The Undercover Mother_A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy about love, friendship and parenting Page 2

  Eva stood up. ‘Okay. If you manage to keep up this “Undercover Mother” blog, I’ll look at it.’ She walked to her desk and sat down. ‘But no promises about a regular column.’

  Jenny left Eva’s office and walked towards Lucy, who was sitting at her desk, chatting to Brian about her promotion. Traitor. Hot pants and thick tights weren’t a look that everyone could carry off, but Lucy managed it.

  Jenny leaned in as she walked past. ‘Thanks so much for taking “Girl About Town” off my hands, Lucy. I’ve been begging Eva for weeks to let me start an exciting new project, and now I can.’ Without waiting for a response, she flounced off outside. Well, as much as you could flounce when you were carrying an extra two stone around your middle.

  It wasn’t until she’d walked out of the front door that she fished into her bag for her phone. She googled ‘Antenatal classes’.

  Now, how was she going to sell the idea of them to her unsuspecting husband?

  Chapter Three

  Ever been to a singles night? Trying to look relaxed and cool whilst scanning the room for someone who might be your type? Antenatal classes are just like that. The only difference is, you are guaranteed to have at least one thing in common.

  So far, I haven’t had much luck finding my Mrs Right, although they are a pretty mixed bunch. One of them is intent on a completely natural birth – I’m pretty sure she’d give birth squatting in the hospital garden if they’d let her. Another is so keen to find out about the drugs available, I’ve begun to wonder if she took a sedative during the conception…

  From ‘The Undercover Mother’

  ‘Tell me again why we have to go to an antenatal class when you said, and I’m quoting, that you had “no intention whatsoever of sitting in a room with simpering women talking about babies”?’

  Searching the lounge for her car keys, Jenny lifted the cushions next to her husband and looked underneath them. ‘Dan, I am a writer about to begin maternity leave. Eva has given my column away to someone younger than half my wardrobe and, when I go back to work, I am likely to be writing about the current must-have colour in nail polish, and not much else. I had to come up with something fast.’

  Dan leaned over to the coffee table, located the keys and handed them to her. ‘Yes, you’ve already explained that. But why antenatal classes and, more importantly, why do I need to go with you?’

  Jenny sighed. For a very clever man, he could be rather obtuse sometimes. ‘The antenatal classes are for research. You—’ she pulled him up out of his seat ‘—are my cover.’

  * * *

  It had been too late to book on to a full antenatal course, so Jenny had signed them up for consecutive Saturdays at the local clinic. As they entered, the door creaked and several expectant glances turned in their direction. Jenny scanned the pregnant women. Who looked the most normal? Who was most likely to provide her with interesting material? Who wouldn’t bore the pregnancy pants off her? Meanwhile, Dan just collected a sheaf of papers from Sally, the woman running the group, and sat down on a random chair in the semi-circle. Already, he was not following the plan.

  Sally started with the obligatory ice-breakers – they had to pair up and introduce themselves. Dan looked at Jenny with a pained expression: this was his idea of hell. She’d make it up to him later, she decided. If he behaved himself.

  A smart woman with long auburn hair approached Jenny tentatively. ‘Hi, I’m Ruth. Sorry, were you about to pair up with someone else?’

  ‘No, no, please, sit down.’ Jenny pulled out the chair next to her. ‘I’m Jenny. Married to Dan.’ She motioned in the direction of her husband, who was scrutinising a poster on the wall in an effort to avoid the pairing up. ‘When are you due?’

  Ruth held up crossed fingers. ‘In six weeks, hopefully, if we make full term. We’ve had a long road to get here. We tried IVF, which didn’t work out, and it’s taken us a lot of poking and prodding to get this far. Sorry – too much information?’

  Hopefully, this Ruth wasn’t going to spend their entire conversation apologising. ‘No, not at all. No such thing as too much information as far as I’m concerned.’

  Ruth looked relieved. ‘Oh, did you do IVF, too?’

