The Bad Mother's Pregnancy_Romantic Comedy Short Story Read online

  Preface

  Yay!

  You picked up my book. Which at least means the cover is good …

  I still can’t believe so many people read my books.

  Each and every day, I am humbled by this fact.

  I can’t thank you enough.

  I’m a chatty sort and I LOVE talking to readers. If you want to ask me any questions about the books or chat about anything at all, get in touch:

  Email: [email protected]

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  Happy reading, gorgeous.

  Suzy Xxx

  Juliette Duffy’s Pregnancy Diary

  The First Trimester (Weeks 1 - 13)

  Congratulations!

  You’re expecting your first child.

  The pregnancy journey you’re about to go on will change your life forever.

  As your body transforms and grows to accommodate this miraculous new life, you will experience many new things.

  During the first trimester, you probably won’t look pregnant – except perhaps to very observant family and friends.

  You are likely to get symptoms such as tiredness, headaches, morning sickness, constipation, diarrhoea, night-sweats, night-terrors, OCD, uncontrollable hunger, aggression, paranoia, anxiety and depression.

  Don’t worry – it’s all perfectly normal!

  Tuesday 13th January

  253 days until my life changes forever

  My most life-defining moment happened this morning in the toilets at work.

  One plastic stick.

  Two pink lines.

  Oh shit.

  Pregnant. PREGNANT.

  I always knew I wanted kids one day, but not now.

  By next Christmas, I’ll be a mother.

  That’s this year.

  Nick and I are still very much playing at being adults.

  Our hobbies revolve around alcohol, and we’re still renting Nick’s Mum’s apartment in Canary Wharf – a tiny flat designed for bachelors and Waitrose microwave meals.

  Nick doesn’t have a proper adult job. In fact, half the time he doesn’t have any job since failed acting auditions don’t pay any money.

  And I can’t pretend I’m much more grown up.

  This Christmas, I participated in (and won) the Duffy family blindfold ‘guess the booze’ contest, whilst dressed in a reindeer onesie.

  I’m just not ready to become a mother.

  I didn’t believe the first pregnancy test (I think they call this ‘denial’), so I invested in a £16.99 digital test by a different manufacturer.

  The result was the same: pregnant. To be more specific, ‘5 WEEKS PREGNANT’, spelt out in 1980s calculator writing.

  Nick, who was watching Game of Thrones while I took the second test, was more shocked than me.

  It was a double trauma for him because they’d killed off yet another of his favourite Game of Thrones characters.

  Soaking in the news of our impending parenthood, Nick (who has a boyish face at the best of times) looked about ten-years-old.

  ‘Shit,’ said Nick. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We need to get a house,’ I said. ‘And baby furniture. And possibly a Volvo.’

  Nick went even whiter. ‘Shit.’ He ran a dramatic hand through his brown hair and said: ‘I’m going to be a father. This is it, Jules. No more messing around. I need to get a steady gig. Something on a soap opera.’ Then his blue eyes turned sad and he said, ‘Everyone always said I’d end up on EastEnders.’

  But frankly, Nick would be extremely lucky to get a part on such a famous show. He hasn’t had a decent acting role in years.

  After the news had soaked in, Nick put a sentimental hand on my stomach and said, ‘I will love this baby more than anything in the world. I will not fuck it up, Jules. Not this time.’

  We smiled at each other and it was a nice moment.

  Even though Nick had effectively just sworn at our unborn baby.

  Friday 23rd January

  243 days until I become a real adult

  According to the NHS pregnancy website, I have been pregnant since before Christmas. This is because pregnancy is calculated from the first day of your last period. So I was medically pregnant before I was actually pregnant, and still downing Marks and Spencer’s Bucks Fizz straight from the bottle.

  I wonder what the baby will look like?

  Will it have my curly browny-blonde hair and English sun-burny skin? Will it inherit my love of Guinness and pork scratchings, coupled with my propensity to put on weight? Or Nick’s love of whisky and continental lager, and the ability not to put on weight at all?

