“Yes,” Stefan said. “You don’t look very well.”
She got up, waiting for him to sayStop, stop, that he’d talk to Richard, he’d send him home.
“Take it easy,” he said instead.
She blundered back to the office with tears in her eyes. The Richard stuff had been nothing compared with her first friend in Londonnot caring. They’d started off the same, two twenty-nine-year-olds knocking back wine, gossiping, tiptoeing around Antoinette and having a laugh. Now Stefan wore Raf Simons suits to client events and was named industry organCampaign’s “Creative Leader of the Year.” If he was a monster, Coralie had helped create him: She’d ghostwritten all his guest columns. She wanted to run back to Spa Fields, to make him understand and fix things. But she was too pregnant for that sort of thing, too tired and too sad.
Before she left, she took her fancy tea bags, her spare makeup, the gym kit she hadn’t used in about three years, the pen holder Zora had made her, and all of Florence’s nursery art. Incredible. Two and half years her darling daughter had been at nursery. So—why? So Coralie could clock in at the brand factory? Unvalued by her colleagues (even her so-called friend), or by society (grappling—or, more accurately, not grappling—with the existential problems of inequality and climate change)? Taking thefuckingpiss.
She spread the rest of her stuff out so her desk still looked occupied (because what would it do to her mat leave if they thought she’d left for good?). But she knew she’d never set foot in the agency again. It was seven years since the first time Richard had forced her out, almost to the day.
16
“Take a cushion, find a square of carpet, stretch out, touch your ankles if you can. No—you’re too far along for that. Touch your knees instead. Wriggle the toes, spread them out, baby toes. Who remembers last week? In pregnancy, some of us bundle up all the fear and danger, and what do we do? Project it onto the medical professionals, those nasty people trying to control us, and our bodies! Who’s having a home birth?”
Charlotte and one other woman raised their hands.
“Some of us think the call is coming from inside the house!” Fiona said. “The danger iswithin, something will go wrong with our bodies, and the only thing that can help is a nice doctor in clogs and scrubs! Hospital?”
Coralie, Sam, Lydia, and a few others raised their hands.
“Surely the truth lies in the middle! Midwives, doctors, drugs, they’re there to help. But you, the birthing parent, you have your own strength too. Intuition! A mother’s knowledge! Parental instinct, I mean. Sorry, Sam.”
“It’s fine.”
“We talked about the baby, going from its beautiful, warm, perfectly regulated kingdom, out into this horrible world, where Boris Johnson will be prime minister; our world with its loud noises, brightlights, and cold winds, although not today, this heat is rather womb-like. Leg up in a triangle, lean forward, round and round, massaging the hip. The baby will be disturbed by the change, and, after giving birth—so will you. Two disturbed people. Is that a disaster? Do they take away your parent badge?”
“No, no,” the pregnant people murmured.
“No, they don’t, and while I don’t wish discombobulation on anyone, bone-tiredness, the kind of sleep deprivation that leads to hallucinations—no one wants any of that, but is it bad? Is it the end of the world? It’s not, because by being in that state, disintegrated, you get a sense of how the baby’s feeling. Slowly, slowly, you build yourselves back up, together. Change legs!”
•••
Coralie and Lydiahad both worn Birkenstocks, so they avoided the pileup of women (and Sam) sitting on the stairs to put their shoes on. Outside, on the pavement, Coralie gestured toward Fiona’s house. “Maybetoohelpful?”
“Mmm,” Lydia agreed. “Learning too many new things at once is bad for my self-esteem.”
“I feel a bit ripped off. Fiona’s obviously the expert; why can’tshedeliver my baby?”
“Maybe she could raise it as well. We can collect them when they’re eighteen. Surprise! It’s me, your mother.”
“Where are you going, are you nearby?”
Lydia pointed at a tall tower block at the end of the street. “I’m up there, tenth floor.”
“Do you overlook the park?”
“I do!”
“Lucky. Will you have a maternity leave?”
“Yeah—you?”
“Yep.” Coralie looked down and pointed one sandaled toe.
“Maybe we’ll…”
“I’d like that!”
