Lydia is not entirely sure she’s done the right thing in allowing Matthew to a) impregnate her, b) move into her house and c) put her beloved sports car into Exchange and Mart and make suggestions about a “family car”. In my humble opinion it’s all too late to be thinking about this, she gives birth in about seven weeks.
“I mean, what was I thinking?” she demanded yesterday morning as she dug into an Ayres strawberry gateau without the aid of a fork. “He farts like a dray horse, he thinks Blackadder is wet-yourself funny, he eats cold baked beans from the tin and has started to call me Mummy Bunny. What am I doing?”
Wrecking a perfectly good cake, was my initial thought but I knew what she really meant. “Isn’t Matt the guy who saved you when you were at your lowest ebb, gave you the chance to be a mother and makes you laugh until you think you’re going to choke?” I said, wildly paraphrasing several conversations we’ve previously had on the subject. Just because I’m Matt’s sort of step-mother she thinks I want to hear the ins and outs of their relationship. I don’t.
“I know, I know, but he’s 26 and I’m……a lot older than that and I’m just worried that at the first sign of a pert bottomed blonde he’s going to take one look at the hag he’s saddled with and do a disappearing act.” Half the cake had been demolished now and she was swirling the cream all over the place.
I could see her point. Matt announced on their first date that he doesn’t really “do brunettes”. Lydia has burnished brown hair. On their second date he informed her that he’s got a “thing about pert bots, the perfect handful”. According to Lyds she hooted with laughter but then spent the next three weeks wondering what the hell he was doing with her as her bottom “was spreading as fast as melted butter”.
“Still” I said, rescuing a slice of cake from her grasp “He’s still with you and really looking forward to becoming a dad”. “Really? Has he told you that?” she demanded. Not really, I said, but he’d told David he was “dead keen on being a dad and you know, like everything”. For Matthew that’s over-excitement on a grand scale. Lydia didn’t look convinced. Apparently the cot had arrived on Saturday morning and she had to practically force him to put it together. “He said we had ages! Ages! I haven’t even started painting the nursery yet!”. More cake was mangled. “He doesn’t want to engage with anything relating to the baby – it kicked last night and he refused to put his hand on my stomach because it was too weird for words. He’s talking about going to Mexico next summer – how the hell can I take a baby to Mexico?”. I reassured her that Matt had been talking about going to Mexico for as long as I had known him and that it would never happen.
“Could you talk to him? Find out what he’s really thinking and feeling?” she pleaded. I laughed out loud at this. Matt and I don’t converse, we chat. Matt and I don’t talk about our feelings – I ask if he’s okay and he grunts. Needless to say he never asks how I am. I did the next best thing and told her I’d ask David to ask him.
At this point Janey arrived, sans Scarlett but with burgeoning bump barely covered by a T-shirt that read “Up the duff – again”. Immediately the baby discussions took on a competitive note:
Janey: I get morning sickness all day
Lydia: I get morning sickness all day and all night
Janey: I craved sardines with Scarlett and pickled eggs with this one. I had pickled eggs on toast for breakfast this morning
Lydia: I’ll eat anything and everything in weird combinations – for breakfast I had strawberry jam on cheesy Doritos
Janey: I’m peeing pretty much on the hour every hour
Lydia: I’m peeing so much now that I’m thinking of getting some TENA lady pads so I don’t even have to get up to pee.
At this point both Janey and I looked askance, Lydia squirmed uncomfortably on my cushioned kitchen chair and admitted she was pulling our legs. I don’t think she was. “I nearly threw up in the font on Sunday” Janey said, getting the conversation back on track. The gateau was fast losing its charms as Janey started wading through it with shocking pink painted nails. “Mind you, that vicar was getting right on my tits, banging on about religion”.
Last night, over dinner, I asked David to have a word with Matthew, outlining some of Lydia’s concerns and worries. He looked at me blankly, dropped his fork and swallowed heavily. “What? I don’t need to talk to him! He’s fine! Top notch. Can’t wait to be a dad! Dead excited!” he said with a nervous laugh before proclaiming himself “absolutely full, thank you darling” and heading upstairs for one of his marathon shower sessions.