Shopaholic & Baby

Lulu has never been anything other than mean and patronizing to me, all the times I’ve met her. But now suddenly because I’m having a baby we’re supposed to be friends?

“That would be super!” I say pleasantly, and Suze shoots me a look.

“There’s a section on pregnancy in my cookbook, actually….” Lulu rifles in her bag for a shiny book, illustrated with a photo of herself holding an armful of vegetables in her kitchen. “I must send you a copy.”

“Like, on cravings and stuff?” I take a sip of decaf. “I could do with some good nonalcoholic cocktail recipes.”

“I’ve called it ‘Think of the Baby.’” She frowns slightly. “It’s shocking, what some people put in their bodies while they’re pregnant. Additives…sugar…”

“Right.” I hesitate, chocolate muffin halfway toward my mouth, then defiantly stuff it in. “Mmm, yum.”

I can see Suze hide a giggle.

“Would your children like some?” I add, breaking it into crumbly pieces.

“They don’t eat chocolate!” Lulu snaps, looking horrified, as though I’ve tried to peddle them cocaine. “I’ve brought some dried banana snacks.”

“Lulu, sweetie?” A girl in a headset ducks down to our table. “Are you ready to come and do the radio interview? And then we’d like a photo of you and all the kids.”

“Absolutely.” Lulu bares her teeth in her horsey smile. “Come along Cosmo, Ivo, Ludo….”

“Go Dasher, go Dancer,” I mutter.

“See you later!” says Suze with a strained smile as they walk off. And all of a sudden I feel a bit ashamed. Lulu is Suze’s friend and I should make the effort. I’m going to be nice about her, I suddenly resolve. If it kills me.

“So…that was great, seeing Lulu!” I try to inject some warmth into my voice. “She’s right, we should all get together and have a good chat. Maybe we should meet up later on and have tea or something—”

“I don’t want to.” Suze’s low voice takes me by surprise. I look over, and she’s staring down into her cappuccino. Suddenly I recall Suze’s reaction at Mum’s house when I mentioned Lulu. That kind of tension in her face.

“Suze, have you and Lulu fallen out?” I say cautiously.

“Not exactly.” Suze won’t look up. “I mean…she’s done a lot for me. She’s been so helpful, especially with the children….”

The trouble with Suze is, she never wants to be nasty. So she always starts off bitching about people with a little speech about how lovely they are really.

“But…” I prompt her.

“But she’s so bloody perfect!” As Suze raises her head, her cheeks are all pink. “She makes me feel like a total failure. Especially when we go out together. She always has homemade risotto or something and her children eat it. And they’re never naughty, and they’re all really bright….”

“Your children are bright!” I retort indignantly.

“Lulu’s kids are all reading Harry Potter!” Suze sounds despairing. “And Ernie can’t even really speak much, let alone read. Apart from German phrases from Wagner. And Lulu keeps asking me if I played Mozart to him in the womb, and have I thought about extra tuition, and I just feel so inadequate….”

I feel a hot surge of outrage. How dare anyone make Suze feel inadequate!

“Suze, you’re a brilliant mother!” I say. “And Lulu’s just a cow. I knew it, the moment I met her. Don’t listen to her anymore. And don’t read her stupid cookbook!” I put an arm round Suze’s shoulders and squeeze tight. “If you feel inadequate, how do you think I feel? I don’t even know any nursery rhymes!”

“Good afternoon!” Lulu’s amplified voice suddenly booms out from behind us, and we both turn round. She’s sitting on a raised platform, opposite a woman in a pink suit, with a small audience watching. Two of her children are on her lap, and behind her are huge posters for her book, with a notice saying “Signed Copies Available.”

“A lot of parents are simply lazy when it comes to feeding their children,” she’s saying with a pitying smile. “In my experience, all children like the taste of such things as avocado, monk-fish, or a good homemade polenta.”

Suze and I exchange glances.

“I’ve got to feed the twins,” mutters Suze. “I’ll go and do it in the ‘Mother and Baby’ area.”

“Do it here!” I protest. “They’ve got highchairs—”