‘I’m running a book on what she’s had done,’ says Sophie, kissing my cheek. I smell eau-de-motherhood – coffee, crayons, wet wipes and white wine.
‘I’ll put twenty pounds on Botox. She’s been bemoaning her neck bands for weeks,’ I say.
‘Not being rude, darling, but Nathan’s left half his lunch in your ear,’ Sophie laughs, pointing at my head.
‘Nathan loves spitting his tom-toms all over the place,’ I say, hastily picking off a crusty flake of what I presume is dried blood. I jiggle Nathan in a gesture I hope conveys motherly affection. He squeezes my cheek in return but I feel only mild irritation. In truth, I’m still trying to bond with him, and it’s infernally difficult.
Sophie loves easily and undiscerningly. She’s even bonded with her partner’s annoyingly perfect child. My children and I get by through familiarity and routine. But if love is the irrational continuation of affection in the face of continual disappointment, then I do love my children. And perhaps even Stephen too.
Loving anything as demanding, noisy and erratic as a child seems quite heroic to me. Mothers are expected to react with joy and delight from the moment a child is born. All I felt was a vague resentment that this parasite had lived inside me for so long without paying a penny in rent.
‘Happy Birthday, little Nate, you’re so adorably cute.’ Sophie squeezes his fat cheek and Nathan buries his head in my chest.
‘Sorry – he’s no good for anything till he’s had his first shot of organic almond milk.’
‘Oh, I’m exactly the same,’ says Sophie. ‘Now while I’m in the loo, open a bottle, and we can get one in before Aisha arrives and starts guilt-tripping me.’
‘Everyone has a cross to bear. You have wine, Cait has Owen, Aisha has yoga, and I have astonishing beauty,’ I say, and Sophie laughs even though I’m quite serious, then thrusts the bag of poorly wrapped presents into my free hand and darts into the loo.
I put Nathan down and pat his head as kindly as I can. He runs off to the kitchen with his presents. I expect Jethro to follow. Instead, he smears snot across his cheek, and yanks on the handle to the toilet door (mothers are not permitted loo-breaks). He then spots Purdy, my blue-eyed Turkish Angora, slinking down the stairs like a debutante arriving at a ball.
‘Cat!’ shouts Jethro and runs towards her. Purdy is unamused, increases her gait elegantly, and pushes open the living room door. Her fluffy tail disappears through the gap as she heads to her favourite sunspot. Jethro bolts after her and shoulder-barges the door.
Unless I stop him, he’s about to face his first significant trauma.
‘No!’ I bellow. He stops dead, turns and stares at me, his face a cubist miasma of fear and shame.
‘There’s a monster asleep in there,’ I whisper, pulling the door closed. ‘If you wake him, he’ll be extremely hungry. Do you know what he likes to eat?’
Jethro’s eyes widen as he shakes his head.
‘Little boys,’ I say, with a cold blank expression.
Jethro shivers, his eyes glued to the door, when we hear a faint scratching sound from the other side.
‘You’ve woken the monster,’ I say, my face exaggerated with mock fear.
Jethro’s eyes crease, and he runs down the hall screaming. I open the door, and Purdy walks out imperiously, leaving a trail of little red paw prints across the shiny tiles.
Chapter3Chablis
We’re all gathered around my large kitchen island (Italian marble). There’s an open bottle of chilled 2020 Chablis Montmains between us, which is possibly too good for Sophie, but you try to improve people where you can. If it were a drinking race, Sophie would be dipping for the tape, Aisha would be jogging slowly in her Lululemons, while Cait would be at the starting line tying her laces.
There’s a scattered mass of abandoned presents on the brightly coloured party table. The children have all charged outside following Nathan, who has a cardboard box on his head. An unruly pile of wrapping paper is making everyone feel guilty (three comments so far, two from Aisha), and we quickly cycle through the ‘can you recycle wrapping paper, or have you tried re-usable Japanese wrapping cloth?’ conversation again, which probably saves several forests all by itself.
As we’re chatting, I fold each piece of wrapping paper into a neat pile and tie with a ribbon. I tell my friends I’ll reuse it, which I won’t. This leads to a discussion of how everyone’s parents used to save pieces of string, make meals out of leftover animal fat, and share baths. Halcyon days.
‘Can you hear someone calling?’ says Aisha, and we all go quiet. There’s a plaintive cry coming from the direction of the hallway.
‘It’s just Purdy,’ I say, more in hope than expectation, but she does meow sometimes like she’s in the last act of an opera.
After a quick check on the man in the living room, who has not moved one inch, I decide I need to focus on happier things and fetch the cake.
Homemade birthday cakes are directly proportionate to parental love, so it’s important to devote appropriate resources. A supermarket cake, even if you choose the pricier option, just won’t convey the necessary level of motherly devotion. I baked and discarded a small Victoria sponge earlier – the aroma adds authenticity to the masquerade.
I return to the kitchen and place my masterpiece on the table for everyone to admire before the children arrive to undo all the good work. It’s a Winnie-the-Pooh extravaganza with Pooh, Piglet and Eeyore at Eeyore’s birthday party. My friends coo in approval. There’s even a low gasp.
There are two kinds of children’s parties – the couture and the diffusion line. The diffusion line involves inviting every member of your child’s class, is inevitably crowded and stressful, and relies on ultra-processed snacks and a supermarket cake. The couture party is for select friends, and characterized by fine wine, dips, self-entertaining children, and a showy cake.
