Greenwich Park(5)

I head back into the main square, where the coffee place and the metal tables are. I think about getting an orange juice and sitting here for a bit. I could look at Serena’s Instagram for a while, see what she’s up to. She does her yoga class on a Wednesday and usually posts something afterwards, a picture of herself upside down, flexed like an acrobat on a pale pink mat, her trailing hair completing the perfect circle of her body. Or an inspiring quote from a book, which is usually easy enough to find and order online. I think about having a look at these other antenatal classes she’s found, the ones that meet in the bakery. But I’ve already paid hundreds of pounds for the NCT ones. Daniel would go mad.

And that’s when I see her. The girl from the antenatal class. Rachel. She is sitting at one of the metal tables, reading a newspaper, the free one they hand out at the Tube station. That rape case is on the front page again. There’s a hardness in her expression as she reads, her mouth clamped in a tight line.

I could say hello, obviously, but I don’t really have anything to say, and can’t think why I would want to initiate another round of awkward small talk. I’d been desperate to get away by the end of the class, but she had tried to strike up another conversation. I got the impression she was hoping to hang around, have another drink. I’d muttered an excuse and left as quickly as I could, marching home to scold Daniel over his non-appearance.

I can’t resist studying her a bit, though, seeing as I am here unobserved. She looks young to be having a baby, I think – much younger than most of the others in the group. She is quite pretty really, though she has made the mistake of over-plucking her eyebrows, and her long hair is dyed too dark, so that it makes her face look shockingly pale.

Rachel seems completely absorbed in her newspaper. The coffee on the table in front of her looks untouched, a speckle of chocolate powder sitting perfectly on the foam. She has left her phone and purse on the edge of the table, rather recklessly. Anyone could snatch her things from a table like that. I notice the purse is stuffed with notes – so many that she has only been able to zip it up halfway.

Rachel places the newspaper down, picks up her phone and starts tapping away. That chipped purple polish is still clinging to her fingernails. The garish gold backpack is at her feet again, plus a clutch of shopping bags. Her mobile is clad in a gold plastic case, the sort you see on teenagers’ phones, an outline of a Playboy bunny studded on the reverse in diamanté.

I have stared too long. She glances up, spots me immediately. I try to look away, fiddle with my bags, but it is too late.

‘Helen!’

When I glance back up, the serious expression has been replaced by a wide grin, her pointed teeth on show again. She tilts her head to the side and motions me to come over. As she does so, she shoves the bulging wallet into her bag, away from view.

‘So great to see you!’ she cries. I start a tentative wave, but instead she stands up and pulls me into a bear hug, as if we’re old friends who haven’t met in ages, rather than near-strangers who met just a few days before. The hand I’d raised in greeting is squashed, awkwardly, between our two chests.

‘They’ve signed me off work early, too! High blood pressure, same as you. What are the chances?’

What are the chances? I think to myself. I suppose blood pressure issues are hardly uncommon. Although I’d sort of assumed it was linked to my being a bit overweight. Whereas she is so skinny and slight, her small round bump incongruous against her matchstick-thin arms and legs.

‘Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. Poor you,’ I say, tentatively. ‘Are you on the labetalol, then?’

She looks blank for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ she says vaguely, glancing off to the left. ‘Something like that.’ Her hands flap my question away, as if it’s not important. ‘Come on, let’s have a coffee. We can catch up properly.’

Catch up? On what? I open my mouth to object, then close it again, my brain having failed to supply me with an excuse. Rachel is looking over my shoulder, beckoning a waiter with a purple-painted fingernail.

‘Excuse me? Hello?’ The frown is back. ‘Fuck me,’ she mutters. ‘Service is slow around here.’

I place my bag and my basket of groceries on the floor between us. As I do, I start to form excuses in my mind. Friends round for dinner, I’ll say. Can’t stay long. I sit down, the silence between us already feeling uncomfortable. I take a stab at small talk.

‘Have you been shopping?’ I ask, gesturing rather stupidly down at her bags.

‘Yes!’ She beams. ‘Baby stuff, obviously. I’ve literally gone mad. I know they say not to buy too much. Can’t help it, though. It’s all so fucking cute!’



I laugh, awkwardly. I know what she means. The little velour jackets, the tiny towels with bear ears on the hoods. It’s like an addiction, once you get started. I’ll have to pretend to Daniel that I’ve waited, as he said we should – that baby shopping this weekend is a big treat. In reality, I’ve been hiding bags from him for weeks.

Rachel presses her lips to the coffee mug and sips, leaving a crescent of coral pink on the rim. ‘So,’ she says, replacing it. ‘Tell me about this husband. Did he have a good excuse?’

‘Sorry?’

‘For not showing up!’

‘Oh.’ I laugh nervously, glancing at the tables either side of us. I wonder if other people are finding her voice a little too loud, or if I’m just imagining it. ‘He just had a nightmare at work. It was one of those things.’