Babyville Page 0,61
same expectations, then?”
“Easier when you're not used to being on your own.”
“I can't believe you're saying all this. I always thought you were on your own because you wanted to be, because you were happiest on your own.”
“I'd be lying if I said I was unhappy. I had you, and we built a lovely life together, but would I have been happier with a man in our lives?” She shrugs sadly. “I suppose I'll never know.”
“But you're my role model.” I feel confused and I'm not altogether sure why. “You're the reason I give as to why I don't want to get married. I tell everyone about you, and about how you didn't need anyone, and about being happy as long as you have a support structure of friends and family around you.”
There's a pause before my mother answers. “Maeve, love,” she says, “do you have a good social life here in London? Do you have friends? Are you happy? I'm not saying you have to have a man to be happy, but I know how lonely life can be on your own, and I worry about you when I'm not living round the corner. I know how self-sufficient you are, and I know you think you're fine without a man, but don't do what I did. Don't sacrifice a wonderful man because of your principles, whatever they are.”
“Pfff,” I snort. “Chance would be a fine thing. London, as you can see”—I gesture outside to Baker Street—“is most definitely not paved with eligible men. Not even when you work in television.”
I love that my mother doesn't even bother looking at Jaeger. We head straight up to the second floor at Selfridges, via the loo because I'm bursting, and hit the funkier, younger stuff. Within minutes I've got a tight green cardigan to try on, a hot pink stretchy top, and a pair of navy straight-legged narrow trousers. My mother's holding a black lace shirt that should be far too young for her but will definitely look fantastic, and a tight black skirt.
We share a changing room, and decide to take it in turns to try on, as it really isn't big enough for the both of us, but it's much more fun doing everything in pairs, so she perches on a stool while I try on the tops.
“Well, that's weird,” I say, because the cardigan, my normal size 8, is gaping in between each button, showing large expanses of white flesh.
“Have you put on some weight?”
“I didn't think so, although . . .” As I think about it, I realize that my clothes have definitely been feeling tighter. Just the other day, after lunch, I actually had to unbutton the waistband of my trousers to get comfortable. And strange only because my weight has barely fluctuated since I was a teenager. I'm a size 8, no more, no less.
Except clearly I am not. Anymore.
I try the trousers on and turn to look at my mother in confusion, because these aren't even meeting. Not even close enough to shout hello.
“They must be the wrong size. They must have labeled them wrongly.” I swivel to see the label, which is tucked inside at the back.
“Bugger. They are an 8. What do you think, Viv? Have I put on weight?” I feel a panic that I've never felt before, because I've never put on weight, never had to think about it, and this is an entirely new problem for me.
“Well, you are looking a tiny bit bigger. But tiny. Hardly noticeable.”
We both look at the clothes and look at my body. “Your boobs are rather large, though,” Viv says, peering closely. “You're not by any chance premenstrual, are you?”
I start to laugh. “That's why I love you, Mum.” I give her a hug, the buttons now almost popping off the cardigan. “I completely forgot about my bloody period.” I lean down and pull my diary out of my bag, and flick through as I am so completely crap about remembering my periods, I have to write down a large PD—Period Due—on the due date, except most of the time I even forget to do that.
“Shit.”
“What's the matter?”
“I must have forgotten again.” I flick back to the last period I wrote down, which was six weeks ago. Which would mean I'm due in two weeks' time. No, that can't be right.
“No, that can't be right.” I flick back and try to work it out again.
“So when are you due?”
“I don't know.” I hand the