Libby wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, so she nodded and then turned the other way to look out of theopposite window. The bus was on John Islip Street, making its way up toward Chelsea College of Art and Design. She remembered putting up posters around here with Dylan; it had been a wet day and they’d gone to a café for a cup of coffee while they waited for the rain to pass. She’d not heard from Dylan since that day she’d visited him in the hospital, and the memory of him made her chest ache. Libby suddenly wished she’d taken the underground today, rather than the bus with all its painful memories.
She felt a sharp tap on her arm and turned back to the woman sitting next to her.
“The thing I always say to people is: realize you’re not in control.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You youngsters these days are so used to planning and controlling everything, and you approach giving birth in the same way, with your books and birth plans and all that malarkey. It’s nonsense.”
“I do like to plan things,” Libby said with a small smile.
“Well, you can forget all that right now. A baby’s gonna come the way a baby wants to come, and there’s not much you can do besides lie back and let Mother Nature do her work.”
Libby looked at the woman. “Do you know what? I was meant to be at an NCT course today, but I think you’ve summed up in one minute everything I need to know about having a baby.”
Her companion chuckled. “Well, I’m no NCT expert, whatever the hell that is. But anything you want to know about birth and babies, you just ask.”
“All right, then.” Libby thought for a moment. “Is the pain really as bad as people say?”
“Worse. That’s why you’ve got to take all the drugs they offer you. Next?”
“How did you cope with all the sleepless nights? I’m really bad when I’m tired. I can’t function properly.”
“You got to sleep when the baby sleeps. But having a baby also gives you all these strange hormones, which means you can survive on hardly any sleep. Next?”
“How do you know when labor’s starting? I keep getting these little twinges every now and then, Braxton-Hicks contractions, they call them, but how do you know when it’s the real thing?”
The woman gave a wry laugh. “Oh, you’ll know all right, love. A woman has a sense when the baby’s about to arrive; it’s instinctive. When your time comes, you’ll know it’s for real.”
“Thank you. That’s been genuinely helpful.”
“You’re welcome.”
They rode on, and Libby watched the familiar sights of the 88 bus route fly past the window. The Home Office, where Dylan had gone off on a rant about the British government and Libby had got the giggles. Parliament Square, where they’d been accosted by tourists wanting to take Dylan’s photo. Horse Guards, where Libby had stopped for ages to watch the soldiers on their beautiful horses. It was hard to believe that had been only a few months ago; it felt like another lifetime.
As the bus approached Trafalgar Square, Libby leaned down to try to pick her bag up from the floor, but she couldn’t reach past her bump.
“Here, let me,” the woman next to her said.
“Thank you.”
“You getting off here?”
“Yes, I’m going to the National Gallery.”
“Oh, you like that place, do you?”
“I’ve only been once. I thought I might visit today, though, my last chance for a while.”
“I’ve not been for years,” the woman said. “I used to go all the time before I had my son. I could spend days wandering round.”
“You sound like a friend of mine,” Libby said as she reached forward to ring the bell.
“There was this painting I used to love. I can’t remember its name now. That’s a sure sign I’m getting old, isn’t it?”
“Trafalgar Square,” the bus announcement declared, and passengers began to move toward the doors.
“Well, thanks for all the baby advice,” Libby said, standing up.
