The Family Trap Page 3

  The words are hardly out of my mouth before she sighs and rolls her eyes. ‘Mum! I’ll be fine. I’m not a little girl anymore, you know.’

  ‘I had noticed.’

  She looks at Phoenix and then smiles at me. ‘Right. Still, I’m glad he came on his due date. I wouldn’t have wanted to go through that on my own.’

  It’s not lost on me that she seems to consider Robert’s presence insignificant, but I let it go for now. I also don’t bother to remind her that while Phoenix might indeed have arrived on his due date, everyone – doctors included – expected him to be at least a month premature due to her tender age. I thought I’d have a good six weeks with her and the baby before I had to move out.

  But there is no way I would have missed it, wedding or no wedding.

  ‘I would never have let you go through that on your own, Lipsy,’ I tell her. ‘Even if Phoenix had arrived late, I’d have stayed behind until you were ready for me to leave. Paul can move up on his own if necessary, you know that. If you want me to be around longer, all you have to do is ask.’

  ‘Mum, I’ll be fine. You and Paul are moving eighty miles up the motorway. It’s not like you’re going to the other side of the world, is it?’

  Lipsy might be more perceptive than I’ve ever given her credit for, because when I fall silent at this, she says, ‘You really miss Bonnie, don’t you?’

  I nod.

  ‘And Los Angeles really is the other side of the world,’ she adds with a rueful smile. ‘Is there no way at all she can come back for the wedding?’

  ‘Apparently not. Flights are expensive, and they’re saving up for their own wedding. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I’ll see her at Christmas. It’ll just make it even more special.’

  But now I’m wondering if I’ll be able to fly out for Bonnie’s wedding. According to my calculations, I’ll have a three-month-old baby in tow by then. Not the best circumstances for transatlantic travel. When my best friend announced her move to America with high-flying Marcus, I took it in my stride, too loved-up with Paul to feel the full impact of being Bonnie-less.

  I’m feeling it now.

  ‘But Christmas is, like, ten months away, Mum. Aren’t they coming back over the summer? What about Cory?’

  Cory is Bonnie’s stepson-to-be. Although younger than Hannah, he’s used to his dad’s international job expeditions.

  At least Bonnie doesn’t have to worry about Marcus dragging Cory’s mum out to the States with them. She’s more the hands-off type. Unlike Sharon.

  ‘Bonnie said that Cory’s flying out for the summer holidays. She also said Marcus only gets two weeks holiday a year. How crazy is that?’

  ‘Vacation,’ Lipsy corrects. ‘They call it vacation out there.’

  I just roll my eyes at this.

  ‘Couldn’t she come over on her own?’ she asks.

  ‘Money,’ I repeat. ‘Lack of. But don’t worry about it, Lipsy. I’ll be fine. You’re still up for being my chief bridesmaid, right?’

  She grimaces, and I give her a little kick. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that bridesmaid dress and you know it.’

  ‘If I fit into it,’ she says, prodding her stomach, which is practically shrinking before our eyes. Oh, to be so young and elastic. When my time comes I’ll probably have a jelly belly for a decade.

  Lipsy crams the last bit of toast into her mouth then holds out her arms. Reluctantly, I hand Phoenix back, smoothing a strand of wispy black hair off his forehead as I do. The hospital bed is high and wide, but visitors aren’t allowed to sit on it. Instead I’m perched in a red plastic tub chair that is only just wide enough for my bum.

  ‘Is Phoenix going to be OK sleeping in with us, do you think?’ she says as she settles him for a feed. I’m both fascinated and a bit weirded-out, watching my daughter breastfeed. It’s amazing to see my little girl being so grown up – feeding a baby with her own body! – but it also seems like a very private thing, intimate, like when I come across her and Robert sitting on the sofa, gazing into each other’s faces as if they contain the secrets of the universe.

  Some things aren’t for a mother’s eyes.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ I reassure her for the hundredth time. ‘Besides, it’s only for a fortnight. Then you can have your dream nursery, can’t you?’

