Page 77 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
‘Please. Sex isn’t about looking at people and getting hard. It’s energy, words, conversation, connection. It sounds like you were trying to glue it back together with sex.’
‘Is that not a good idea then?’ I ask.
‘No. You’re both in such different headspaces at the moment. Sex should be very low down on the agenda.’
‘I just can’t read him anymore, Luce. Not like I used to. I got so angry with him.’
‘For good reason. He’s messing with your head, your emotions.’
‘I guess he’s confused, hurting.’
‘And you’re not?’ Did Grace tell her about the kiss? ‘You’re the one who pushed this little bugger out. He was ten pounds – that is next-level cooch trauma.’
Joe is facing us in his buggy and looks over at me.I am sorry about that, Mum.
Last week’s bad, non-existent sex debacle has left our relationship status even more confused and muddled. I was angry about that kiss. We both needed space to digest that. There was also some thread there about work, changes and understanding new roles and our ability to cope. But the conversation left me frustrated and angry. And now, when I think of Will, I don’t think of someone I know and love; I think of someone who’s decided last minute that they’re not getting on the rollercoaster, abandoning me on this crazy ride all by myself.I don’t think I can do it, I’ll just sit this one out.So I’m some sad single rider, hanging upside down, my body tossed in all directions, I can’t feel my face half the time, and I am well and truly on my own.
‘Are you getting out? Distracting yourself?’
‘I did the model thing which was random, and we went to a baby-friendly screening of some romcom.’
‘Some romcom?’
‘I fell asleep. So did Joe.’ It turns out that all Joe needs to break into some deep sleep is some Dolby Surround Sound, the muted crunch of overpriced popcorn, complete darkness and the aircon cranked up to icy.
‘I’ve been getting more involved in school stuff. Chatting to Sean again,’ I say, trying to persuade Lucy I’m not a complete social saddo.
‘In the flesh?’
‘On WhatsApp?’
It’s mostly been conversations where we send each other memes and laughing out loud emojis.
‘So you think this is the answer?’ she asks, referring to what we’re about to do.
‘Yes. Maybe I need to up my game. Get some endorphins flowing and it might help me get into better shape.’
‘I’m not exercising with you if you think you need to be skinny to win back Will.’
‘It’s not that.’
She studies my face.
‘I also need to just be a better human. I’m in terrible shape. I thought I was having a heart attack the other day walking up the stairs in the Tube. Joe deserves a mother who’s looking after herself at least.’
‘So this is all self-care?’
I salute her and nod. I need to work on me; my brain is like porridge so I need to fix the sum of the parts so that the whole can function again. This body, this life, this role is one I need to embrace wholeheartedly and throw myself into. So today is phase one of bucking up my ideas: time to tone and sculpt and get me all Botticellian/Rubenesque goddess as opposed to the head-all-over-the-place Dalí-esque mother I am.
And it starts with a healthier frame of mind, by regaining my fitness. I say regain – I’m not always sure I had fitness. I had luck. I walked to places and had a twentysomething metabolism. I ate badly thinking it was important not to shut out the major food groups, like alcohol and sugar, but now age and post-partum biology is anything but forgiving. It’s time to be one of those mums who run around parks with their buggies and convene in a circle to lift tyres and skip. Yes, apparently this is a thing in this park we’re in. I’ve even sat on this bench and watched as some ex-military man shouted at the mothers while they all bench-pressed their babies and I ate crisps and laughed. Except that sort of fitness costs money, a lot of money. So do gyms. I don’t have the energy or confidence to exercise in front of others anyway, so that’s why Lucy is here instead, decked out in tight Lycra to lead me in some exercise regime. I have no idea what she has planned, but I am very much not in Lycra. I am in cropped threadbare cotton leggings, a giant hoodie and Reebok Classics. I feel like I should be wearing a sweat band at least.
‘Is this because you’re hanging around them models too?’ Lucy asks suspiciously.
I don’t doubt that having Yasmin in my line of sight may subliminally have had some effect on what I’m feeling. But turning me into Yasmin King might take major surgical intervention as opposed to a few jumping jacks in the park. I reach down to my phone and reveal a picture on my camera roll that Giles messaged over yesterday. It’s Joe and Yasmin in the yoghurt ad, looking completely perfect. Banana Joe looks up at Yasmin adoringly (he’s not really, he’s looking up at a toy being jingled on a stick) while Yasmin is keeping it casual, leaning against a kitchen counter, not a hair or an eyelash out of place. It’s not reality, I know it isn’t, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to look at Joe with some other perfect mother.
‘Maybe…’ I tell Lucy.
‘I can write you a list as long as the Nile of the ways you are better than her. I’ve met models in my game. Half of them live off Cup-A-Soup and air to keep them that skinny. And drugs too, they take all sorts of laxatives.’