  Mum and Dad are absolutely delighted about my impending life change, in spite of Nick being the father.

  ‘Another young Duffy to enjoy my Hornby Country Flyer train set,’ Dad beamed.

  ‘Another grandchild to buy me a pint in my old age,’ said Mum.

  ‘But Nick and I aren’t ready for children,’ I said. ‘We’ve got far too much growing up to do ourselves.’

  ‘That’s how everyone feels,’ Mum soothed. ‘No one is ready for the shitbomb of a new-born. You could wait your whole life and never be ready. A baby makes you ready. And it’s much easier these days. Count yourself lucky you’ve got disposable Pampers – your dad and I had to scrub shitty white towelling in the kitchen sink.’ Then she mused, ‘Of course, expectations were lower in our day. As long as you kept the baby alive, you’d done your job. There was none of this breast-feeding, organic puree nonsense. And paisley print was in fashion, which covered stains.’

  Monday 2nd February

  233 days to appreciate my freedom

  Headed back to Great Oakley for my first antenatal appointment today.

  Registering for a GP in London is a nightmare, so I’m still with my childhood GP, Dr Slaughter, and his team at the Dalton Road Surgery.

  I quite like the old village medical centre, with its fish tank and brown-plastic chairs. It’s cosy, and I almost always bump into old school friends.

  Dr Slaughter was loudly discussing a patient’s rectal examination results with the receptionist when I arrived. He was dressed in his usual dapper pin-striped suit, white hair oiled and gleaming.

  ‘Juliette Duffy!’ he boomed, giving me a delighted smile. ‘How’s London treating you?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I love coming home, though.’

  ‘If you see your mother, tell her that diabetics shouldn’t buy 2-litre tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream,’ said Dr Slaughter, wagging a finger. ‘The lady in the Co-op tells me everything.’

  Dr Slaughter doesn’t hold with patient confidentiality, believing that our western privacy ideals are a large cause of sickness.

  ‘Mum is a law unto herself,’ I said. ‘No one can make her do anything she doesn’t want to.’

  Dr Slaughter raised a white eyebrow. ‘We live in hope. Anyway, the receptionist tells me you’re here to see the midwife. So I suppose congratulations are in order. Unless you’re still with that Nicholas Spencer character.’

  Mumbled, ‘Yes … erm, I am still with Nick. He’s sort of the baby’s father.’

  Dr Slaughter patted me on the back. ‘Never mind. Maybe you did the pregnancy test wrong like your younger sister. Were you drunk when you took it?’

  Honestly!

  Just because my little sister Brandi took her pregnancy test whilst intoxicated, and peed on the wrong end, doesn’t mean I’d do the same thing.

  Dr Slaug
hter was called away then to see a patient, and I was called in to see the midwife.

  Crossed my fingers that I’d get the good one.

  There are two midwives in the village:

  Smiley, clog-dancing Caz Brewer, who plays violin in a folk band and drinks in my parents’ pub.

  And stern, matronly Eileen Bolin, who is suspected of prescription drugging cats that wander into her stinging-nettle covered garden.

  Luckily, I got Caz.

  Was delighted.

  Although sometimes my parent’s pub shows professionals in a very unprofessional light.

  No one wants to see their future midwife dancing in their bra on a pool table. Still. At least I know Caz has stamina, should my labour go on all night.

  Caz greeted me warmly with a kiss on both cheeks.

  ‘Excuse the Dettol smell,’ she laughed. ‘Eileen was in this morning.’

  Caz’s shaved hair was dyed pillar-box red, and she had Minnie Mouse plasters over her nose and eyebrow studs – presumable for hygiene reasons.

  After a bit of a catch up about the Cambridge Folk Festival, I told Caz I thought I was pregnant.

  ‘Oh, that’s great news,’ said Caz. ‘Unless … hang on – you’re not still with Nick, are you?’

