Foetal Attraction (21 page)

‘There must be
some
thing wrong with him,’ Maddy hinted hopefully. ‘No bondage? No corrugated bottoms? No wine enemas?’

A look she had never seen before in Gillian’s repertoire passed across her face. ‘He’s really quite nice,’ she replied tenderly.

The only way to persuade Gillian to accompany her, Maddy schemed, was to utilize a language she’d understand. ‘Everyone else will have a partner on her
arm
. You’re always telling me not to go out under-accessorized …’

But Gillian was far too frantic compiling her presents list and selecting her wallpapers for the refurbishment of Maurice’s mansion. Maddy would have to go alone. She had a feeling that antenatal class was going to make an episode of
The Archers
seem scintillating.

Grunting Class

ULTIMATE PROOF THAT
women
do
actually lose their brain cells during pregnancy was the number of women in the antenatal class sporting large T-shirts with the words ‘MUM TO BE’, ‘BABY ON BOARD’ or ‘BEWARE! INCOMING STORK’ blazoned across their chests. Maddy, clocking the fixed smiles of the first-timers, tightly holding hands and making simultaneous utterances about the beauty of natural childbirth, burrowed further down into the mammoth pink marshmallow pillows which ringed the room. Before them stood their instructress, Yolanda Grimes, or Yo-Yo, as her name tag chirpily stated.

‘Welcome!’ she enthused with the chipper confidence of a career Moonie, arms outstretched. Maddy eyed with alarm her carious teeth, frizzily permed hair, bright red spectacles, ‘How Dare You Presume I’d Rather Be Slim’ badge and stocky legs cased in white stretch leggings, the bulk of her sanitary towel visible
beneath
. ‘Welcome,
Mums
!’ she dispensed an anodyne smile in the direction of each female in the room. ‘And welcome
Dads
. I’m pleased to say that these days, ninety to ninety-five per cent of fathers welcome their babies into the world. That other five per cent are pathetic wimps.’

Yolanda placed her hands on the thighs which protruded from her body like a couple of open car doors. They were not so much child- as
truck
-bearing hips. Though constantly smiling, her eyes remained hard as pastel candies as she surveyed the male members of the class, daring them to disagree. As far as Yolanda was concerned, it was a federally mandated law that husbands attend the birth. ‘Which is why we call these our
Couples
Classes …’ Maddy tensed. She hated the Noah’s Ark theory of life. Why did everything have to come in doubles? Beds, theatre tickets, Mormons, nuns, cops …

‘But we still welcome those little
bungles
of joy that come along.’ Yolanda winked in Maddy’s direction, causing the entire class to turn and stare. She slumped further into her marshmallow.

She was paired off with the only other single Mum-to-be. The name bracelet clanking up her eczema-ed arm read ‘Cheryl’. Even though she had a complexion you could use to scour an oven, she was a cut above some of the other women in the class … at least her tattoos were spelled correctly.

‘Where’s your fella, then? Buggered off, has he?’
Cheryl
asked, lighting up a cigarette as they faced each other to practise the squat birthing position.

Maddy nodded.

‘In the nick?’

‘Sort of. He’s married.’ She feigned an aggressive cheerfulness.

Cheryl patted her stomach and drew luxuriously on her cigarette. ‘I’m gunna find ITS Dad if it’s the last fing I do,’ she assured the entire room.

‘I think it’s impossible to do blood tests on
all
the windsurf instructors in Tenerife,’ contributed Pamela, from NW3, batting the air in front of her and screwing up her nose. ‘Look, if you want to stunt
your
baby’s growth, well and good. But I want my child to begin life with every advantage.’

‘Hear, hear,’ piped up Mr NW3. ‘
We’re
not even taking aspirins at this stage.’

‘And now,’ cried Yo-Yo, ‘let’s practise the more advanced birthing techniques.’ As far as Maddy could make out, these positions seemed to involve getting the back of your knee into your left nostril and touching the roof of the mouth with the clitoris, whilst drinking a cup of herbal tea. Some of the less inhibited ladies stripped off to reveal beaded or leopardskin leotards, long purple worms of varicose veins crawling up and down their legs. There was an avalanche of flesh. It dripped from them, like treacle off a spoon. ‘Bend, breathe, breathe, bend …’ The women, duplicating Yo-Yo’s stance, found themselves
contorted
into knots Houdini couldn’t get out of.

‘If you’re gettin’ a lot of headaches, it’s a boy.’ This piece of medical analysis came from a scrawny eighteen-year-old called Maureen. As Maureen had already revealed that she carried a rabbit’s foot, avoided ladders, dangled a ring above her abdomen to determine the gender and made her boyfriend give up his trade and take a job in a meat factory because she believed that butchers had more sons, Maddy took this advice with a mine of Siberian salt.

