Greenwich Park(2)

I decided to cut across the park, between the Observatory and the Old Royal Naval College. The hazy light seemed to soften the edges of everything. Office workers were spread out on the yellowing grass, shoes kicked off, ties loosened, sunglasses on. They were drinking gin and tonics from cans, sharing Kettle chips, speaking slightly too loudly to each other, the way people do after a few drinks. It had felt like walking past a party, one I hadn’t been invited to. I had to remember not to stare. It can be hard not to stare at happy people. They are mesmerising somehow.

It was hot like this the summer we graduated from Cambridge. We used to punt down the river, the four of us. Serena and I sunbathing. Rory steering. Daniel sorting the drinks out, his pale skin reddening in the heat. We’d veer into banks, get tangled in curtains of weeping willow, the sky cloudless, the sunlight catching sequin-bright on the clear waters of the Cam. It felt as if the summer would go on forever. When it didn’t, I feared we would lose the closeness we felt back then. But we didn’t. Rory and Serena came to live in Greenwich, on the other side of the park. Daniel went to work with Rory at the family firm. And now, there are our babies, due just two weeks apart.

The course leader is here now. She jams the door open with a folded beer mat, then picks up a sticky label and writes her name on it with a thick green marker: SONIA. She presses the label onto her chest, then dumps a faded shopper and some Tesco carrier bags next to the flipchart. A whiskery plait of hair runs almost the length of her spine.

‘Right,’ says Sonia. ‘Shall we start?’

She begins a practised monologue about labour, pain relief and Caesareans, one eyelid flickering during the embarrassing parts. Occasionally she is forced to raise her voice over a crash of pots and pans, or a burst of expletives, from the pub kitchen on the floor below.

After she has been speaking for a few minutes, I glance down at my phone screen again, just as a message flashes up from Daniel. I open it. Meeting only just finished, he says. Heading home now. Train gets in at ten. He is so sorry about the class, says that he wishes he could be there with me. He’ll make it up to me, he says.

I know he would be here if he could, that he is gutted to have had to let me down. That this last-minute crisis meeting just came at a terrible moment. At the same time, I can’t help feeling so disappointed. I’d been excited about these classes, about doing them together, like proper expectant parents.

Sonia starts to pull objects from the carrier bags: a pelvis – through which she squeezes a fully dressed, plastic newborn – knitted nipples, a pair of forceps, a ventouse cap. The men look horrified, the women sweaty and anxious. We pass the objects around the circle, trying bravely to smile at each other.

The chairs to my left are still empty. The bearded man has to lean right over them to hand me the objects as they come round. I glance down at the name tags I wrote out for Rory and Serena, sitting on their vacant seats. Those two were supposed to be here at least, to keep me company, make me feel less alone. I feel foolish, like a woman who has invented two imaginary friends. Could Serena really have just forgotten?

Another message comes through. It’s from Serena. My heart sinks. Somehow, deep down, even as I tap to open it, I know what it’s going to say.

Hey, Helen! I know it’s the first antenatal class tonight. Hope you don’t mind, but I think Rory and I might skip them after all. I was actually looking online and I found these other ones that look a bit more my thing – beautiful bump classes – they’re supposed to be a bit less preachy, and they meet in the organic bakery. I was thinking I might try those instead. So sorry to cancel at the last minute. Have fun!

Sonia is brandishing a red marker at her flipchart now. ‘So. Can anyone tell me what they know about breastfeeding?’

I try to focus on the breastfeeding discussion. It is not going well. Most of the mothers are staring at the floor. One mutters something about positioning, another offers an anecdote about a friend who kept breast milk in the fridge.

‘Anyone else?’ Sonia is flagging now, half-moons of perspiration spreading from under the arms of her T-shirt.

Just at this moment, a girl walks in, slamming the door behind her. Sonia winces.



‘Fucking hell. Sorry, everyone,’ she announces loudly. She slips a metallic-gold backpack off one shoulder and drops it down on the floor with a thud. It lands inches from my foot.

‘Oops,’ she grins, one hand on her bump.

Everyone stares. Sonia, still standing in front of the flipchart with her red marker pen held aloft, eyes the girl coldly. The only things written on her flipchart so far are ‘CORRECT POSITION (NIPPLE)’ and ‘STORE IN FRIDGE’.

The girl points a purple-painted fingernail at the seat next to me, the one I had reserved for Serena. ‘This chair taken?’

I hesitate, then shake my head. I feel the eyes of the other couples on me as I collect the unused name badges in my hands, haul my bags over to the other side, scrape my chair out a little to make more room.

Sonia sighs. ‘Anyone else?’

The flipchart charade continues for a few further minutes. The women begin to shift in their chairs, exchange raised eyebrows, uncomfortable glances. I try to concentrate. The girl next to me, the latecomer, is chewing gum. All I seem to be able to hear is the snap of it between her teeth as her jaw opens and closes. When I glance sideways at her, I glimpse it between her teeth, a neon-pink pellet, an artificial cherry scent. She catches my eye, grinning again, as if the whole thing is hilarious.