  Phoenix’s nursery-to-be is actually my bedroom. Once I’m gone, Lipsy and Robert plan to redecorate and install a proper cot bed with matching furniture from John Lewis. Actually, the cot bed is already in there, and the furniture is flat-packed and stacked against the wall next to my wardrobe. There are piles of boxes under the window and heaps of plastic bags shoved under my bed – it’s wishful thinking that Lipsy is going to miss me. She clearly can’t wait for me to vacate the premises.

  Until then, Phoenix will sleep in his bassinet in the room Lipsy and Robert share.

  ‘Have you had the windows open, you know, to air it?’ she says.

  ‘You’re sounding like an old woman,’ I tell her, laughing. ‘Next you’ll be telling me not to go out with my hair wet in case I catch a cold.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘You mean I sound like you, then.’

  Touché.

  My daughter and I get on so much better now; the imminent arrival of a baby certainly helped us bond again after I let her down so badly last year. The fire, while not directly my fault, was made a hundred times worse by my failure to keep up with the house insurance. But we managed. Together. Once she forgave me – and once she got fed up living with her grandma, which didn’t take too long. Much as I love my mother, she does have a way of driving a person crazy. I’d rather live in a burnt-out shell than under my mother’s roof for more than a week, which is exactly what I did do. You could never say I don’t put my money where my mouth is.

  Speaking of money ...

  ‘Has Robert asked about a pay rise yet?’ I say. Lipsy pulls a face.

  ‘No. He says it’s awkward, doesn’t want to rock the boat.’

  ‘But with the new baby and all ... Surely it’s OK for him to just ask?’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about it, Mum. Do you mind if we just leave it for now?’

  I do mind, but I tell her it’s fine. That’s a mum’s job, isn’t it? To pretend things are fine even when they’re not? But one thing I learned after the fallout from the fire fiasco was that it’s essential to talk about the important things. And Robert and Lipsy’s financial situation definitely comes under that classification.

  But then I guess my baby does too. And I’m certainly not talking to Lipsy about that right now. So maybe I haven’t learned anything at all.

  Instead we chat about the coming weeks, planning a routine for her and the baby, with Lipsy listening intently to my stories of how I coped when she was born. In the bed across from Lipsy is a woman with twins. A nurse walks past and says, ‘How are we this morning?’ and the twin’s mum says, ‘If one more person says “double trouble” to me I’m going to kill them.’

  Lipsy smiles at me and lays Phoenix down on the bed to change him.

  ‘Should I hold his legs like this?’ she asks. ‘They feel so fragile. I’m scared I’ll hurt him.’

  This is so nice. My daughter is treating me like I’m a fount of knowledge, a person with important opinions. Long may it last.

  ‘Mum?’ she says after a while, interrupting a very funny story of how toddler Lipsy peed all over a grumpy man during potty training. Well, funny for me at least.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you pop down to the hospital shop? Get me something to eat?’

  ‘Didn’t you just this minute have breakfast?’

  ‘I’m replacing all the calories I expended giving birth,’ she counters huffily.

  ‘I’ll pick you up a new sense of humour while I’m down there, shall I?’

  A nappy narrowly misses my head. But it’s a clean one, so I figure she’s not too cross.

  I jump out of the chair and grab my purse, only to be struck by a wave of
nausea that makes me feel as though I’ve just stepped onto a ship in a storm. I grab hold of the nearest sturdy object, which happens to be Phoenix’s plastic crib. The nausea passes quickly, but it leaves my skin feeling both clammy and cold, like the aftermath of a fever.

  ‘Mum? Are you OK?’ Lipsy’s voice is pitched high with concern. She makes to get off the bed, holding Phoenix tightly. I wave her back.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘Must be the Chinese I had last night. I think I’ll pop to the loo on the way, just in case.’

  ‘No rush,’ she calls after me. ‘See you in a bit.’

  Outside the ward I stop and lean against the pale green wall of the corridor. A man with shoulder-length hair is pacing up and down, talking on his phone.

  ‘When will you get here?’ he says, and then, on his second pass, ‘But when will you get here?’ He glares at me and I look away embarrassed.

