I nod, but truth be told I’m starting to feel like we’re at the final vows stage ofMarried at First Sightand they’re dragging the arse out of this to up the drama. I want to remind them that this is not a TV show. And remind them that Niamh and I are both heading towards fifty and have a limited number of years left on this earth, so we appreciate it when people get to the point.
‘I know it’s not ideal,’ Jodie says. ‘But I’ve thought about taking a different route and it just feels wrong for me.’
‘And I agree with Jodie,’ Adam adds, looking at her. They share a soppy look that screams of young love and the endless possibilities that come with it.
‘That’s good,’ I say, while Niamh stays silent on the other side of me.
‘We know it won’t be easy, but we also know it will be worth it,’ Jodie says. ‘We have things to work out, of course. But there’s nothing we can’t overcome.’
‘Jesus Christ, Jodie, would you just spit it out for the love of God?’ Niamh blurts. ‘It’s bad enough you’ve made me wait so you could tell us together. This isn’t the bloodyX Factor. There’s no need for a big reveal!’
Jodie and Adam sit, wide-eyed and their mouths gaping as they look at a now very ruffled Niamh. I’m struggling to take this version of my best friend in too, to be honest.
‘Woah there, Mum!’ Jodie says. ‘I thought I was supposed to be the hormonal basket case in this scenario!’
Niamh glares at her. She’s using the best scary mother/scary teacher-demanding-the-coursework-you-promised-would-be-completed-a-week-earlier face I’ve ever seen. I’m afraid to speak in case she sends me to detention, so I stay quiet. I’m almost intimidated enough to put my finger on my lips as if I was back in primary school, trying not to annoy my teacher.
‘Okay,’ Jodie says, throwing her hands in the air. ‘We’ll get to the point. We’re going to keep the baby.’
My eyes dart immediately to Adam, desperate to see if he looks content with the decision. It’s not a case that I don’t believe Jodie that this is a fully joint decision, more that he is my son and of course he is the person I care about most of all in this scenario.
‘Okay.’ Niamh’s voice is even. ‘Well, we said we’d support you in every way we can and we will. But have you worked out how you will manage this? I mean, Adam’s at university in Manchester. You’re halfway through your degree, Jodie. I’m not for one second suggesting you’re making the wrong decision – but this is going to be tough.’
I don’t speak, but I nod. Niamh is not wrong. Thisisgoing to be tough.
‘We know it will,’ Adam says. ‘So the plan is that I look to transfer my studies back here. I need to look at course provision and make that decision. I can finish my first year and be back in the summer in time to support Jodie. Hopefully I’ll get a summer job and work those months to put some money behind us.’
I feel a huge bubble of emotion rise in me as I watch my son talk about such a huge decision and bring such a level-headed approach to it. These all feel like very grown-up decisions to have to make given that he’s not even twenty yet and this morning I had to remind him to change his bed sheets before they walked themselves to the laundry basket.
‘We know it’s early days in our relationship, but we’d like to think we’ll still be together,’ Jodie adds as she squeezes Adam’s hand.
Just as I can still see the boy in him, I can still see the little girl in her. She was the first of our communal babies – the sole focus of our friendship group until the boys came around. I have loved her from the very moment she was born.
‘But even if we aren’t together,’ my boy says, ‘I want to be as present in the baby’s life as possible. I don’t want to be an absentee parent.’
He sounds so earnest. When did our young people become so sensible? How can we be at this stage already – talking about babies and parenting? Becoming a granny, for the love of God. When I think of ‘granny’, I can’t help but think of my own – my mother’s mother – who always, even when I was little, very much fit the stereotype from the get-go. She always had her greying hair set in curlers at the hairdressers once a week, and by some miracle of science that short and boofy style lasted until her next appointment. It always sat perfectly – as if it were a hat plonked on top of her head. She dressed almost exclusively in lined skirts that stopped just below her knees, and soft woollen jumpers or twinsets. She had a brilliant line in brooches which I loved to search through, pretending they were pirate’s treasure.
I could always see the trails of spider and varicose veins in her legs through the American Tan tights she wore every day with her slippers. She only put shoes on her feet when she left the house and my abiding memory of them was that they were low-heeled, laced up and definitely prized functionality over fashion.
Granny never wore make-up. She didn’t ever fall into the trap I myself have tumbled into many, many times and spent a clean fortune on skincare products in the hope of miracle transformations. She was very much a soap and water type of woman, dabbing on some Nivea creme after. I can still conjure the smell of it, along with the comforting scent of her talcum powder, in my memory, just as I can the softness of her skin. She must’ve been doing something right.
But I’m a million miles from where she was. My hair has a mind of its own – managing to be neither straight nor curly, instead opting for some sort of frizzy combination of the two. It can be calmed with straighteners when I can be bothered to get them out. Otherwise, given that the majority of my days are spent at home writing copy, or venturing no further than the park with the dog, or my mother’s house, I run a brush through it and hope for the best.
My daily uniform is more likely to be leggings, or skinny jeans with a T-shirt and a hoodie, than anything as refined as a twin-set.
Last year I bought my first pair of Crocs, much to my twins’ disgust, but let me tell you those bad boys are like a hug for your feet and Niamh had to threaten an intervention to stop me from wearing them everywhere. It was only when I bought her a pair for her birthday that she finally understood my obsession. Still, she says they are very much ‘inside shoes’. Give it time though. She’ll be nipping out to the shop in them soon enough. It will only grow from there. If I’m not mistaken, that ‘loungewear’ she is wearing is actually her best pyjama set from M&S. Crocs would’ve finished the look off nicely.
Anyway, I digress, I am not granny-like but yet here I am, listening to my boy telling me that I am most definitely going to be a granny. I want to hug him – and Jodie – and at the same time I want to give them both a good shake.
I want to hug Niamh – then spirit her away somewhere with wine and ask her how she really feels about it all. I know that, like me, she will support our kids, but I also know that, just like me, she is dealing with a tsunami of emotions. Excitement will be in the mix somewhere, I realise. Deep inside me, my poor, decrepit ovaries have given a splutter of dusty enthusiasm at the thought of there being a baby in my life that I’m able to access for cuddles, head-sniffs and that incredible newborn-scrunched-on-your-shoulder feeling.
But the bigger feeling is worry. How will the kids cope? They have their plans – but how do I really feel about Adam dropping out of his course? Even if he will be picking back up closer to home. He had wanted to go to Manchester to study that particular computer programming course since he was fourteen. It is ridiculously competitive to get a place, but he had done and now he is going to walk away.
Will their relationship – or more importantly, perhaps, their friendship – survive the pressures of being young parents? God knows my own marriage didn’t survive being not-so-young parents. It was tough. And if their friendship doesn’t survive, what will that mean for Niamh and me? At the very best it will be awkward and uncomfortable. I don’t want to think about the very worst.
And God, I think, if Adam comes home to continue his studies that means that Saul will be in Manchester without the support of his younger (by ten minutes) but infinitely more sensible brother. Of course, Adam is not his brother’s keeper, but knowing that there has been a guiding hand on side has made me feel a lot easier about Saul studying across the sea.
Now is not the time for worrying about this though. Certainly not this very minute. I’m suddenly aware that Adam is looking directly at me, the same look I remember from his childhood on his face. It’s the look he had when he would hand me a painting he did at school, or when he would show me what a good job he’d done of tidying his bedroom. It was a face that was calling out for approval and acknowledgement.
