Ivy
Pregnancy makes a person tired, and that, my friends, is the understatement of the year. In my case, I’m not sure if it’s pregnancy hormones, or the fact that little Vlad is sapping my energy in favour of his internal growth spurts. And it’s not even a lack of sleep; I go to bed at a decent time and stay asleep until my alarm rings. I think what I have is dream fatigue because I have a brilliantly active dream sex life. Every night, I dream vividly, in technicolour—with emotions and sensations and everything. No prizes for guessing who has the starring role in these nocturnal sexy times.
I’m not sure if it’s the result of my pseudo stalking or wishful thinking that conjures him in my bed each night, and to be honest, I don’t really care. I’m not hurting anyone, and he isn’t cheating on his girlfriend with his wife. And it’s not my fault my sleep mind fancies him over Bradley Cooper these days.
So I sleep lots and dream plenty, and though I’m tired, I manage to wake with a smile on my facemost days... and a hand down the front of my pyjama pants. It doesn’t take Freud to work out why. And there are worse ways to start the day, even if horny doesn’t begin to cover how I feel, because masturbation is nothing more than a helping hand. It’s not quite the real thing...
According to my pregnancy book, a mixture of progesterone and emotion might be responsible for my dream life.
‘Vivid dreams are quite common during pregnancy and can reflect both fear and anxiety; that is to say, both the excitement and apprehension regarding the physical and emotional changes your body is experiencing.’
It’s gone six o’clock, and the salon is closed as I close the cover of the book and, leaning around Natasha, place it on the shelf in front of the gilt-framed, floor-length mirror then pick up the plastic dish.
‘So,’ Nat begins, her pondering expression reflected back at me. ‘Your brain is either worried about your widening hips or the possibility of your kitty being left in tatters?’
Her face is a picture, or rather, her reflection is. Covered from neck to waist in the obligatory black cape, I’ve plastered her hair to her head and covered it with an ashy-coloured goop. Beauty is sometimes ridiculous. It’s a fact, and something we’re both very well-versed in.
Leaning forward, she picks up the book and flicks through it, freezing halfway through. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; why the fuck would they use a picture like that?’ Pages wide, she thrusts the book over her shoulder, open at a page depicting—
‘Ah, the miracle of childbirth.’
‘Looks more like something offAlien.It’s a wonder people ever have sex again! I see now why you’ve been dreamin’—that there is the stuff of nightmares.’
My own reflection shrugs as I paint the rest of the tint on her hair. ‘But I’m not having nightmares, am I? Still, it sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? What the book says—that my brain is working overtime while I’m sleeping? Sounds logical, right?’
‘Sounds daft,’ she scoffs. ‘Worried, I understand. But what you’re dreamin’ of makes no sense.’
‘It’s not like I get to choose.’ I can hear the harshness of my response and regret my tone almost immediately.
‘I ken that,’ she replies, unconcerned. ‘But even without the scary alien stuff’—she gestures to the book on her lap—‘wouldn’t a mind full of worry leave you dreaming of scary stuff? Of ghosties and ghoulies. Of being stuck in your own birth canal.’ I begin to laugh as her pale complexion suddenly takes on a similar hue to her hair. ‘Why the hell would you dream about being shagged senseless by the mighty aubergine—by Dylan dickalicious Duffy himself? Because you’re worried? It doesn’t make any sense; Brad’s your go-to cad.’
Yeah. Why would I be dreaming of Dylan over Bradley Cooper? It’s not like I’m worried about what I have to tell him. And it’s not as if I’m afraid of what he might say about my pregnancy.
‘It’s what the book says, and therefore, it’s the expert’s opinion,’ I reply instead.
‘Bollocks.’ And with that announcement, she claps the cover of the book shut.
‘All right, Confucius. Let me know when you’ve written a pregnancy book, and I’ll be sure to buy it.’
‘Confucius says, woman who wakes with sticky fingers—’
‘Stop!’
‘Craves cock,’ she finishes, ignoring my distress. ‘Plain and simple; your body needs a good shag.’
‘Well, then.’ I make a show of rubbing my small bump for effect. ‘I’d best get myself on the internet to see if I can find someone interested in tubbies.’
‘My arse. There’s barely a picking on you, other than you look like you might have swallowed a small, round ball.’ She eyes me critically through the mirror. ‘Your pregnancy body is a bit like an illusion—first you see it, and then you don’t.’
‘What are you blethering about?’
‘Sometimes, you don’t look pregnant at all. Depends on what your wearing. Maybe.’ I glance down at my black skinny jeans and loose peasant top. They’re my jeans. Pre-pregnancy ones. I’ve just got one of those belly bands over the top. ‘And,’ she adds, glancing quickly away, ‘now that the vomiting has stopped, your hair is fabulous, and your skin is all glowy and stuff. You smile more these days, too.’
‘Thank you.’ My voice is small on account of the lump I have in my throat. By the looks of it, she’s tearing up, too.
‘It suits you, this being up the duff,’ Nat adds a little more brusquely before her head comes up quickly. ‘I’d do you,’ she says, one ribald eyebrow raised. ‘I would if I was into muff. Anyway,’ she adds with a sniff, ‘it’s not the chubby chasers you need to find. Pregnancy sex has its own niche. There’s even dedicated porn.’
‘And,’ I reply, leaning over her shoulder to grab the timer from the shelf, ‘I think we’ll leave that conversation there.’