  ‘No,’ said Jenny. ‘But I’m always interested in a good story. I’m a writer.’ Time to steer the conversation in a different direction. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Oh. I work for a bank. I did wonder, seeing the people here, whether there might be others who are IVF?’

  Jenny raised an eyebrow. ‘Because most of us are so old, you mean?’

  ‘No! Well, maybe.’ Ruth tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Sorry. I’m so nervous. David and I never thought we’d actually make it this far. Sorry, I’m talking about myself again. Tell me about your pregnancy.’

  Jenny was here to gain information, not give it out. ‘No, no. Carry on. Please.’

  Ruth didn’t need much persuading. ‘Well, after we’d failed IVF at the third go, we gave up and went on holiday. About three weeks after we got back, I was in the toiletries aisle at Sainsbury’s, saw a packet of tampons and realised that I hadn’t bought any since before our holiday. At first I thought my ovaries had given up altogether – sorry for the gory details – but I also had a tiny flicker of hope. So, I decided to do a test straight away, before the hope got out of control.’

  ‘In the toilet at Sainsbury’s?’ Jenny’s own experience of pregnancy testing was of holding Dan’s hand as they waited – for the longest three minutes of their life – for the second blue line to appear.

  ‘Classy, huh? Trying to hover over the toilet and urinate on that thin little stick without weeing all over my shoes was pretty tricky.’ Ruth stroked her bump as she spoke. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw the result. I assumed the test must be faulty so I did the second one straight away. I even went and bought more tests. When David got home from work, there was a row of six positive pregnancy tests on the back of the toilet waiting for him. Oh, sorry! Sally’s calling us back now, and I haven’t asked you anything!’

  Jenny wasn’t worried about that. She was more concerned with getting the scoop on the funny side of pregnancy. Ruth didn’t seem a likely prospect: far too positive and nice.

  Dan sat back down beside her. ‘How is it for you?’

  She shielded her mouth with her hand. ‘Exactly as I expected so far. You?’

  ‘I had a good chat with David over there about a new shed he’s building. Have you noticed that there are only four men between five women?’

  ‘Are there?’ Jenny did a quick count. He was right. Which one was on her own?

  Antenatal Sally didn’t waste any more time before getting to the nitty-gritty of labour: the contractions, the pushing the baby out, and then the placenta. She made a valiant effort to make it sound enjoyable, but Jenny wasn’t fooled. If you wanted a baby – which she did – labour was something you just needed to do. Up until then, she had done her best not to dwell on the realities of it, but now Sally had laid them all out before her.

  It was terrifying.

  She wasn’t alone. If the husbands were squeamish at the mention of the placenta, they looked even worse after a general discussion of some of the post-birth side-effects. The fatigue and ‘baby blues’ didn’t seem to worry them, but when the conversation took a turn onto the subjects of hair loss, bleeding nipples and tearing of the front bottom, there was a lot of uncomfortable shuffling in seats.

  Then they got onto pain relief.

  ‘Whatever they’re offering, I’m taking them up on it,’ said a slim, well-spoken lady with a perfectly round, small bump. Her name-badge told Jenny she was called Antonia; the Boden dress and coordinating jacket told her a lot more.

  ‘Surely it’s better to be able to give birth without any drugs at all?’ This one – Naomi, according to her badge – looked about ten years younger than the rest of them, and was wearing a voluminous smock top and bangles that chinked against each other every time she pushed her long hair back from
her face. ‘Women give birth all over the world without using drugs. I’m hoping to do the same.’ She smiled at her partner and he squeezed her hand.

  ‘Yes, and loads of them die in bloody childbirth,’ muttered Jenny to Dan. Neither Boden nor Bangles were her kind of woman. Maybe she should give Ruth another go?

  During the break, Jenny followed Ruth to the kitchen, determined to see what she could uncover. ‘I'd kill for a black coffee.’

  Ruth poked around the assortment of jars and plastic containers. ‘You might be out of luck; I can't find any decaf.’ Jenny opened her mouth and then shut it again: drinking coffee with caffeine here would be like eating a cream cake at Weight Watchers.

