‘Um, no,’ I interrupted. ‘These classes are confidential, as stated in the terms and conditions on the form. You can’t take images or mention other clients online.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Claudia said, smoothing out her slick ponytail. ‘As long as I can check the images first.’
‘It’s in the terms and conditions,’ I repeated, increasingly aware of the migraine now throbbing at the back of my head.
‘But selfies are okay?’ Silva asked. ‘And general comments? I mean, this is all publicity for your little business, Liz. I can’t see why you’d object.’
I didn’t bother stating that I didn’t need publicity, or explaining the importance of client privacy. I took the kind of deep breath that got labouring women through contractions, wiped pointlessly at my chocolate-stained dungarees and got on with educating some people about the realities of birth and parenting, while trying to pretend the next four hours weren’t one of my actual nightmares come true.
To be fair, the group seemed to bond okay with each other, which always made things easier, and Chris mostly listened when Claudia’s birth partner asked him to ‘leave the horrible stories in the past where they belong’. It would have been a reasonably enjoyable class, if it weren’t for ‘Brayve’s’ subtle references to his own experiences, all of which included digs at his ex-wife.
‘Are we going to be discussing when to go into hospital? My ex insisted upon going after the first couple of twinges. We had to traipse all the way home again and come back later, which I’m sure contributed to her failure to progress.’
‘We tend not to use that term these days. It’s not especially helpful,’ I said, quietly, while resisting the urge to remind Brayden that he was the one panicking the second mycontractions started, so I let him drive us in just to stop him freaking out.
‘Failure to progress?’ Brayden looked surprised. ‘That’s what the doctors wrote on the notes. No point sugar-coating it, unless you’re claiming a quick, easy birth is somehow down to how strong or capable the mother is.’
5
I sent Nicky a barrage of messages venting my frustration during the lunchbreak, but she was at the surgery on Tuesdays so I knew she wouldn’t see them until later. Instead, I spent the hour after the session had finally finished pacing up and down having imaginary arguments with Brayden – I just couldn’t call him Brayve – until Dad drove the kids home from school in my now fully serviced car.
‘Long day?’ he asked, when he found me in the kitchen.
‘A surreal day,’ I said, handing both the kids an ice pop and sending them into the garden. ‘Brayden turned up at my class.’
‘What?’ Dad paused for a moment in surprise, before instinctively flicking the kettle on. ‘He gatecrashed your workplace? What on earth did he want?’
I grimaced. ‘Antenatal classes.’
Ignoring the kettle, Dad instead went to the fridge and pulled out two beers.
‘He hadn’t told you he’d booked on?’
I shook my head, taking a delicious ice-cold sip. I didn’t normally drink while the kids were around, but a few mouthfulsof beer wouldn’t hurt. ‘He never tells me anything,’ I mused. ‘Expects me to check his social media for updates.’
‘The children haven’t mentioned the baby. Do they know yet?’
‘Not that I know of. Sarah –Silva– is never there, so they wouldn’t have noticed her designer bump.’
Dad shuffled closer and put his arm around me. ‘I’m sorry. It beggars belief that he had the audacity to turn up to your classes, let alone without telling you. Did you kick him straight back out again?’
‘I wanted to.’ I leant my head on his shoulder. ‘But he was being all cool about it – said we were both professionals and there was no reason not to behave civilly – and he didn’t let on to the others that he knew me, so I just sort of went into automatic mode and carried on as normal.’
‘Well, it means he’s actually paying you some decent money for once.’
‘Ex-husbands are the worst.’
Dad squinted out of the window. ‘Well. I suppose the pro of your ex-wife running off to sea is that she won’t turn up when you least expect it.’
‘Doesn’t quite balance out the cons, though, does it?’
Dad seldom spoke about Mum since she’d upped and left a year after they’d stopped fostering. It was the first time he’d referred to her as an ‘ex’.
‘Speaking of which, there was a postcard on the doormat.’
‘Ugh, are you joking?’ I made to leave the room, but Dad pulled it from his shorts pocket, having already picked it up.
‘The usual nonsense?’
