and Lauren lying on sun loungers sipping cocktails by a big sparkling pool. Going on holiday hasn’t occurred to me once since I had Hera, but it is a surprisingly appealing image.
‘Sun! Is that what they call it these days?’ my mum sniggers.
‘Oh my God, Mum!’ I groan. ‘This conversation is over!’ I tut, picking a sleeping Hera gently up from her highchair and placing her in the carrier, where she continues to snooze.
My mum laughs. ‘Well whatever, let’s just hope one of us wins!’
By the time we get to the village hall, my mum and I have already fallen out over whether the washing up has been done and whose turn it was to do it. The car has stalled three times and Hera has woken up. My mum parks wonkily in a space outside the village hall and as soon as the car comes to a stop, I jump out and open the back door to check Hera.
She reaches for me from her baby seat, wailing loudly.
‘Baby! It’s okay sweetheart,’ I coo, attempting to calm her, while rocking her gently on my shoulder. My mum turns the engine off and gets out of the car.
Hera lets out a few more loud cries.
‘Sweetie, it’s okay, it’s okay!’ I rub and pat her back as I pace back and forth by the side of the car. My mum looks on with concern.
‘Shall I just go home? Maybe this is too much for her?’ I suggest.
‘Give her a minute …’ I can tell my mum’s really desperate to have a night out at the village hall, so I keep patting Hera and making soft cooing noises in her ear.
She lets out a few more loud cries and then, strangely, she quietens down.
‘Oh, thank God for that!’ I breathe a sigh of relief when suddenly, Hera’s body swells and an eruption of green-tinged vomit spurts out of her mouth.
‘Eww!’ I yelp as the vomit lands on my jumpsuit and drips from my shoulder down over my right breast.
‘Oh no!’ My mum opens the car door and reaches into the glove compartment for a pack of baby wipes while I rub Hera’s back, comforting her, while trying not to breathe in the pungent smell of fresh sick.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I coo as my mum dabs at Hera’s face, wiping the sick away. She chucks the vomit-soaked wipe into a nearby bin and then gets a fresh one and tries to mop up the warm sick that’s dribbling down my jumpsuit.
‘What do you think is wrong with her, Mum? Do you think she’s okay?’ I ask, fretting. My mum may wind me up a bit sometimes, but it’s been a godsend having someone nearby who’s been there and done that when it comes to motherhood.
‘Yeah, she’s fine. She probably just ate too much at lunch. I thought she was gulping down that apple crumble dessert a bit fast,’ my mum comments.
‘What? You gave her apple?’ I gawp.
‘Yes,’ my mum answers hesitantly. ‘Was I … not meant to?’
‘It doesn’t agree with her, Mum, that’s why she’s vomiting,’ I grumble. ‘Poor Hera-pops …’ I rub her back some more.
‘Oh dear, let me have her.’ My mum reaches for Hera.
I hand her over and take a wet wipe. My mum comforts Hera, while I dab at the sick on my boob. I love my baby, but she’s managed to produce the most disgusting slime-like vomit. The more I dab at it, the more it seems to be getting everywhere and before I know it, my entire left boob is soaked and gunky.
‘Oh God,’ I groan.
My mum looks up from Hera and eyes my jumpsuit in shock.
‘It’s everywhere,’ she comments.
‘Pam!’ my mum’s friend, Sandy, calls out, waving over her shoulder as she heads into the hall.
‘Hi Sandy!’ my mum calls back in a strained voice. ‘Oh no, they’re going to get all the raffle tickets, we need to go in,’ she adds under her breath.
‘But Mum, look at me!’
My mum plasters a smile onto her face as she takes in my frazzled, vomit-spattered appearance. ‘You don’t look that bad,’ she insists.
‘You just said it was everywhere. I look awful,’ I sigh.
It’s true, I do. I go over to the car window and take in my reflection. I’m a complete mess. My nice jumpsuit is covered in gunk and my whole boob area is dark and splodgy from all the dabbing I’ve been doing with the baby wipes. All the stress has made my hair go even frizzier than it was before and the BB cream that I’d convinced myself gave me a subtle glow when I applied it at home isn’t even remotely covering the pale washed-out look of my face. I’m a far cry from the single glamourous girl-boss I used to be, and I don’t exactly look like Mum of the Year either. I should just head home already. This is what happens when you tell yourself real life is better than Netflix.
‘Oh! I have an idea!’ my mum pipes up, interrupting my self-pitying thoughts. Hera has calmed down a bit now and is resting her head against my mum’s shoulder.
‘What?’ I turn to look at her, questioningly.
‘I have a top in the back. You can put it on over your jumpsuit. The sick will dry in no time and you’ll look right as rain,’ she says, heading over to the car boot. She hands Hera to me.
‘Really?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Yeah, really. You might not smell right as rain, but you’ll look it!’ She gives Hera to me and then reaches into her handbag for the car keys and opens the boot.
‘Let me just find it.’ She leans forward and rummages in the assortment of random stuff she keeps there. I peer over her shoulder, taking in the empty, deflated-looking duffel bag, a long-forgotten crusty towel from a swimming trip and a Jilly Cooper novel.
‘Oh, here it is!’ my mum says suddenly, pulling a sweatshirt out of a plastic charity shop carrier bag buried behind a plant pot with a Homebase sticker on it that she appears to have forgotten to unload. She holds up the jumper, shaking it out of its crumpled state.
‘What is that?’ I gawp, taking in the monstrosity she’s holding. It’s a gigantic grey sweatshirt with a massive print of a tabby cat across the front and the words: ‘Cat Cuddles Sanctuary’.
‘Mum! Why did you buy that?! You don’t even own a cat?!’ I balk.
‘I know.’ My mum shrugs. ‘So?’
‘Then why do you have a Cat Cuddles Sanctuary jumper?!’ I ask through gritted teeth.
‘I bought it from Oxfam to wear for gardening. Anyway, you’ve never listened to Led Zeppelin and if I recall correctly, you own a Led Zeppelin T-shirt,’ my mum points out, still holding up the monstrous jumper for all the world to see.
‘What?! I do listen to Led Zeppelin!’ I huff.
‘Name a Led Zeppelin song,’ my mum fires back, still holding up the jumper. The beady eyes of the tabby cat are strangely distracting, and my mind has gone completely blank.
‘Erm, “Purple Rain”?’ I say eventually.
‘That’s by Prince, darling.’
‘How about “Stairway to Heaven”? Or “Whole Lotta Love”?’ a man’s voice says. He starts singing “Stairway to Heaven” in a low lilting tone.
I turn around to look to see none other than Will Brimble. Will. Brimble. The most popular guy from my old school who I haven’t seen since I left to go to London for sixth-form. Will was part of the reason I left my old school. I applied for an arts scholarship at a boarding school in London