  Ruth placed four mugs in front of the geriatric kettle, then slumped against the wall. ‘First thing I’m going to have after I’ve given birth – a latte with extra caffeine. And a big slab of pâté. And red wine. I haven’t eaten anything off the banned list since I did the test.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Blimey, I sound boring, don’t I?’

  It was all boring, in Jenny’s opinion. The pain-relief discussion had petered out after Naomi’s proclamations about a drug-free birth. Jenny had been rooting for Antonia to take her on, but even Naomi’s speech about women in paddy fields had been met with nothing more from her than a well-bred roll of the eyes. They were halfway through the session and Jenny had nothing. There had to be something she could write about. Just keep asking questions.

  ‘What do you think of the class?’

  Ruth lowered her voice. ‘To be honest, I only came to meet other mums. We’ve read about fifty baby books between us in the last few months. Unless they’ve discovered how to teleport the baby out of me, I doubt we’re going to find out anything new. David will be able to get work as a midwife by the end of this pregnancy.’

  ‘Could you ask him to have a word with Dan? He wants to treat the baby like a new DVD player – get it home and have a play with it, see what it does.’

  Just then, the fifth mum-to-be of the group marched into the kitchen. Jenny tried to read her name-badge without staring at her ample boob area. That was an expensive-looking suit. Who knew you could get maternity clothes that made you look so professional?

  ‘So, this is where they’re hiding the hot drinks. I was hoping to find something better than the warm orange juice out there. Hi, I’m Gail. I work in investment.’ She reached out and shook their hands firmly. Was she about to thank them for coming and whip out an agenda?

  ‘How are you finding the class?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘It’s pretty much what I expected.’ Gail opened the cupboard doors and looked inside. Her short, maroon fingernails looked professionally manicured. ‘Don’t they have any paper cups? Those mugs are rancid.’

  Was she looking down her nose at the mugs or at the two of them?

  ‘Have you been reading baby books, too?’ Clearly it was time for Jenny to feel the fear and read one of the manuals her sister had passed on. Pretending that she wasn’t about to go through childbirth was probably not the best strategy.

  ‘Just one. My mum bought it.’ Gail took the mug Jenny offered, then put it down on the counter and pushed it away. No wedding ring. ‘It covered the basics. I don’t need detail. Not like those two in there.’ She motioned towards the meeting room with her head. ‘That young girl is clearly some kind of Earth Mother. No pain relief? How ridiculous. And Antonia seems to think she’s a cut above the rest of us. No surprises there.’

  Now this was more like it. Someone with an edge. Strong opinions. The possibility of friction. Please.

  ‘You know Antonia, then?’ Jenny couldn’t picture this Gail being friends with the Boden-clad beauty. In her well-cut suit, discreet make-up and expensive shoes, Gail looked as if she’d got lost on the way to a board room. Antonia would be more at home in Harvey Nichols’ Café.

  Gail looked up sharply. ‘No. I’ve never met her before.’

  From the look on her face, she wasn’t too keen on getting to know her, either. Interesting.

  Ruth filled the awkward silence. ‘My husband is jealous that your partner found a way to get out of all this today.’

  This was getting better. Gail was the one here alone. What was the story with the absent father? Gail was just what Jenny was looking for. Thank God.

  No such luck.

  ‘I don’t think he needs to be here. I’m the one doing it.’ And she left the room.

  There was no way on earth that Jenny was doing this birth business on her own and, from the look on Ruth’s face, she felt the same way.

  Just then, Antenatal Sally popped her head around the door. ‘Okay to come back and get started again?’

  Jenny’s heart sank. What else was there left to find out about childbirth? From what she had seen, there was no one and nothing there that was worth writing about. Gail was the one person with an interesting angle, but she clearly wasn’t a ‘sharer’. Pitching this ‘Undercover Mother’ blog to Eva might just have been career suicide. If Jenny wasn’t interested in the minutiae of motherhood herself, how would she write something that other women would want to read? Was it too late to back out and beg for her old job back?

  Chapter Four

  Pregnant women are supposed to GLOW and BLOOM: I’m not sure my body got that memo.

