Over You
To Hayley and Kate,
with lots of love and weekends away
It was too tight. Far too tight. The perfect, to-die-for top that Josie had fallen in love with on first sight was – there was no doubt about it – boob-jammingly, belly-clingingly, flesh-pinchingly tight. Yet it had definitely said Medium on the label. Josie grimaced at her reflection in the changing-room mirror. Why did they always have to
lie
on the labels anyway? Was it just to make you feel bad?
Typical! It had seemed the ideal top for a girly night out, too, back when she had first spied it on its hanger. It had ticked all of Josie’s boxes, being black (flattering), with a plunging V-neck (minxy), made of floaty, chiffony material (feminine), with tiny shiny beads stitched into the bodice (a bit glam – although a bugger in the washing machine, she guessed).
She sucked in her tummy and looked at herself side-on. Oh God, even worse. Roll upon roll of flab. The seams were straining. All she needed now was for Trinny and Susannah to burst in with a camcorder, laughing hysterically as they mauled her around, grabbing spare bits of flesh.
Josie realized she was turning purple and let out her breath hurriedly. She did
not
want Nell and Lisa to see her in this tomorrow. They would think she had let herself go, big-time. She hadn’t seen them for ages – at least a year – and had been hoping to look good in a seemingly effortless hasn’t-Josie-done-
well
-for-herself? kind of a way. If she wore this, though, Nell would probably launch into a round of ‘Who Ate All the Pies?’.
The three of them had been flatmates, soulmates and best mates back in their twenties, living it up in London together in a succession of grotty rented flats. It seemed like a lifetime since they’d parted to go their separate ways – herself into marriage and kids, Nell into travelling and failed romances, Lisa into career glory and the salary premiership.
Finding the photo of the three of them tucked away in one of her books had been the prompt for Josie. It was a picture that – what was his name? Dale? Dave? One of Nell’s many exes anyway – had taken one New Year’s Eve when they’d all been dressed in their finest, ready to hit the West End for booze and snogging. They had looked so happy with their arms around each other and, damn it, so fresh-faced and young, that a lump had swelled in Josie’s throat. She could conjure up even now the singeing smell of Nell’s curling tongs as she’d styled everyone’s hair that night, could remember the exact way the floorboards of that dismal Kilburn flat had shuddered to her own
Dance Anthems
CDs, and she could practically taste the siren-red lipstick on her own lips, as if it had been yesterday. It must have been eight or nine years ago, though. A reunion was way overdue.
And so, thanks to Josie, within a week or two the whole thing had been arranged. Weekend for three at Lisa’s posh new pad (Josie could hardly
wait
to see it).
But what the hell was she going to wear?
Well, not this, for starters. Josie wrenched the top over her head with relief. Her skin was flushed and clammy-looking, and her ponytail was wisping out all over the place. The changing-room lighting was so bright it showed up the dull flatness of her hair, and every line and bag under her eyes. She could smell her own sweat.
God. Josie Winter. What
happened
to you, anyway?
Josie swung away from her reflection and pulled on her baggy cream jumper and coat. The boys always called it her Miss Hoolie coat, much to Josie’s dismay, even though she was quite sure she looked absolutely nothing like Miss Hoolie from
Balamory
when she wore it. It was just a sensible, everyday coat. Just a plain, ordinary coat.
She zipped it up, feeling glum. It was a mum coat, wasn’t it? With its stupid hood (for rainy days) and quilted lining (for cold days) and big pockets (for gloves and small toys and fir cones and interesting stones . . .).
Oh God. What had
happened
to her?
She put the black top back on its hanger, tried to smooth it a little, then opened the curtain and handed it to the over-made-up assistant.
‘Any good?’ the girl simpered.
‘No,’ Josie replied. ‘A bit on the big side actually.’ Sod it, she’d got her coat done up, hadn’t she? Underneath that she could have the body of a goddess, for all the assistant knew.
Did Nell still have such a slinky figure? she wondered, leaving the shop without bothering to try on anything else. Lisa had always been the chunkiest one of the three – not fat exactly, although she was always moaning that she was. She was just . . . well, ‘nicely covered’, as Josie’s mum put it. ‘Thighs like a footballer,’ Lisa had frequently sighed, ‘and bum like the back end of the number seventy-three bus – that’s me.’
But Nell had always been knock-out slim with good legs and a nice little bottom. Plus she had those gorgeous long blond curls too – with the help of a bottle, mind, but dazzling in a Pre-Raphaelite, shampoo-advert kind of a way.
Maybe Nell had put on a few pounds these days, thought Josie hopefully, now that she was shacked up with – what was his name? Gareth? It did sound romantic, the two of them in that remote cottage somewhere in north Wales. Perhaps Nell had taken to hogging loads of comfort food in front of their log fire, now she was loved-up and content. She probably didn’t have the most rocking social life these days any more either – calories no longer burned off by the thousand every weekend by dancing in sweatbox clubs all night. And maybe she’d stopped bothering to touch up her roots too . . .
