People LIke Her(28)
The truth is, I have never been one of those people with a long-term gang of close friends. I don’t have a WhatsApp group of girls I met twenty years ago at ballet class or Brownies, who’ve been together through bad boyfriends, nasty bosses, cheap holidays, and cheaper hangovers. I know this puzzles Dan, who’s pretty much had the same gang of five or so close mates since university, all of whom have lived together and been one another’s groomsmen and are godparents to one another’s kids, even if they can’t be expected to turn up to a kid’s birthday party on a Saturday afternoon with less than a week’s notice. The big point of difference, I suppose, is that Dan’s mates are fairly straightforward and his friendships with them simple. They meet, they drink pints, they talk about books and films and podcasts. I can’t imagine any of his inner circle calling him in tears because they’ve been belittled in a meeting, or texting to demand a heart-to-heart chat and a vat of pinot grigio when their marriage is on the rocks. Female friendships, most of them anyway, need nurturing. A lot of nurturing. And I’ve never much enjoyed that. Never been especially good at it, one-on-one.
Perhaps that is why my relationship with Polly has endured so long. She isn’t a drama queen, nor has she ever had any desire to be the center of attention. In fact, that’s probably why we worked as a teenage duo—Polly, quiet and bespectacled and eager to please, dressed by her mum in knitwear and sensible shoes, and me, all Teflon-coated self-confidence in platform trainers and frayed black satin. Very little has changed, bar the trainers.
She’s the first guest through the door at the party, looking every inch the English teacher, in a navy wrap dress, cardigan, nude tights, and ballet pumps. In fact, she looks so much like she’s wearing our old school uniform that I can’t help but smile, especially when I see that she’s clutching a badly wrapped teddy bear with one ear poking through the paper. I make a beeline for her.
“Polly Pocket!” I yell, throwing my arms around her neck. “Thank you so much for coming!”
“Don’t be silly, Ems, how could I not say happy birthday to Coco? I am so sorry I couldn’t make the other party; I was helping out at the school play.” Polly smiles. “But I really wanted to see you, so . . .”
I lower my voice, leaning into her ear. “I just have to deal with some work people, then I promise you’ll have my undivided attention.” I point her in the direction of Dan, who is loitering by Bear’s buggy while he naps. Sometimes I really do feel for him at these things, bored to tears trying to make small talk about engagement figures, impressions, and reach. He got in a right grump this morning, after I suggested he might want to wear an ironed shirt for the photos—I could hear him stomping around and swearing as he wrestled with the ironing board.
He’ll be pleased to see someone he can talk to. Polly couldn’t be more different from the stampede of Instamums in their neon Adidas trainers and denim jackets that pile in behind her a few seconds later. I take a deep breath and start to say my hellos to every single one.
“Tabitha, you legend! Do not tell me you only had a baby two weeks ago. You look incredible!” I say, giving her a huge hug, then realizing her T-shirt, which is emblazoned with her Instagram handle, tabbiesbabbies, is completely covered in her leaking breast milk—and now mine is too. I spot Winter, stationed by the buffet to ensure the kids keep their hands off it all until the mamas get their content, and cross the room.
“Did you bring my spare T-shirts? I’m not sure these giant milk stains scream #yaydays . . . ,” I whisper.
“Oh, shit, Emmy, I’m so sorry. I totally forgot. I can go home and get them?” she says, biting one side of her bottom lip.
“Would you mind? You can jump in an Uber and do a round trip. I’ll book one now,” I tell her.
As she scurries off, I am pleased to see that the selfie mural by the door, with its polka dots, rainbows, and a giant speech bubble with #yaydays written in it, is being preened in front of and posed against by the guests. Nearby, there is a three-tier red velvet cake from which M&M’s will spill once cut, plus COCO spelled out in the giant foil balloons and a unicorn pi?ata hanging from the ceiling. We also have a wall of bright pink flowers with MAMABARE picked out in yellow roses in the middle, which was my idea. Though now I see it, I have to admit Irene was right—it does look a little bit like a funeral wreath for poor old Gran.
Coco, in her T-shirt and tutu, her outfit accessorized with fairy wings and a fireman’s helmet, is sitting on a sofa in the corner of the room playing with her dolly. I do worry that she might start thinking these sorts of parties are the norm and getting sniffy at her nursery friends’ soft play and pizza efforts, but, generally, my daughter is pretty blasé about the glitzy parties and goody bags. She’d rather be on the swings or putting her teddies to bed.
Once I have done the Instamum honor guard, making sure everyone has their shot and story, I spot Polly again chatting animatedly in the corner to Jess from the Sunday Times. I begin to make my way over, just as my mother arrives. Even late and at the shitfaced end of tipsy, Virginia is perfectly turned out. She’s spent the past week demanding the fashion brand sponsoring today’s party courier a vast selection of outfits back and forth from their London HQ to her mock-Tudor pile near Winchester for approval. She’s also blagged every beauty treatment she can think of (“Darling, what do you think of microblading? Instagram people all have those big, bushy eyebrows. What do you mean, it’s a tattoo? Don’t be silly, who on earth would tattoo their face?”), cold-calling PRs and introducing herself as the mother of “the world’s most important Instamother” with her own following of fifty-four thousand.