  My skin is stretched as tightly as cling film, my nipples are as big as tea plates and the weight and size of my bump makes me walk like I’ve peed my pants. Ironically, I’m also getting undressed in front of more strangers than the staff at a brothel – and, like them, no longer care who looks at my lady parts.

  At least my maternity leave starts this week: no make-up, no bra, no clothes at all if I don’t feel like it. That’ll teach my husband for getting me in this state…

  From ‘The Undercover Mother’

  * * *

  Long blonde hair and endless legs: Lucy turned the head of every man they passed on their journey towards the bar. Strangely, they didn’t seem as interested in the human cannonball waddling behind her. Jenny tried not to mind.

  The bar was very young and very bright. There weren’t many places Jenny didn’t know in the area, but this one had only opened two weeks ago and, as they weren’t serving Gaviscon cocktails, she hadn’t yet been in. Lucy, however, was already on cheek-kissing terms with most of the barmen. Once she had made it abundantly clear that she knew absolutely everyone in there, the two of them looked for somewhere to sit.

  Instead of tables and chairs of normal height, there were high, red leather bar stools around tall tables you could only fit a couple of cocktail glasses on. Jenny glanced around to see if there were any comfortable sofas more suitable for a pregnant woman. There were none. And it wasn’t as if she could ask Lucy to help. Show no weakness.

  Lucy had hopped up onto her stool effortlessly and seemed unaware of Jenny’s dilemma.

  ‘I’m so sorry that I’ve taken your job like this.’ As opening statements go, this wasn’t the most tactful, accompanied as it was with the kind of smile beloved by toothpaste adverts.

  Jenny cracked a huge fake smile. ‘Please don’t apologise. I was happy to give it to you.’

  They both knew where they stood.

  Then Lucy noticed that Jenny was still standing. ‘Don’t you want a seat? I thought pregnant women had to sit down all the time. Don’t your ankles swell up or something?’ She glanced down at Jenny’s feet, as if expecting to see that she had grown hooves.

  There was nothing else for it: Jenny was going to have get up on that stool.

  Circus elephants sat on chairs with more grace. A sideways approach – left cheek first – didn’t get her posterior high enough. Right side first? Same result. There was no choice but to back into it, bending forwards and then flopping her backside on at the last minute. How humiliating.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Perfectly. Thanks.’ In the time her manoeuvres had taken, their drinks had arrived. Jenny picked up her mocktail as nonchalantly as she could manage. ‘So, what
can I help you with?’

  Why had Lucy asked to meet off-site to discuss the column? Maybe she thought Jenny would be less likely to cry and tear at her clothes if they were in a public place. Clearly, she’d never seen her on a big night out.

  ‘Eva thought it would be good for us to get together. Have a bit of a handover. She seems to think there might be some bad feeling between us.’ Lucy paused, as if waiting for Jenny to reply. Jenny continued to drink. ‘But I assured her that we were professional women. We don’t bring our private lives to work.’

  Jenny knew exactly which element of her private life Lucy was referring to. Mark McLinley. Ex-‘View from the Boys’ columnist and time-wasting pig. He’d left Flair around the same time as he’d left Jenny – so he could start working his way around the single females at his new magazine. There had been a rumour about him and Lucy spending a lot of time together recently. Jenny wasn’t about to warn her what a mistake that would be. Let her find out for herself.

  Instead, Jenny focused on work. ‘I’m not sure that there’s much I can tell you that you can’t learn from reading the column.’ And there certainly wasn’t much that she’d be willing to help her with, anyway – professional woman or not.

  ‘Well, that’s what I thought. It’s not rocket science, is it?’

  Obviously Lucy was baiting her, but current hormone levels made it impossible not to bite. ‘I wouldn’t say that. There’s quite a lot of background work. Networking, building your contacts, being the first to hear about somewhere new. Takes time, you know.’

  Lucy didn’t look impressed. ‘Well, I’ve only known I’m going to be doing this for a month and I seem to have a good handle on things.’ She blew a kiss at a passing waiter.