Well, Josie would find out tomorrow, anyway. Tomorrow! She found herself grinning as she went into Marks and Spencer and began loading up a basket with provisions for the boys. If the truth be told, she was secretly
dying
to know how Pete was going to manage without her. Their four-year-old twins, Toby and Sam, weren’t exactly naughty or difficult children, but they were rather – how should she put it? They were
lively
boys. Energetic. She tossed three ready-to-cook spaghetti bologneses into her basket and smirked. They let you know they were around, those boys of hers. And tomorrow, for the first time ever, the pleasure of looking after them single-handed for the weekend would be all Pete’s. Whereas she, on the other hand . . .
She’d be living it up in the big city, just like she’d done all those years before. It would be like stepping back in time.
Josie was on her way back to the car when something caught her eye. There in front of her was a heavily pregnant woman, bump so rounded you could see the faint outline of her pushed-out belly button where her top stretched over it. The woman was showing a friend a romper suit she’d just bought, holding it carefully over one arm, her face animated.
Josie felt herself staring, footsteps slowing. It was a cerise romper suit, with a pale pink cherry design embroidered on one pocket. ‘I just couldn’t resist it,’ the woman was saying, folding it up again and patting it affectionately before she slid it back into the bag. ‘Girls’ clothes are so sweet, aren’t they?’
Josie felt a pull in her own belly and rolled a hand over it. Her pulse quickened. And then, almost before she knew it, she’d wheeled around, straight through the doors of Baby Gap behind her. She just couldn’t help herself, marching straight through to the racks of teeny pink and white clothes. Fleecy dungarees, frilly skirts, little buttoned cardigans . . . The woman was right. Girls’ clothes – especially baby girls’ clothes – were utterly, heart-meltingly gorgeous.
Josie stroked a pair of dungarees, size 0–3 months. They were so tiny and fleecy and
pink
. Candy-floss pink, perfect for a newborn. She unhooked them from the rail and put them reverently over one arm. Her mouth was dry suddenly, and she licked her lips. Next, she picked up a packet of vests that had a fairy print all over them. So, so cute! Oh, she just
had
to have them. And how about the pink knitted cardigan, even if it
was
hand-wash, the kiss of death for baby clothes? Just gorgeous, though, with the teeny mother-of-pearl buttons. I couldn’t resist, she told herself in her head. Look, and there was the most darling little plum-coloured hat! It was adorable!
Josie rubbed her thumb across a pair of soft white tights, imagining small chubby legs tucked inside, kicking and twitching in that random, unintended newborn way. She added them to the selection over her arm and then, after a last brief look at a display of pink cot blankets – no, she’d probably got enough of those for now – she turned towards the till.
The girl behind the counter rang up her purchases without comment, even though Josie was more than ready for the usual questions.
When’s it due?
she wanted the girl to ask.
Thought of any names yet?
A few months to go yet
, Josie would reply, patting her belly with a contented smile.
And we’re going to call her Rose.
Rose!
the girl would say.
Such a gorgeous name!
I know
, Josie would nod.
It’s our favourite too.
Nothing of the sort, though, unfortunately. The girl was only young, nineteen or twenty at a guess, chewing something, her eyes bored. No doubt she was thinking of where she’d be clubbing later that evening, what she’d be wearing, how she’d do her hair. Exactly the kind of things that had occupied Josie’s waking mind for so many years – Hmmm, pointy high shoes or boots? – until the boys had been born and looking after them had consumed everything else.
The girl tissue-wrapped the clothes and placed them in a bag. ‘That’s forty-two pounds please,’ she said, shifting her wedge of chewing gum to the other side of her mouth.
Josie handed over her card, eyes fixed on the dark blue bag. There we are, Rose. Won’t you look lovely in that lot? My little sweetheart!
Then she saw the time. Christ! She’d be late for playgroup kicking-out time if she didn’t get going.
She ran to the car, stuffed the bag in the boot and started the engine.
‘Look, Mum, I done a ambulance for you. There’s its light, there, and this is the driver. And he’s going really really fast cos there’s somebody
dying
in the back and there’s loads and loads of blood and they’ve got to get to hospital before he
dies
and . . .’
‘Lovely, darling,’ Josie said automatically to Toby, trying to wiggle his coat sleeves on to his arms without him noticing. ‘Hello, Sam. Had a nice morning?’
Sam flung himself bodily against her legs, small arms wrapping tightly around her. She bent down and kissed his head, breathing in his delicious salty boysy smell of Play-Doh and warm trainers. Sam always seemed so relieved whenever she reappeared to take him home that it was impossible for Josie to smother a niggle of doubt about him being at playgroup. Maybe Pete’s mum had been right all along, maybe it was a mother’s duty to stay at home with her children until they were old enough to vote, instead of having the nerve to put them in playgroup a few mornings a week . . .
