ONE DAY(103)

Emma had been led to believe that tonight would be a dinner party, but having made it to Whitechapel she has found that Stephanie and Adam are too exhausted to cook; hope she doesn’t mind. Instead they sit and watch the television and chat, while the breast pump whirrs and chugs away, giving the living room the atmosphere of a milking shed. Another big night in the life of a Godmother.

There are conversations Emma no longer wants to have and they all concern babies. The first few were novel enough, and yes, there was something intriguing, funny and touching about seeing your friends’ features blended and fused in miniature like that. And of course there is always joy in witnessing the joy of others.

But not that much joy, and this year it seems that every time she leaves the house some new infant is being jammed in her face. She feels the same dread as when someone produces a brick-sized pile of their holiday snaps: great that you had a nice time, but what’s it got to do with me? To this end, Emma has a fascinated-face that she puts on when a friend tells her about the miseries of labour, what drugs were used, whether they caved and went for the epidural, the agony, the joy.

But there’s nothing transferable about the miracle of childbirth, or parenthood in general. Emma doesn’t want to talk about the strain of broken sleep; hadn’t they heard rumours of this in advance? Neither does she want to have to remark on the baby’s smile, or how it started off looking like the mother but now looks like the father or started off looking like the father but now has the mother’s mouth. And what is this obsession with the size of the hands, the tiny little hands with the tiny, tiny fingernails, when in a way it’s big hands that would be more remarkable. ‘Look at baby’s massive great flapping hands!’ Now that would be worth talking about.

‘I’m falling asleep,’ says Adam, Stephanie’s husband, from the armchair, his head supported by his fist.

‘Maybe I should go,’ says Emma.

‘No! Stay!’ says Stephanie, but doesn’t provide a reason.

Emma eats another Kettle Chip. What has happened to her friends? They used to be funny and fun-loving, gregarious and interesting, but far too many evenings have been spent like this with pasty, irritable hollow-eyed couples in smelly rooms, expressing wonder that baby is getting bigger with time, rather than smaller. She is tired of squealing in delight when she sees a baby crawl, as if this was a completely unexpected development, this ‘crawling’. What were they expecting, flight? She is indifferent to the smell of a baby’s head. She tried it once, and it smelt like the back of a watchstrap.

Her phone rings in her bag. She picks it up and glances at Dexter’s name but doesn’t bother answering. No, she doesn’t want to go all the way from Whitechapel to Richmond to watch him blowing raspberries on little Jasmine’s belly. She is particularly bored by this, her male friends performing their New Young Dad act: harassed but good-tempered, weary but modern in their regulation jacket with jeans, paunchy in their ribbed tops with that proud, self-regarding little look they give as they toss junior in the air. Bold pioneers, the first men in the history of the world to get a little wee on their corduroy, a little vomit in their hair.

Of course, she can’t say any of this out loud. There’s something unnatural about a woman finding babies or, more specifically, conversation about babies, boring. They’ll think she’s bitter, jealous, lonely. But she’s also bored of everybody telling her how lucky she is, what with all that sleep and all that freedom and spare time, the ability to go on dates or head off to Paris at a moment’s notice. It sounds like they’re consoling her, and she resents this and feels patronised by it. It’s not like she’s even going to Paris! In particular, she is bored of jokes about the biological clock, from her friends, her family, in films and on TV. The most idiotic, witless word in the English language is ‘singleton’, followed closely by ‘chocoholic’, and she refuses to be part of any Sunday supplement lifestyle phenomenon. Yes, she understands the debate, the practical imperatives, but it’s a situation entirely out of her control. And yes, occasionally she tries to picture herself in a blue hospital gown, sweaty and in agony, but the face of the man holding her hand remains stubbornly blurred, and it’s a fantasy she chooses not to dwell on.

When it happens, if it happens, she will adore the child, remark on its tiny hands and even the smell of its scrofulous little head. She will debate epidurals, lack of sleep, colic, whatever the hell that is. One day she might even bring herself to coo at a pair of booties. But in the meantime she’s going to keep her distance, and stay calm and serene and above it all. Having said that, the first one to call her Aunty Emma gets a punch in the face.

Stephanie has finished expressing and is showing her breast milk to Adam, holding it up to the light like a fine wine. It’s a great little breast pump, they all agree.

‘My turn next!’ says Emma, but no-one laughs and right on cue the baby wakes upstairs.

‘What someone needs to invent,’ says Adam, ‘is a chloroformed baby wipe.’

Stephanie sighs and trudges out, and Emma decides she will definitely head home soon. She can stay up late, work on the manuscript. The phone buzzes again. A message from Dexter, asking her to schlep out to Surrey to keep him company.

She turns the phone off.

‘ . . . I know it’s a long way, it’s just I think I might be suffering from post-natal depression. Get in a cab, I’ll pay. Sylvie’s not here! Not that it makes any difference, I know, but . . . there’s a spare bedroom, if you wanted to stay over. Anyway, call me if you get this. Bye.’ He hesitates, says another ‘Bye’ and hangs up. A pointless message. He blinks and shakes his head, and pours more wine. Scrolling through the phone’s address book, he comes to S for Suki Mobile.