coffee. These things sound low-level but right now, in my life, they are the top of the mountain.
