When I Ran Away by Ilona Bannister (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📕

“Well, that’s lucky for you then, isn’t it, Sukie. Isn’t that fantastic,” Tracy pipes up as she pointedly puts a cap on her baby’s bottle. She’s had a hard time with the feeding. I know she’s also pissed that the two pounds Sukie gained in pregnancy have fallen off her. There’s an extra nervy kind of edge in every word she says with that accent so you can’t tell if she likes you or if she’s about to kick your ass. She really forced herself into those jeans today. I can tell by the way she keeps pulling them up at the thighs. I saw her undo the button to sit down when she thought no one was looking. That’s why I like her.

Sukie takes a sip of her herbal tea from a Yummy Mummy mug dotted with hearts in different shades of pink. “But ladies, I think the key was having the nighttime nurse for the first four weeks. I haven’t told anyone aside from you about it for fear everyone will think me terribly spoilt, but I do think she saved us. She was absolutely worth the money.”

“You were so clever to think of doing that! Charlie and I argued constantly about whose turn it was to get up. Luckily Sophie’s slept through from twelve weeks, so at least we’ve got over that hurdle quickly,” Fiona says. I admire that little bomb she just dropped about the sleeping through at three months. Artfully done.

Georgina sips her decaf with almond milk and says, “Well, that’s good for you and Charlie, I’m so glad Gina Ford worked for you, but I personally, and this is just me, I couldn’t do it. I don’t think I could put Rosamund through that just to get some sleep. The guilt! I mean, I can see that it works for your family, Fi, I really do, but I love feeding her when it’s just the two of us and everyone’s asleep. We’re up a lot in the night, true, but she knows I’m there. I wouldn’t give that up, d’you know what I mean? Not that you’ve given anything up, Fi, by regimenting your baby, it’s not that, it’s just—not for us, I suppose.” Impressive. Even though Georgina would cut off her arm right now if it meant getting a full night’s sleep, she still found the strength to make that little speech.

I leave Fi to reply because on the next sofa Tracy’s giving an update about her stitches. “So I go for the six-week checkup and the midwife says, ‘Well, how’s it all feeling,’ and I say, ‘Great, never better,’ as if, and she has a look at the war zone in my pants and she says, ‘You can tell your husband it’s safe to have sex now if you’d like to,’ and I said, ‘Of course it’s safe for him, he hasn’t had his vag stitched up to his arse!’ ”

Everybody laughs and Becky says, “Stop, I’m gonna wee on Sukie’s lovely sofa!”

“I already did, sorry, love!” says Tracy, doubled over. And even Georgina and Fi have to loosen up and smile. We’re all laughing, and for a minute I feel almost normal, like it’s not just me, everybody’s got something they’re dealing with. I’m about to say something, something funny about sex or men or piss but then:

“Well, lucky for you, Gigi, you didn’t have to go through any of this, did ya! Vag put through the shredder and pelvic floor dropped to your ankles!” Tracy says, and the ladies laugh again. Before I process what she means Georgina says, “Yes, Gigi, you certainly saved yourself, I’m sure Harry’s grateful.”

Oh. That’s what they mean.

“Oh, but ladies, wouldn’t you rather have your war stories?” Becky, the Australian one, breaks in. “It was the toughest thing I ever did but choosing to just take the pain, well, I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“That’s ’cause you’re a nutter, Bex! No, I’m afraid I’d have to go Gigi’s route next time, lots of drugs, too posh to push, that’s the way forward. Not putting the va-jay-jay through this again,” Tracy says, winking at me. But her face changes because I’ve started to cry; I didn’t know I was going to but I am so I say, “I’m sorry, hormones I guess.” But it isn’t hormones. It’s something much stronger than that.

Fi, who was always in the take-all-possible-drugs camp, comes over and puts a skinny arm around me. “We all have our babies, it doesn’t matter how we got them, does it, Gigi. I think taking the easy route makes us smarter, don’t you?” There are communal looks of concern and cups quickly put on tables and shuffling of maternal bodies on sofas to get closer to me and surround me with support.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset,” Becky says. “I guess we’re all just proud of ourselves for how we earned these babies. How stupid of me, the loss you must feel, that was really insensitive of me.” I know she feels bad. But she doesn’t feel bad about what happened to me. She feels bad for me that I’m not like her.

Sukie leans forward to put her thin, manicured hand with its diamond engagement ring stacked on diamond wedding band stacked on diamond push-present band on my rounded knee. “You poor thing.”

They all look at me. I look down at Rocky. The lava wave is over but now the sweating has started. I stay focused on the miniature perfection of his face. Little eyebrows. He has Harry’s beautiful long lashes. The tiny nose, just like mine. Well, not really, it’s the space below his eyes, the curve of his cheek in that place before it becomes his cheek, the space we don’t have a name for—that came from me.

“Well—” I start to say, to stammer out some kind of answer, but Georgina interrupts: “Are you upset about the breastfeeding? I mean, it must