‘Here, Mum.’ The tiny Abigail, dressed in a cream knitted smock and blush-coloured tights – a variation of the rest of the clan’s outfits – held the basket out to her.
‘Do it again for the ’gram, sweetie,’ instructed Hazel, holding up her phone.
‘Here you go, Mum,’ Abigail obediently repeated.
Hazel captured the moment and replayed it, frowning. ‘Let’s try one with “mama” – OK, sweetie?’
Abigail was totally unfazed by this bizarre reenactment. ‘Here you go, Mama,’ she intoned, bored.
‘OK, thanks.’ Hazel snatched the basket and handed it over. Shelly stole a glance at Ali to see what she made of this little pantomime, but Ali was buried in her own phone and hadn’t caught it.
‘So how are we all?’ Hazel settled herself cross-legged on the sofa in the corner of the kitchen. Her silk kimono jacket was the same blush pink as Abigail’s tights and she, like each of her daughters, had a single delicate French plait framing her fine features. Hazel was very pretty – not as striking as Shelly, but she’d nailed a certain surfer-girl-next-door look despite having zero inclination to get her hair wet. Her style directive was Gwyneth Paltrow-meets-LA-tarot-reader-to-the-stars. ‘Ali, I saw you were in the hospital there. All OK?’
‘Yep, all good. I was a bit mixed up about the due date but sorted now. I’m … I’m so glad the nausea’s over,’ Ali concluded – a little hesitantly, Shelly thought.
‘You’re almost afraid to say it aloud, right?’ Shelly grinned. ‘I’m the same. I feel like the pregnancy gods will hear me and strike me down with the pukes again if I relax too much!’
‘The pukes, ick,’ was Polly’s contribution as she snapped a pic of the seafood platter.
‘Pregnancy is only as bad as you make it,’ said Hazel like a wise baby-spawning sage.
Here we go. Shelly suppressed an eye-roll. Now Hazel would be off on one of her favourite riffs about how she’d had six healthy pregnancies and just meditated the babies out when it came time to push. Clearly, she’s forgetting the six epidurals and nine private doulas it had taken, Shelly scoffed.
For her last birth, Hazel had broadcast an epic fourteen-hour Insta-live of every grunting, moaning, crowning second of Orca’s entrance into the world. For much of that day you could flick over to Hazel, teeth gritted but elaborate braided hair in place, and catch how dilated she was, hear some of the poetry she’d asked to be read throughout or follow the Spotify birthing playlist. A few clever cutaways hinted at some possible trickery in the ‘all natural birth’ – Amy’s theory was they’d staged the whole thing and the baby had actually been a couple of days old at the time of the Insta-live.
Apparently, according to Amy, conspiracy theorists were all over Rants.ie dissecting the footage. Not that that hurt Hazel – all the websites had covered the spectacle and she’d even gone on theLate Lateto talk about how she’d done it to empower women and not at all to increase her visibility on the international Insta-scene. Tubridy had made a valiant effort to hide that he was clearly struggling to keep his food down during some of the more visceral clips shown.
‘Ali, what are you doing about the birth?’ Hazel sat up and fixed Ali with a stern look.
‘Doing …? Ehm, I dunno. I thought the birth just kind of happened?’
‘Only for people without the sense to capitalise on it.’ She threw a withering glance at Shelly and Polly before continuing with a hectoring recitation about the myriad ways Ali could be better exploiting her situation. ‘You need to get on top of the plan now, Ali, because after that baby comes out, you’re gonna be a gibbering wreck – everyone is on their first. Shelly’s still a mess, sure.’ Hazel laughed and Polly joined in. ‘How’re you feeling about your impending joy, Shelly?’
She’s digging, thought Shelly. Being such a talented bullshitter herself, Hazel had an incredible nose for the bullshit of others.
‘Well,’ Shelly began, ‘Dan’s been away a fair bit so that’s been difficult.’
Polly nodded sympathetically and Shelly found herself tempted to confide the truth. It was so lonely pretending all the time. Pretending on her Instagram, and pretending to Amanda and Marni, and pretending to Hazel and Polly, the closest thing she really had to friends aside from Amy and Plum.
‘We’ve been going through a tough time.’ Shelly tried out the words, but seeing the horror cloud Hazel and Polly’s faces, she backtracked immediately. ‘Just spending time apart is so hard. We miss each other,’ she explained.
‘Christ,’ Hazel yelped. ‘I thought you were talking about’ – she lowered her voice – “marital problems”.’
Polly shivered.
‘Is that the worst thing that can happen?’ Ali was looking confused. ‘I mean, we’re not living in the fifties – it is 2019.’
‘Nothing kills a lifestyle brand like trouble in paradise,’ Hazel breathlessly explained, eyes shining with unbridled glee at the thoughts of someone else’s life falling apart. ‘You’re probably a bit young to remember an influencer called @SharonStyleHeaven? It all went completely tits-up for her after she had an affair with her trainer. She told some fairly outrageous lies to try and cover it up but it all came out in the end.’
Shelly felt panicky. Hazel was like a rabid hyena with the scent of blood in her nostrils. One whiff of any real trouble in camp SHELLY would definitely send her digging. Between keeping frenemies and fully fledged stalker enemies at bay, salvaging her relationship was actually looking like a more realistic option. She drained the rest of her kombucha as Hazel picked over the carcass of @SharonStyleHeaven’s career – was it her imagination or did Ali look every bit as uncomfortable as she felt?
21
‘OK, slow down – the turn is just here.’ Ali was leaning back in the passenger seat of Sam’s cheery little shitbox of a car, directing him through the gates of Ailesend.
‘It’s so close to IKEA!’ Sam marvelled. ‘How do you resist not going up there all the time?’
‘I resist,’ Ali deadpanned. Though she sorely wished they could ditch this morning’s obligations and hit the showroom, or anywhere else, right now frankly. ‘The car park’s just down here to the right.’
