‘Thanks,’ I say hesitantly. ‘But I’m not sure …’
Why am I incapable of completing my own sentences? I should just say, no thank you, I would rather not drink. I mean, I’m pregnant. We both are. Surely I don’t have to spell it out?
‘Oh, I know what you’re saying,’ she booms, rolling her eyes and glancing around the room. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it? All this pressure! The way they change the advice all the time! One minute you can drink, the next minute you can’t, then you can “in moderation”， then it’s basically illegal! Bloody doctors.’
I clear my throat, unsure how to answer. I am very aware now of the gaze of the other women in the room, looking from me to the girl and the wine, and back.
‘Well, fuck doctors,’ she continues. ‘Our mums all got smashed when they were pregnant. We all bloody survived!’ She is speaking far too loudly. The room is silent, and people are starting to openly stare.
The girl looks over at the other mothers, registers their disapproving glances, then raises her eyebrows at me and giggles. She holds the wine glass aloft to toast her own sentiment. She brings the glass to her lips. ‘Fuck the NHS,’ she spits. ‘That’s what I say.’ She tips the glass to her lips and drinks. As she does so, I notice one or two of the other mothers actually wince.
The girl picks up the drink she has brought for me. She holds it out, like a threat, or a dare.
‘Come on,’ she hisses. Her eyes flick down to my name badge. ‘You know you want to … Helen.’
Later, after everything, I will come to wonder why I act as I do in this moment. For even now, there is something about this girl. Something that makes me want to edge away, to look for a place of safety. Like the feeling of being on a clifftop path when the wind is just a little too strong at your back.
But I don’t step away. I take the wine. And as I do, the other women turn their heads, as if by taking it I have answered all their questions. I want to tell them I’m just being polite, that I have no intention of actually drinking it. But they are already looking the other way.
‘Thanks,’ I say weakly.
‘Nice to meet you, Helen. I’m Rachel.’
And then Rachel clinks her glass against mine, knocks back another deep glug, and winks at me, as if we share a secret.
HELEN
The heat is more bearable today. A breeze from the river flows into Greenwich market hall, and the cloths over the stall tables billow like boat sails. Sunlight shines through glass panels in the roof, casting warm islands on the floor. In the green-painted metal rafters, pigeons coo and clamour. They sail down to the feet of the cafe tables, jabbing at abandoned croissants.
I have always loved the streets around the market: little crooked lanes, handsome Georgian windows, the musty scent of books and antiques. The dusty lamplit gloom of the pubs, with their worn leather and low ceilings. The brackish smell, carried on the breeze from the river. The mysterious names, left over from an age where Greenwich was the centre of the world: Straightsmouth, Gipsy Moth, Turnpin, Cutty Sark.
Daniel and I often come here on a Saturday, even though the whole experience is usually a let-down. You can never get a table at the coffee place, and the queue to take away stretches round the block. The aisles between the stalls are so packed that I am left constantly apologising, my bump pushed up against people’s backs as I squeeze past. We end up wandering aimlessly, looking again and again at the same handmade children’s clothes, quirky hats, worn-out furniture. Squabbling with tourists over tiny samples of expensive cheeses, then feeling obliged to buy some.
I had to get out of the house, though. I’d made my way downstairs this morning – still in my pyjamas, clinging to the filthy banister, attempting to dodge the gauntlet of tools, insulation, dust sheets – to be greeted by a host of embarrassed-looking builders. I mumbled a good morning, but the only one I really know is Vilmos, the boss, and he wasn’t there. I don’t think any of these men spoke English. They just nodded and smiled, clutching their cans of Relentless, cigarettes perched behind their ears. I could already see what the day would have in store. Drilling, dust, smashing plaster. Strange men urinating in my bathroom, dirt being traipsed to and from the kettle. Anything had to be better than staying at home.
I still haven’t completely forgiven Daniel for missing the antenatal class. When I woke the next morning, he was already up and showered, perched on the sofa with his laptop on his knee.
He looked up when he saw me. ‘Hey, how was it?’