As for my mother! When I arrived, she seemed to be avoiding her friends – those strange people who had crowded into the hospital room with my dad, and some new ones. It brought back hazy childhood memories of my mother giving any overture of friendship a gentle but assured brush off – she never stayed for tea when she fetched me, never invited people in, refused invitations, and never returned calls.
She was doing these things to her friends, but now it was making her angry and itchy, and her friends were having none of it. Ewan and Okkie phoned to chat, whether or not she was listening. And they turned up at the house, and scolded her for hiding. And that Eddie, the ageing rock star one, turns out to have a wife in the home with Daddy. He cornered her when they were both there visiting, crying about his wife and seemingly totally oblivious to the fact that my mother was brushing him off, until she gave in and said, ‘Come, Eddie, let’s go have some coffee.’
And then there’s a chap called Larry. He’s ancient, obviously, but kind of sexy in an ancient way. And he turns up and ignores her ignoring him, and talks and talks until she starts laughing. He’s even persuaded her to go to dinner with him twice, and a movie. ‘It’s not a date, Helen,’ he says, although it’s clear to anyone with eyes that it is. ‘Think of it as your charity work. Comforting a lonely old divorcee.’ And he’ll wink at me, and my mother laughs and agrees.
‘But it’s not a date,’ she keeps saying, and I just nod because I’m having a baby with a married man so what do I know.
But the weirdest of the lot is this couple Stan and Lizette. Stan is Eddie’s brother – they even look alike, only Stan never cries and Eddie cries most of the time. But Stan and Lizette love my mother. I don’t really know why, because she seems to actively dislike Lizette, and anyway, my mother isn’t very warm. But they love her. They’re constantly inviting her places, sometimes with that Larry and Eddie, sometimes not. She accepts about one in four invitations, and it doesn’t deter them.
‘I’m not the sort of person to take no for an answer,’ Lizette told me the first time I met her. ‘Your mother’s the sort of person who understands that.’ She dropped her voice like she was telling me a secret. ‘Your mother’s the sort of person who needs to get out more.’
I chuckled. ‘I would have said my mother was the sort of person who doesn’t need to go out at all,’ I told her. ‘But what do I know?’
According to my mother, Lizette apparently interpreted this as a plea for help and now we both get invited. Which is what happened last night.
Last night was particularly mad because Lizette was trying to set me up with someone. I’m actually nine months pregnant, and this woman is trying to set me up. I didn’t even realise. When we arrived, she sat me down next to an awkward young man and said, ‘This is Greg. He’s a doctor,’ and then walked away, which is very unlike Lizette.
‘This is so awkward,’ I said to Dr Greg.
‘Yes,’ he said, a blush engulfing his entire face. Like the whole thing. Even his nose. Even his eyebrows.
‘She’s put me next to you in case I go into labour,’ I said. ‘The ultimate in hostessing: a doctor for your pregnant guest. Will you be taking my blood pressure between courses? And shout at me if I drink wine?’ I laughed. ‘Not that I will,’ I added hastily, because I didn’t want even a stranger thinking I was irresponsible.
‘I don’t think that’s why she’s put us together,’ said Greg. ‘And there is lots of evidence that an occasional glass of wine does no harm to a baby, and may in fact be of benefit to the mother.’
‘Then why has she put us together?’ I asked. ‘And I’ve read all the stuff, but I’m taking the better-safe-than-sorry route. I mean, it’s not like I’m an alcoholic or something, so I might as well just not drink.’
‘Definitely.’
We seemed to be having two conversations at once.
‘She’s trying to set us up,’ said Greg, the blush happening again. He had very pale blond hair and I expected to actually see blood rushing up the hairs. ‘And yes, not drinking is probably the safest route at the end of the day.’
‘Set us up?’ I said, now distracted from the second conversation. ‘But I’m nine months pregnant! Is she insane?’
My mother, who was sitting nearby talking to Eddie, looked over at me, smiled and gave a wink. A wink? My mother?
‘Well, I admit it was a surprise when you walked in,’ said Greg. ‘She somehow forgot to tell me about that when she was telling me about you.’
Something about pregnancy, and the whole ridiculous situation I have found myself in, has made me outspoken. So I called across the room to Lizette: ‘Lizette, how the hell do you set someone up with someone and not tell the someone that the other someone is heavily pregnant? How is that even a thing?’
Most people would be embarrassed or apologise, but not our Lizette. ‘Well, I’m not the sort of person who wants people to pre-judge each other,’ she said calmly. ‘So I didn’t tell him you were pregnant, and I didn’t tell you he’s a recovering alcoholic.’
‘Lizette, you didn’t tell me anything about him. Because I would’ve told you that I. Am. About. To. Have. A. Baby!’ Then I turned to Greg. ‘Not that the alcohol thing would have been a problem, okay? It’s the fact that there’s another man’s child in my uterus that’s the problem.’ I directed this last part at Lizette, who was unflinching. Then I