  I scan for the nearest toilet and push myself off the wall. Another wave of sickness hits me and I quicken my pace. I picture Paul en route to South Wales, Sharon by his side and Hannah in the back, singing travel songs and playing I Spy.

  And here I am, alone and about to vomit into a hospital toilet.

  OK, Stella. Deep breaths. Nothing to get worked up about. It’s just a bit of morning sickness, that’s all. You’ve been here before – albeit nearly seventeen years ago. You know the drill.

  Morning sickness? Starting sooner than I’d expected. Just how pregnant am I, anyway?

  How long do I have before I need to sit my daughter down and tell her that her new baby is going to have a playmate soon – a stepbrother or sister younger than her mother’s own grandson?

  Thinking about it makes my head ache, and my stomach lurches again. Dropping all pretence of nonchalance, I grit my teeth and race for the loo.

  I make it just in time.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Just remind me why I’m doing this?’

  I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen, which has been transformed into the definition of chaos by the arrival home of Lipsy and Phoenix. Gone is the aura of calm I managed to create when I refitted it last year. My beautiful granite worktops have disappeared under a mound of baby paraphernalia, and the carefully distressed oak table is now properly distressed owing to the activity taking place upon it. (Think three different colours of poo, like stripy toothpaste. Not pleasant.) With one hand I’m holding two tiny legs out of the way while the other hand tries to wrap up the nappy from hell. Unfortunately I don’t have a third hand or I could hold my nose with that one. This baby smells!

  ‘Could you pass me a nappy sack, at least?’ I snap at Lipsy, who is sitting as far away as possible, sipping tea. The tea I made for her, right after I’d unloaded the mountain of equipment I’d been instructed to go shopping for, which was right after I’d picked her up from hospital. I don’t mind – really, I don’t – it’s just that I’d quite like to sit down myself at some point today.

  ‘Hello? I’m in a bit of a pickle here.’

  Lipsy leans forward, pulls a nappy sack from the bag and drops it next to Phoenix, never once making eye contact with me.

  ‘Well, gee, thanks. You be careful now, Lipsy. We don’t want you overdoing things.’

  Oh, I’m a crabby one today, aren’t I? It’s not Lipsy’s fault. Note to self: don’t take your problems out on your daughter. I can see she’s knackered, and I can remember only too clearly how it feels to come home to your parents’ house with a new baby. Except when it happened to me I was alone. I didn’t have a loving, caring, hands-on man like Robert to help me. Lipsy’s dad had hotfooted it to God-knows-where by the time Lipsy was born.

  Good riddance, of course. Except I didn’t think that at the time.

  Also, technically this isn’t her parent’s house anymore. As Lipsy and Robert reminded me this morning, in exactly eleven days this will be their house. Their chance to find out how hard it is to manage on one salary and run a household and look after a baby without the bank of mum at the ready.

  I keep this to myself too.

  I finally manage to get the offending article into the oddly sweet-smelling plastic bag, and then I grab a fresh nappy from the pile on the table and quickly fold it around Phoenix’s bum. While I’m doing up the poppers on his cute little Babygro I think, Hey, I’m quite good at this.

  And it is really good practice.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ Lipsy announces, yawning, and I move from feeling sorry for her to feeling outraged all over again.

  ‘What about Phoenix? Won’t he need a feed soon?’

  ‘That’s what all this is for.’ Lipsy gestures to the heap of plastic bottles and boxes of formula littering the worktop.

  ‘But I thought you were breastfeeding,’ I say, feeling my cheeks grow hot. Saying the word breast to my daughter feels acutely embarrassing for some unfathomable reason.

  ‘Well, I was. But I’m not anymore.’

  ‘What? That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you care? You didn’t breastfeed me, did you? So why are you so bothered about it?’

  ‘I’m not bothered about it. What are you getting all worked up for?’ I take a deep breath. This is how arguments used to kick off in the bad old days, when Lipsy was still in her sulky teenager phase and hated everything I did or said.

  ‘You’ve just been out to buy all this stuff, Mum. What did you think it was for?’ she says, sounding very much like a sulky teenager.