‘We opted for a detailed ultrasound,’ Pamela of NW3 announced with great superiority; though it was hard to look too superior on all fours with your head between your buttocks.

‘Why?’ said Maddy sympathetically. ‘Were you worried about the chromosomal abnormalities?’

‘No. I needed to be certain about the sex. That way I could get it on the right school waiting list.’

‘Everyone, everyone,
do
look at Bertrand. Very
good
, Bertrand,’ Yolanda massaged Pamela’s husband’s shoulders as he executed something very Hampstead-sounding: the side-bean-bag-leaning-on-support-person position. ‘Breathe, breathe, pant pant … Oh, Bertrand,’ Yolanda gushed in a grisly simulation of coquetry, ‘you’re giving birth perfectly …’

The supercilious Pamela sank dejectedly into her bean-bag.

‘These exercises will be of great benefit during your birth,’ Yolanda continued her exhortation by rote.
‘Because
you will all be having natural births, of course, won’t you? It’s so enjoyable!’ Maddy did not find this convincing. Yolanda Grimes looked to her like the kind of woman who could only achieve orgasm by piercing her nipples with hot pins. Bertrand confirmed that he and Pamela had decided on the Leboyer Method. Other husbands cited their preference for home births. Maddy noted that every time Yolanda asked a woman a question, her husband answered. All of them verified that their wives would be giving birth naturally. ‘We don’t believe in drugs,’ Bertrand concluded. This, thought Maddy, from a guy who probably needed an epidural to have his ingrown toenail clipped. She felt sure that if a man were asked to grow an alien in his belly for forty weeks, causing varicose veins, wind, amnesia and halitosis, followed by thirty-six hours of intense agony culminating in a cut from testes to anus – even Rambo would decline on the grounds that it was too damn dangerous.

‘And, Madeline, what about you?’

‘Well, actually, I’m trying to arrange the birth so that I don’t have to be there. To tell the truth, I’m aiming for the “Full-Anaesthetic-Elective-Caesarean-Wake-Me-When-It’s-Over-and-the-Hairdresser’s-Here approach”.’ The rest of the class were positively luminous with self-righteous disapproval.

‘I’m with her,’ squealed Cheryl, chain-smoking another ciggy. ‘I’ve taken drugs all me life. Why stop now?’

‘But you’re so lucky being a woman!’ Bertrand throbbed. ‘Being able to experience the giving of life!’

‘Look,’ Maddy replied tersely, ‘if I want pain, I just have to think about all the vintage champagne the father of my child is no doubt sipping on the deck of some Caribbean yacht with his wife as we speak. OK?’

The measured, steady stares of her classmates melted into condescending smiles as couples clutched hands more firmly and women swapped details on the size of their latest haemorrhoids.

Yolanda, having instructed husbands to massage their partners’ perineums daily with rare secretions from the sex glands of various unendangered species, then felt impelled to impart some tips on post-birth recovery.

‘The first crap will be worse than the birth itself,’ she continued with Messianic fervour. ‘Basically, you’ll just sit on that loo and cry.’ Thank you, thought Maddy, thank you for sharing that with me. ‘And as for
sex
…’ Yolanda ran her tongue over her teeth with the precision of a cat. ‘Well, I have three words for you.
K Y Jelly
. It’ll be agony,’ she said sweetly, ‘for absolute
months. Years
even … Basically, you’ll throw up every time hubby comes anywhere near you. Your pelvic-floor muscles will also be shot to hell. It won’t just be the baby who’ll be wearing nappies!’ The class were looking as pale as their instructress was jovial.

‘At least we’ll be able to sleep on our stomachs,’ Maddy offered in an attempt to alleviate the gloom in
the
room.

‘Oh, no. Your boobs will be far too sore. Mastitis makes childbirth a doddle. But let’s not dwell on the negative aspects. You’ll need all your optimism … ’cos it only gets worse,’ she beamed. ‘Come on! Cheer up! Remember it takes twenty-two muscles to frown and only sixteen to smile.’ Despite that solidified smirk, the air around Yolanda was harsh and parched. ‘My job is to make it all less mysterious. Birth … well, it’s just the beginning of death, really, isn’t it? As I always say, we’re here for a good time, not for a lifetime.’

Oblivious to the suicidal effect this speech had had on the entire gathering, Yolanda manoeuvred the film projector into place. ‘Any questions?’

Maureen raised her hand. ‘Would you please tell my
de facto
, Daryl, to get rid of his pet python. I’m frightened it may eat the baby.’

