I glanced down at my texts: a stream of placatory blandishments from Tom, Shaz and Miranda. We were all supposed to be meeting in the Electric at one o’clock, but wait…
“…oh, and if your hair starts falling out,” Magda was continuing, “just rub a bit of engine oil in your scalp. Anyway, better get moving. See you in the Electric at one! Woney and Mufti are coming!”
“Um…” I thought, panicking wildly. I couldn’t have the Smug Mothers turning up at the Electric at the same time as Tom, Miranda and Shazzer.
“The Electric’s a bit noisy, could we make it at two…at Café 202?”
“Oh,” she said, huffily. “Well. I’ve told Mufti and Woney now, but…OK yes. See you there.”
Just before I left I heard my email ping.
Sender: Peri Campos
Subject: Meeting Monday at 9
Be in my office at 9 on Monday, bringing with you six breaking news stories which are not dated or stultifyingly boring with appropriate headlines, in format we discussed Friday.
—
Portobello Road, Notting Hill. Felt heady and freeing to be in the scruffy glamour and crowds of Portobello again: overpriced delis, flower shops and designer cashmere stores now mixed up with the betting shops and stalls selling street-cred hats and vegetables that have been there for years.
It was rather like being a celebrity, being pregnant, now that it was starting to show: cars screeching to a halt at zebra crossings, people giving up their seats on the tube, everyone stopping me and asking the same questions.
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“When’s it due?”
Of course, I was terribly gracious with my fans. Rather like the Queen, only pregnant and younger and not about to sit next to my mum in Grafton Underwood.
Reached the Electric feeling jolly, to find Shazzer slumped with her head on one of the outdoor tables. “Hi! Shaz!” I said.
She emitted a slight groaning sound. “I’m SO hung-over, can you order me a Bloody Mary? I can’t move my head.”
“Where are Tom and Miranda?”
“I dunno. Miranda hooked up with someone. And I think Tom was goner come straight here from wherever he went to, but I’m furious with him because…”
Oh God. It was already 1.15 p.m.—what about Magda? I mean, maybe I could be a tiny bit late?
Went inside to order a Bloody Mary and a mint tea. Came out to see Tom, disheveled and unshaven, walking towards us with the determined air of a man being made to walk a straight line by a policeman who’s pulled him over.
“Oh my God,” he said, joining Shazzer and crashing his head onto the table, reeking of tequila.
“They’re wrecked, they’re shag-drunk and they’re all over your table! Tom and Shazzer!” said Miranda, bouncing up with a spring in her step, looking fresh and youthful.
“Aren’t you hung-over?” I said, joining them at the table.
“Hung-over? No! Sex was my Friday-night drug of choice! Did you get the email from Peri Campos? Glass of white burgundy!” she said flirtatiously to the waiter, who had miraculously instantly appeared. She glanced, horrified, at my mint tea. “And another glass of wine for Bridget, and bring us some food.”
“I can’t, I’m pregnant,” I said, as Miranda ordered random food.
“No, no! Breaking news from Netdocbam!.com. Two glasses of wine a week is GOOD FOR THE BABY. ‘It’s wet, it’s formerly toxic, and it’s all over your fetus!’?”
“REALLY?” I said, brightening. This was a double joy: a headline and a drinky.
“Shhh,” said Tom. “You’re hurting my head.”
Mmmm. Crisp, cold white wine was so delicious.