Page 49 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
‘Thank you,’ she replies. She may as well have said, ‘I know.’
When do I mention that I live in a garden flat with woodchip walls and dodgy plumbing? I turn to see another picture of her and her boyfriend in a field, looking all intensely loved up; he’s standing behind her, his hands acting as a bra. Will would needmuchbigger hands if we were going to pose like that. She leads us through a door and into a kitchen/diner space punctuated by steel girders and a glass roof. I stare up like some tourist admiring the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
‘There’s so much light…’ I mumble.
‘What was that?’ Giles asks.
‘Just the light. My boyfriend would love this. He’s an architect.’
‘Then your house must be amazing,’ Yasmin says in a slightly competitive tone.
‘You’d think…’ I mutter under my breath.
‘What was his name, Bill?’
‘Will.’
‘And what’s your boyfriend’s name?’
She eyeballs me as I say that. It wasn’t supposed to sound so adversarial, but I guess it would always have that tone given I caught her noisily sticking her tongue down someone else’s throat.
‘Jethro. He’s in a band, The Chateaux?’
I have heard of them; Will calls it happy music for people who cry after sex but I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I try to avert Yasmin’s gaze by glancing over at the kitchen where she’s set out bowls and platters for this brunch we’re supposed to be having. Oh dear. My shoulders slump to see a fair bit of fruit and yoghurt. It’sthatsort of brunch. I bet there’s granola and not a trace of heavily fried meat or white buttered toast anywhere.
‘Thanks for letting us have this meeting here,’ Giles says, touching her arm. For all of Yasmin’s social aloofness, I still applaud his attempts to be friendly with her.
‘It’s no big thing. I find most restaurants don’t cater for my food ethics these days anyway. You can set up base on that sofa if you want? Just don’t get anything on it with the baby. It’s vintage and suede.’ The baby has a name, I want to say. Plus, that’s almost like an open invitation for Joe to barf on it, isn’t it? I line it with muslins just in case.
‘Do you want a tea?’ she asks me.
‘Yes, please. White, one sugar.’
‘Oh,’ she replies. Christ, there’s not even caffeine today. ‘I’ve brewed some kombucha fruit tea?’
‘I’ll give it a go then,’ I reply weakly.
Giles goes to help her in the kitchen and I look down at Joe. In the corner of my eye, Dicky still looks at me strangely, like I’m not the sort of person who usually frequents his abode.Usually we welcome artistes and cool people.I start to unwrap Joe from the carrier. It’s like unwrapping a fajita, trying to make sure the contents don’t fall out on the floor. My clumsiness is not made for this contraption, it has swathes of material wrapped around me like bandages that when left hanging make me look like I’m going to do an aerial acrobatic act. Joe never looks totally convinced at my lack of co-ordination either. Have more faith, kid. I haven’t dropped you. Yet. As I dump the material in a ball, I literally peel my son off me. Balls, he’s left a head print on my front. I look like I have a third boob made out of sweat, like I’ve come out of a bath that’s too hot. I pull frantically at my dress to air it out and try and blow down the front. Both Yasmin and Giles return watching me curiously. They’re armed with trays of crockery that all match and bowls filled with exotic fruits that I’d normally just stare at on supermarket shelves because I wouldn’t know where to start.
‘Have you had physalis before?’ Yasmin asks me.
Once. I got a cream for it though, I want to say. That joke would sail over the room.
‘I haven’t,’ I reply. I lay Joe on the sofa and he looks up at me.Tell the room that you usually have a bowl of Rice Krispies for breakfast and drown them in sugar. Go on, Mum.
‘So we have quinoa and buckwheat pancakes with coconut yoghurt. This is a homemade lemon and passionfruit curd and a chia seed sprinkle.’ A tiny part of my heart cries inside me, shedding a tear for the bacon that isn’t here. The kombucha tea is the same colour as dark urine. It will all be good for me, I tell myself. This is why Yasmin looks like the way she does, isn’t it? Maybe it’s best to take a leaf out of that book.
‘You look hot,’ she says, plating something up for me. I don’t suppose she’s referring to my levels of attractiveness.
‘I’m not too good at carrying Joe around. It’s like cardio.’
Gileslaughs.‘This all looks great, Yasmin, thank you.’
Yasmin hands me my plate and looks over at Joe. ‘What do babies eat? Does he want anything?’
Giles and I both look over, confused. Kid doesn’t even have teeth yet.
‘He’s cool,’ I reply. ‘He’ll get his brunch out of here.’ And for some reason, I grope one of my boobs. That was not classy. I stick my fork into a pancake and take a mouthful with the fruit and yoghurt. It’s not terrible but it’s what health tastes like.