‘It won’t eat the baby, woman!’ grumbled Daryl. ‘It’s perfectly ’armless.’

But the snake charmer was drowned out by the theme music to
Your Uterus and You
. The class had only just settled down into their cushions, when they were assailed with the full technicolour gore of a woman spreadeagled in the shamelessness of an agonizing labour. The sound-track was from a
Friday the Thirteenth
film. In blood loss, it rivalled the Tiananmen Square Massacre. When the lights snapped back up, couples were knotted into foetal positions of terror,
chewing
holes in their beslobbered bean-bags.

‘As you can see, birth is a mind and body dichotomy thing.’ Yolanda smiled sweetly as she crammed her crocheted uterus and plastic dolls and other paraphernalia into her knapsack. ‘Anyone like some raspberry leaf tea?’ she asked in tones meant to discourage.

Shaking and quaking, couples fled, screaming into the street. Even Mr NW3, the No-Drugs-Do-It-Naturally-Bertrand, was sweating profusely as he stared, bug-eyed, at the blank screen.

‘Well, do pop in next week,’ Yolanda tossed over her shoulder, ‘and we’ll have another jolly little session.’

About as jolly, Maddy thought, crawling to her feet, as popping in to visit the Yorkshire Ripper.

A Bald Spot on the Mono-Fibre-Hair-Extension-King

THE TROUBLE WITH
the cream of English society is that it often curdles. The first sign that things were going off was when Gillian started ringing airlines to see which one got least hysterical at the sight of a heavily pregnant woman.

‘I’m not going home!’ Maddy insisted.

‘Why on earth do you want to live in this God-forsaken country?’

‘I like England!’

‘That proves nothing. We know you’re a masochist. I mean, you also like That Man.’

‘I’m not staying for Alex. I’m staying for … for other things.’

‘What can you possibly like about this class-ridden, hypocritical little island?’

‘Your self-deprecating sense of humour. Your manners. I mean, if you tread on someone on the tube,
they
apologize to
you
. Your tolerance … Look at all the
untalented
loud-mouths Australia has exported here over the years – Rolf Harris, Nigel Dempster, Jason Donovan, a whole cake of soap stars … The fact you can order pre-interval drinks. The fact that blokes can get all revved up over daffodil-painting and Debussy concerts without being labelled “pillow biters”. And, um … butter doesn’t melt when you leave it out of the fridge.’

‘That’s
it
?’

‘You have great names. Cosmo Lush and Topaz Amore and Crispen Baldrick (Balders) McCodpiece of That Ilk … And strange ancient rituals where you dress up and do incredibly silly things. Like morris dancing. Who
was
Morris, by the way? You’re so, I don’t know, totally gonzo. I mean, you televise the
darts
. It’s a national addiction. And about as visually interesting as, I dunno, watching hair recede … Besides, it’s impossible for me to fly now.’

‘Why?’ Gillian asked anxiously.

‘You know how hungry I get and I’m too fat to be able to fold down the “in flight” tray.’

‘Maddy, be serious. How are you going to survive? I mean, I can’t support you. I’m, how shall I put this? … In equity retreat. The only thing supporting me at the moment is my wonder bra.’

‘But what about the Hair Extension King?’

‘He stood me up.’

‘Why?’

‘He was busy …’

‘Doing what?’

Gillian paused before answering. ‘Marrying someone else.’

Maddy’s first reaction was to laugh, until she glimpsed Gillian’s stricken face. ‘Look, I’m sorry he turned out to be the
crème de la scum
, Gill, but he wasn’t consigned to you or anything. You did choose him.’

‘He proposed, you know,’ she said defensively. ‘But insisted I sign a pre-nuptial agreement. Imagine that. “With my body I thee honour, all that I am I give to thee, all that I have I protect with a watertight legal document in case you ever try to get your greedy little mitts on it.” ’

‘But, Gillian, you were only marrying him for his money, remember?’

‘I know. But it was just so … unromantic.’ She choked back a sob. ‘He dumped me for a younger woman. His secretary, can you believe?’

‘He obviously likes a woman he can dictate to …’

‘Maddy, I’m serious. This may sound pathetic and overly dramatic, but, by Christ, it’s hard … unlike his virile member,’ she added bitterly. ‘My heart has been dropped and left lying out in the rain. It’s ghastly, Maddy. You know how much I adored the little cunt. He wanted to be friends. Can you believe it? But it’s all or nothing with me.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m doing it cold turkey. I’m going to be away for a few weeks. At a private Bel Air hotel bungalow. Can’t
think
of anywhere better to recuperate, can you?’