  ‘I thought,’ I say carefully, ‘that it was for Phoenix. For in a month or so’s time. Or maybe as a stand-by if you, you know, if your ...’

  I want to say breasts again but just can’t bring myself to. Wishing this conversation was over, I point in the general direction of Lipsy’s chest (which is unnaturally large at the moment, something Robert is no doubt chuffed to bits with).

  ‘You can remember what to do, can’t you?’ she says, tipping back her head to eyeball me. ‘Feeding and all that. You’re not nervous, are you?’

  It’s a challenge, is what it is. I’m old, she’s saying. Past it. And the only way to prove I’m not is to take charge and look after Phoenix for her. Unless I can’t remember what to do, because it was so long ago.

  I’ve always been a sucker for slights about my age. They get me every time.

  ‘Of course I can remember,’ I tell her haughtily. ‘And I’m not nervous. Didn’t you see me change his nappy then? Like a pro?’

  We both look at Phoenix, who is lying on the changing mat waving his arms and legs happily. His nappy, I notice, is on back to front. I grab him and hold him up to my shoulder before she can notice. ‘It’s not so very long ago I was changing your nappies, young lady. You’re not that old. Old enough to have a baby though, eh? And what was it you said to me, all those months ago? That you could cope with a baby perfectly well on your own? That you didn’t need anyone to help you?’

  ‘Fine,’ Lipsy says, hauling herself out of the chair. ‘I’ll take Phoenix up with me. Wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  Now I feel terrible all over again. My emotions are up and down like a bungee jumper today. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, placing my free hand on her arm. ‘I’m not in a good place today. You go on up and have a rest. I’ll make up some bottles and give Phoenix a feed, then I’ll put him down for his nap. OK?’

  She smiles weakly and nods. She must be really, really exhausted because ordinarily Lipsy would ask me what’s wrong. She used to be very nosey – before she became a worn out mum like the rest of us without the time or the energy to think, let alone speak.

  Now, where did that come from? Phoenix is only two days old and already I’m talking like it’s the beginning of the end for Lipsy. It felt like that for me, but things will be different for her.

  Like they’ll be different for me, this time around.

  I pop Phoenix in his bassinet and shuffle Lipsy up the stairs to bed, tucking her in like I used to when she was still a little girl, then I creep back down to
tackle the formula problem. Truth be told, I can’t remember what to do at all. There was, I think, lots of sterilising and measuring and powder going everywhere. And then there was water to boil and cool, and more measuring. Lots of mixing.

  Phoenix looks up at me from his bassinet, his nose a little wrinkled. I notice the nappy sack on the table beside him and quickly sweep it into the bin. But that won’t help, will it? We’ll need one of those special nappy bins with the scented cartridges and the sweep-around top.

  The list of equipment is never ending. But at least we’ll have it all ready for when the next baby comes along.

  It’s when I’m tidying up I notice the calendar. I’ve been counting the days – literally – until the due date, and now it occurs to me I need to start counting the days until the wedding. Robert and Lipsy are doing that for me, of course, but I can’t blame them for wanting their own space. But now one milestone has been reached and passed, it’s time for me to focus on the rest of my life. Let go of Lipsy: put some distance between us, both physically and metaphorically.

  And then I realise that today is the fourteenth of February. The most romantic day of the year, so they say, and where is the love of my life? He’s living it up in a field somewhere in deepest Wales with his nine-year-old daughter and Milton Keynes’ answer to Gwyneth Paltrow.

  While his fiancé tries not to nurse a grudge, and wonders how to tell him that his plan for just the two of us is soon to become just the three of us.

  Even I can see that doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

  *

  At half past seven the phone rings. I’ve been staring at a half-empty bottle of dry white wine for forty minutes, wishing I was ignorant of current health care regulations regarding mums-to-be. When I was pregnant with Lipsy we weren’t told to avoid alcohol and pâté and rare steaks and Brie. The last three I can live without, but wine?

  Funny how before I peed on that little white stick it didn’t seem to matter if I had a tipple or two, even though I knew there was a possibility. Now I have the evidence in my handbag, I just can’t bring myself to pour a glass.