‘We need a full set of maternity clothes,’ Grace says briskly. ‘Everything you’ve got. My friend is—’ She glanced at me, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised. ‘Five months now, right, Heather?’
‘Yes, just about.’
‘And we’d like some mocktails as well,’ Grace says as she sits down on one of the velvety sofas and crosses her legs. ‘How about some virgin strawberry daiquiris?’
She glances at me for confirmation and I smile and nod, trying to relax.
Another assistant joins the first and they scurry about, now eager to serve us. The place is empty except for us, so we have their full attention. Grace has taken her phone out of her blazer and is scrolling through emails or texts or whatever. After a minute or two she looks up with a guilty, distracted smile. ‘Sorry, hazard of work.’
‘What exactly is it you do?’ It was something important and financial, but beyond that I can’t remember and never really understood anyway.
‘I work for a venture capital firm.’
I stare and Grace laughs lightly. ‘It’s a type of private equity, a form of financing that provides funds to emerging start-up firms with maximum growth potential.’
I still don’t get it, and it must show in my face.
‘Basically, we invest in companies that we think will succeed, and when they do we get a percentage of the profits.’
‘You must be busy.’
‘Yes—’ Grace stops suddenly, and it takes me a second to figure out why.
‘Will you take time off when… when the baby is born?’
‘Of course,’ she says, a little too quickly. I’m guessing not much.
‘And then what?’ I ask. ‘A nanny?’
‘Well, yes.’ Her gaze assesses me, checking to see if I’m going to judge her. Am I? I don’t know. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom since Emma was born. I only started working nights cleaning offices after Kev got hurt, and even then I was at home all day with Lucy. I’ve wiped so many noses and butts, watched endless hours of Barney and sung ‘The Wheels on the Bus’, fetched milk and juice and cut PB&J into countless squares and triangles. It all blurs together, and some days I wonder if any of it means much. As long as a nanny does the same thing, does it matter?
Or am I just trying to make myself feel better for choosing Grace and not one of those smug couples, where the woman would plan to stay at home until the kid’s eighteen, making organic lunches and volunteering as class mom every year? Being a better mother than I ever could be?
Is that why I really chose Grace – because I know she won’t? Because I feel like I’m one up on her, however much she might have? I’d told her I wouldn’t compare myself to her, but now I feel confused. Everything feels complicated.
The assistant starts bringing out clothes: jeans and t-shirts and dresses and underwear, everything. She lays it all out for Grace to inspect, even though I’m the pregnant one.
Grace looks at it all, choosing some things and sending away others without even asking my opinion, which annoys me a little, because I would have liked to pick out something pretty, and a lot of the clothes she’s choosing are totally impractical for my life… but I’m guessing they work for hers. A slinky black cocktail dress? Where on earth am I going to wear that? To work in Newark, cleaning the piss off the men’s toilets?
‘Why don’t you try some of this stuff on?’ Grace asks, and then belatedly she adds, ‘Sorry, I should have asked your opinion. Do you like this?’ She gestures to a pale blue button-down blouse with a side tie to accommodate a baby bump.
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, although it’s not really my style, if I even have a style. One of the assistants arrives with two virgin strawberry daiquiris garnished with fresh mint leaves and fancy straws. I take one sip of the fruity drink before Grace ushers me toward the dressing rooms, fancy ones with thick velvet curtains and gold ropes. The assistant follows me, carrying all the clothes.
With the curtains closed I slip off my clothes, avoiding studying the pale, doughy body I see in the mirror, and reach for the first piece of clothing.
It’s a t-shirt top with lacy sleeves that Lucy would use it as a Kleenex in about two seconds. There is a pair of skinny jeans to go with it with the tiniest stretch of elastic band for my belly, and I marvel at these new, trendy maternity clothes that certainly never made it into my wardrobe back in the day.
‘Heather?’ Grace calls. ‘What do you think? Will you show me?’
Shyly I part the curtain and step out. I feel self-conscious, but Grace’s wide smile is worth it. ‘Heather,’ she exclaims, ‘you look fantastic! Oh, we’re definitely getting those. Those jeans are great.’ She looks at me anxiously. ‘Do you like them? Am I being too bossy? Tell me if I am.’
‘Well…’ I laugh a little. ‘Sort of.’
She slaps her forehead, and I laugh again. ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m an idiot. You pick the clothes, okay? Whatever you want. Whatever looks and feels good.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a pair of sweatpants.’ A few seconds later the assistant bustles toward me with a pair of slinky black yoga pants. Not quite what I had in mind, but I’ll take them.
As I’m changing into them, Grace pokes her hand through the curtains, holding out the black cocktail dress.