He coughs. ‘It’swaybigger than that. More like the Starship Enterprise on wheels. It’s possibly a pushchair being steered by a woman with full eff-off four-by-four-driver attitude who embodies the whole resting-bitch-face thing.’
My wail is for women everywhere. ‘You shouldn’t say that say about anyone!’
He shrugs. ‘I’m sorry, but you didn’t see the dead-eye she gave me. She’s gone now, but from the way she was mowing people down, I hope you’re insured for third party injuries.’
I’m turning to go and check for myself when Clemmie comes over, a plate in each hand.
She smiles. ‘I promised Nic a taster but he wanted to wait for you, Milla.’
I’m hesitating. ‘Is it okay if I take it to eat on the run?’
Nic’s tilting his head on one side as he stares at me. ‘I bet you haven’t stopped since breakfast.’
‘Breakfast? There was no time for that! But I have been grazing.’
Nic’s hand is behind my back. ‘Five minutes – I promise the world will keep on turning, the fair will keep on buzzing – and then you can go back to work.’
As we leave the crowds behind and reach the far end of the garden by the pond, Nic’s looking at the ground. ‘Shall we sit down?’
‘Absolutely not, or I’ll never get up again. Let’s stand and watch the fish.’ I know that standing like this I’ve got my back to the action, but Nic’s right about stopping – it’s blissful. I turn my attention to my plate. ‘Aren’t the teensy jam tarts adorable?’
Nic’s holding up a small goat’s cheese and tomato flan. ‘Mini-quiches and pizzas, brioches with ham and cheese, and then scones and muffins too. It’s all delicious.’
‘I’m on my third meringue.’ Even as I say it, I know I’m mumbling through my mouthful.
Nic’s licking his fingers beside me. ‘Careful not to drop crumbs in the water – do fish eat sausage rolls?’
I’ve no need to grin as widely as I am. ‘Why do you always ask me the hard questions?’
I’m hoovering the last sugar crumbs off the meringue paper when there’s a jab in my back, then a squawk. ‘It is you, Milla, isn’t it? No one else would be out with a skirt that creased.’
My heart stops. There’s only one person I know who’d say that.
‘And why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?’
And that’s the giveaway. I have zero idea what the hell she’s doing here when she’s on her baby-popping sabbatical but the pointy, suede court shoe I’m looking down on matches her, as well as the parrot shriek. My stomach has dropped faster than a five-ton weight, but as I turn I know exactly who I’m going to see.
‘Phoebe!’ I’m less ready to be rammed in the shins with a pram so humungous it looks like it’s built for giants, but I peer in anyway. ‘And this must be Hunter?’ The child I’m staring at is in full rugby kit, giving furious kicks with his Nike trainers, and his beady eyes are a lot like Phoebe’s when she’s intent on snaffling the last chocolate biccy for herself. To my untrained eye, he looks closer to teenager size than the teensy bundle I’d imagined cradling, which just proves how little I know. If I tried to cuddle this one he’d most likely smother me.
The big surprise for me is that I’m staring hard at a little human and my tummy isn’t squishing even a tiny bit. And the pangs of jealousy I’d expected to find belting me in the chest aren’t there at all. As I take in large ears and a lolling mouth that’s a lot like Ben’s when he’s come off the spare-bedroom treadmill, and a nose pointing at exactly the same angle as Phoebe’s, it’s like that game where you make faces out of strips. I can’t say he’s cute at all.
I know I have issues with Hunter’s mum and dad, but he’s only a baby; he can’t help his parents. I give him a little wave and when he doesn’t wave back I try for an ice-breaking age-appropriate greeting instead. ‘Great intergalactic transport you’ve got there, Hunter. I’m Aunty Milla.’ I turn back to Phoebe. ‘How did he get so big?’
The fact that Phoebe towers above me as she looks through the curtains of her Kate Middleton hair could be a clue to the size. She’s simpering. ‘Hunter’s a ninety-fifth-percentile child. He’s off the top of every graph in the baby handbook.’ This is Phoebe; of course he has to be bigger and better than anyone else’s baby. As she shakes back her hair again, her chin juts and her eyes go all flinty. ‘By the way, baby-name etiquette changes faster than the top one-hundred names. First to the labour ward gets first dibs now. Not that I’d expect you to know that, being so far away from childbirth. In any case, they were my wellingtons, you know.’
‘That name’s dropped off my list anyway.’ Since I’ve seen the baby, it’s put me off big time.
Nic’s turned with me, and he gives me a nudge. ‘None of us are ever more than nine months away from a baby. Nine is right, isn’t it Milla?’
Phoebe’s spluttering. ‘Who the hell is this?’
Nic’s grins at me. ‘Nic Trendell, happy to meet you. I’m Milla’s fiancé.’
I’m watching Phoebe’s jaw drop so I rush in to put her right. ‘He’s joking, obviously.’
Phoebe’s face recomposes. ‘He’d have to be.’
Nic’s voice is gravelly and full of laughter. ‘She didn’t say that when I asked her.’