  Gave another mumbled yes. ‘But I don’t even know if I am pregnant yet,’ I said, giving a hopeful laugh.

  ‘Have you taken a test?’ Caz asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Two.’

  ‘And you followed all the instructions? You didn’t get pissed and wee on the wrong end like your sister did?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I did the tests right. Except for getting wee my hand, but I think that’s unavoidable.’

  ‘Then congratulations!’ Caz announced.

  ‘Don’t you want to do a test here?’ I said. ‘A proper one?’

  ‘No need,’ said Caz. ‘The home tests are just as accurate. And if you’ve done two, well ... that’s all the clarity we need. Anyway, you look pregnant. Your boobs and bum have got even bigger.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to do a test here?’ I asked.

  ‘I could do one,’ said Caz, ‘but I’d have to send it away and you’d have to wait three days. Honestly, the home kits are exactly the same. I may as well give you your Bounty Pack and get everything started.’

  Caz explained that a Bounty Pack was a shiny plastic folder holding a mecca of pregnancy information, plus free Pampers, wet wipes and Sudacream samples, and other baby-inspired miniatures.

  Then Caz gave me a leaflet about avoiding blue cheese, raw fish, soft egg yolk and alcohol.

  ‘And you should start taking folic acid as of now,’ said Caz. ‘Although truth be told, I only bothered on my third pregnancy. And I had soft egg yolk during all of them, plus a pint of stout every Friday.’

  ‘So should I pay attention to this leaflet?’ I asked. ‘Or …’

  ‘Use your common sense and you’ll be okay,’ said Caz. ‘Don’t go mad on the post-Christmas cheeseboard. Don’t drink a whole bottle of wine. Look after yourself – tell Nick to pull his weight. You’ll be okay. Next time, we’ll talk about birthing options.’

  ‘Options?’ I said. ‘What options?’

  ‘Oh, births are like bloody weddings these days,’ said Caz. ‘Women have music playlists and all sorts. Then there’s the venue, philosophical outlook and so on. But there’s loads of time to think about all that. How’s Nick coping with everything?’

  ‘He’s a bit knocked for six, to be honest,’ I admitted.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Caz. ‘It’s going to be a big adjustment for him.’

  ‘For both of us,’ I said.

  Friday 6th February

  229 days until the end of life as I know it

  The morning sickness has finally hit. And the tiredness.

  Feel SOO exhausted and sick. But not even decent sick, where you can throw up and feel better. This is like travel sickness. It’s just there all day. It doesn’t go away.

  My so-called best friend Sadie won’t see me at the moment because of my constant retching.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sadie told me over the phone last night. ‘But I have a really sensitive gag reflex. Even the thought of you throwing up makes me want to puke.’

  Sometimes I wonder why I’m still friends with Sadie. Perhaps it’s some kind of enduring loyalty from when we were teenagers.

  With Sadie, it’s always a competition. I suppose that’s why she likes being friends with me. Because she can always be the prettiest, slimmest and best dressed while I’m around.

  Finding work hard right now.

  Everyone who has kids is really kind, offering me chairs and cups of tea and telling me to take it easy. Staff without children makes jokes about me throwing up in the toilets.

  Am going to bed at eight o’clock every night now, which means Nick and I never see each other.

  Nick has a musical theatre role this month (playing a tea-cup), so he’s never home before midnight.

  It’s very boring being so tired and ill.

  I have an unnerving window into old age, watching the rest of the world enjoying themselves, but knowing my body won’t let me join in.

  Never realised quite how much alcohol was the centre of my social life.

  Take it away and what else is there to do?

  I mean, I can hardly take up extreme sports in my condition.

  Sunday 22nd February

  213 days until everything changes

  My pregnant friend Althea phoned today.

  She’s gone into labour and asked me over to her big, rambling home in Bethnal Green for a hippy love-in.

