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Spring 2001. Kentish Town / A big house in Yorkshire Rule 8: keep it a secret
“Now listen,” says Liv, conspiratorially, “you’re NOT allowed to tell anyone about this for three months.”
I’m thinking: my friends are men. They want my opinions about playing Beckham out of position; they don’t want to hear about babies. But Liv’s lady friends all work out the secret anyway, the very first time she puts her hand over the glass, and says: “No wine for me. I’m cutting back.” Women are like wolves. They can smell fresh babies.
The three months are up on a weekend when we’re invited to stay at the house of Jenny, who I met, fifteen years ago, under a table at a party. Her parents are proper aristocrats and have a big, friendly house filled with paintings, and dog hair, and old bed spreads which smell of moth balls. It’s the most welcoming place in England. For the weekend, it’s filled with foppish young men, and well-bred ladies who all have man’s names like Georgie, or Charlie, or Alex, or Dave. (Not Dave, I made that one up). At dinner, there’s a lull in the conversation, and then Liv says: “By the way, we’ve got some news…” There’s an expectant silence. Oh no, I’m thinking. We don’t even know these people. They may not like babies. They may not like us. They’re all in their mid twenties, which, for posh people, is way too early for kids. And then Liv makes it worse. She says: “You tell them Andrew.”
That’s a bad trick. It’s not like this is a story where I want to say the punchline. I get a hot, flushed feeling, like you get when you walk into a shop with your hot winter’s clothing.
“Yes,” I say, smiling bravely. “We’re… er… we’re having a baby.”
A little pause.
Then a bloke called Hugo says: “Man.. that’s awesome.” A girl called Philly comes over and says: “Ohhhhhh that’s sooooooo sweet. You’re having a lickle baby.” I realise that’s the thing I most hate about babies. All that skwummy-wummy shloopy-woopy lickle baby thing. But I realise it would be rude to punch Philly in the face.
Jenny says to me: “So you’re going to be a dad?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to be there at the birth?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you… aren’t you a bit worried that, if you see that, it might put you off sex?”
“Jenny,” I say, “when Liv is giving birth, I really don’t think I’m gonna want to.. have sex with her. Imagine if the midwife came in, to find me cheerfully penetrating. ‘Stay in there little feller… Daddy’s coming in!’”
Jenny says: “that’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
Whatever, the secret is out. It’s not possible to remain ignorant for longer.
Topic:
What is nasty about babies?
How long did you avoid telling people the news?
What was horrible about telling people about the baby?
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