Greenwich Park(3)

Finally Sonia surrenders, pulling the back of her arm across the moisture on her brow. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Shall we take a short break?’

A murmur of relief goes up. All the women waddle towards the jugs of juice, I quickly follow them. Soon they are grouping up, the room filling with the noise of chatter. I am being left behind. I feel a plummeting panic. No Daniel, no Rory, no Serena. How do people make friends? What would Serena do?

I hover on the edge of a group, trying to look casual, waiting to be included. But there never seems to be a good moment to interject. I open my mouth to speak a few times, but on each occasion, someone else speaks first. I end up closing my mouth again, like a fish drowning in air. I feel the trickle of my anxiety begin, the nerve centre at the back of my head start to alarm. I am uncomfortably warm. Can’t someone get that window open?

The girl who came in late appears at my side. She is holding two enormous glasses of cold white wine, clouds of condensation on the side of the glass.

‘Do you want one? I thought you looked like you might need a real drink. One a day can’t hurt, surely.’

She holds out the glass in front of me. Her painted fingernails are short and chewed. She looks very young – perhaps she just has one of those faces. Round, dimpled, babyish. Yet when she smiles, there is something wolfish in it, her canine teeth protruding slightly, small but sharp.

‘What’s the deal then?’

I blink at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

The girl places the glasses of wine down on a side table, gestures to the two chairs next to me, the name tags ‘Rory’ and ‘Serena’ still lying on them. ‘Just wondered what the set-up was.’ She shrugs. Then her face snaps back at me, her eyes wide, her fingers pressed to her mouth. ‘You’re not a surrogate, are you?’ She laughs. ‘That would be typical, wouldn’t it? Didn’t even want it, and now you’re left holding the baby!’



The girl hoots. I look over her shoulder, try to catch the eye of one of the other women. But none return my gaze, so I am forced to reply. I clear my throat.

‘No, um. No. I’m not.’ I try to laugh. ‘It’s just that my husband Daniel couldn’t make it tonight.’ I shake my head slightly, as if it’s just one of those things, doesn’t matter.

I pause, before realising she is waiting for an explanation about the two other empty seats.

‘The other couple are my brother and his wife. Rory and Serena. They’re expecting in the same month as us. We’d been planning to do the classes together, as a foursome, but … I think they … obviously decided against it, in the end.’

The girl smiles sympathetically. ‘Hopeless. Never mind, you can team up with me, can’t you?’ She picks the glass up again. ‘Shall we have this drink, then?’

‘Thanks,’ I say hesitantly. ‘But I’m not sure …’

Why am I incapable of completing my own sentences? I should just say, no thank you, I would rather not drink. I mean, I’m pregnant. We both are. Surely I don’t have to spell it out?

‘Oh, I know what you’re saying,’ she booms, rolling her eyes and glancing around the room. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it? All this pressure! The way they change the advice all the time! One minute you can drink, the next minute you can’t, then you can “in moderation”, then it’s basically illegal! Bloody doctors.’

I clear my throat, unsure how to answer. I am very aware now of the gaze of the other women in the room, looking from me to the girl and the wine, and back.

‘Well, fuck doctors,’ she continues. ‘Our mums all got smashed when they were pregnant. We all bloody survived!’ She is speaking far too loudly. The room is silent, and people are starting to openly stare.

The girl looks over at the other mothers, registers their disapproving glances, then raises her eyebrows at me and giggles. She holds the wine glass aloft to toast her own sentiment. She brings the glass to her lips. ‘Fuck the NHS,’ she spits. ‘That’s what I say.’ She tips the glass to her lips and drinks. As she does so, I notice one or two of the other mothers actually wince.

The girl picks up the drink she has brought for me. She holds it out, like a threat, or a dare.

‘Come on,’ she hisses. Her eyes flick down to my name badge. ‘You know you want to … Helen.’

Later, after everything, I will come to wonder why I act as I do in this moment. For even now, there is something about this girl. Something that makes me want to edge away, to look for a place of safety. Like the feeling of being on a clifftop path when the wind is just a little too strong at your back.

But I don’t step away. I take the wine. And as I do, the other women turn their heads, as if by taking it I have answered all their questions. I want to tell them I’m just being polite, that I have no intention of actually drinking it. But they are already looking the other way.

‘Thanks,’ I say weakly.

‘Nice to meet you, Helen. I’m Rachel.’

And then Rachel clinks her glass against mine, knocks back another deep glug, and winks at me, as if we share a secret.





HELEN





The heat is more bearable today. A breeze from the river flows into Greenwich market hall, and the cloths over the stall tables billow like boat sails. Sunlight shines through glass panels in the roof, casting warm islands on the floor. In the green-painted metal rafters, pigeons coo and clamour. They sail down to the feet of the cafe tables, jabbing at abandoned croissants.