  ‘It’s a full house right now,’ Althea barked down the phone, over an acoustic version of ‘Starman’. ‘I want as much love in the room as possible. But I’ll warn you, this labour will take time. All week, probably. Mother nature can’t be rushed. That’s what all these midwives and doctors can’t get their heads around. My body dances to its own music.’

  There were a few whoops and cheers in the background, and the acoustic guitar music changed to ‘Woman’ by John Lennon.

  Althea’s birth plan is, of course, to have the baby at her home – a large Victorian terrace scattered with Moroccan beanbags and throws, plus dishes of hummus and roasted pine nuts.

  I’ve been observing Althea’s pregnancy for the last nine months, but without ever really understanding what she’s going through.

  Now I think she is incredible.

  How has she stayed so calm? And remained completely fearless of giving birth, even though it’s her first time?

  I wish I were more like Althea – her mind-set is perfect for children.

  She is essentially a hippy with free-flowing curly black hair and a huge, gappy smile, at ease with nature and her womanly figure, but also able to withstand huge amounts of physical pain and give her opinion forcefully when required.

  Evening

  Arrived at Althea’s Bethnal Green home to find a motley collection of swaying hippy musicians jamming to Althea’s wails.

  Althea herself was dancing around the room, black hair loose, curvy, pregnant body draped in brightly coloured fabrics.

  A deeply sun-tanned lady with long, white hair handed me a mint tea and said, in a throaty Californian accent, ‘Welcome to the party. I’m Deirdre. I’m helping Althea birth this child and celebrate her womanhood. Take a seat anywhere you want and share love.’

  Althea shouted, ‘Don’t worry about the wailing, Jules. It doesn’t hurt much, but Deirdre says I should use my voice. Wailing has been used to breathe babies into the world since the dawn of time.’

  I took a steaming terracotta mug of mint tea, full of admiration for Althea. Not many people could give birth, half-naked, in a room of people playing instruments so badly.

  There was a great atmosphere. Very 1960s free love.

  Thought – maybe I could have a big hippy love-in when my baby comes.

  But I’ve never really liked hummus.<
br />
  Settled myself on a beanbag next to Deidre, and watched Althea moan and wail for the next few hours.

  It all seemed to be going fine, until a slim, neat-haired midwife appeared out of nowhere, looking lost and cross.

  Althea never locks the front door, so it’s not unusual for people to wander in. But it’s rarely someone in uniform.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she the midwife. ‘My name is Tina Porter. I’m a midwife for the borough. I’m told Althea Goldman lives here. And that she’s in labour.’

  ‘That bloody NHS helpline,’ Althea bellowed. ‘All I wanted was advice about how to store the placenta. I told them I didn’t need a midwife.’ She turned to Tina. ‘It’s alright. I already have a birth advocate, thanks. You can fuck off back to the hospital.’

  Tina looked stressed, frown lines etched on her pale forehead. She assessed the ensemble of hippy musicians, lounging on beanbags. Then she threw her shoulders back in determination.

  ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I left,’ Tina announced. ‘Don’t you know women can die in childbirth?’

  I thought Althea would kick off, but she must have been in more discomfort than I realised because she said, ‘Alright. Stay if you like. I suppose I’m open to all sorts of input.’

  Deidre offered the midwife a plate of pitta fingers, saying, ‘We all need nourishment, honey. Don’t forget yourself, even when you help others.’

  ‘Are you a registered midwife?’ Tina asked.

  Deirdre gave a long, joyful laugh. ‘We’ve been birthing babies without certificates for centuries. The miracle of creation don’t ask for ‘em.’

  ‘You can sit there,’ Althea told Tina, gesturing to a beanbag. ‘But look, I’ll warn you. I do shout if I get annoyed.’

  Tina sat awkwardly on a beanbag, knees up to her chin, then began flicking through her notes.

  ‘I should examine you,’ Tina decided, frowning at the paperwork. ‘To see how far along you are.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ said Althea. ‘Cervical measuring is one big patriarchal plot to keep women and their bodies under control.’