Read Online The Yummy Mummy by Polly Williams - Free Book Online Page B

her. Really nice, we went swimming. . . .”
    “Oh, yes, the glamorous one. The one who puts us to shame,” laughs Nicola. “The . . . what do you call them? The yummy mummy.”
    “Eew! What an awful expression, cooked up by some bored magazine editor, I should imagine.” Sue sniffs. “I don’t think such a woman exists.” As if to prove the point, she walks off to the loo, square bovine bottom shuddering with every step, too-tight knickers cheese-wiring her cheeks. A style faux pas perhaps, but not considered one in the milk and tummy land of new mummy. In fact, it’s a badge of camaraderie, a symbol of changed priorities. Michelle’s ugly burgundy blouse, Sue’s baggy-arsed tracksuit, Hermione’s obviously big, obviously once-white knickers grinning from the top of her Gap jeans . . . it all says we now put someone else’s needs before our vanity. The scary thing is how quickly these sartorial standards become the norm. When I first ventured out of the house with sick-stained trousers and no makeup and suitcases under my eyes I worried about bumping into someone I knew. I scampered to the newsagent like a worker doing a sickie. Second time, I thought, “Oh hell, it’s only the newsagent.” Now it feels weird, almost inappropriate, to make an effort. I wear makeup and feel like I’m in drag.
    “What does she want?” Nicola is intrigued by Alice. The rest of the group have safely journeyed into a far more interesting conversation about ginger baby’s hernia.
    “Wants to meet in Portobello, the Electric . . .”
    “How thrilling . . . ,” says Nicola, arching a briar of an eyebrow. She doesn’t do the maintenance thing anymore either: Hair in a straight mousy bob, unmade-up face, a penchant for men’s roomy trousers and her partner Sam’s shirts. Nicola once adopted a sweater she found in a Queen’s Park hedge. But her artless dishevelment still looks vaguely cool in an androgynous arty kind of a way. She’s just one of those people.
    “Not sure I’m up to it. She’s with her mates. And the thought of meeting loads of new people.”
    More to the point, my hair is greasy. I’m wearing old comfy trainers, pink and white, those really uncool “ladies’” ones. I can’t even do the cute-baby-as-accessory thing due to an acnelike rash under Evie’s chin.
    “Go.” Nicola curls forward and, using Thomas as a shield, whispers, “Seriously, that sounds so much more fun. Go, go . . .”
    “Nah.”
    “Sue’s about to discuss her birth again. . . .”
    I laugh into the fuzz of Evie’s head. It smells of rice pudding and fragranced nappy bags.
    “Should she go back to work at ten months or ten and a half months? Let’s mull over the latest report regarding impact of separation from mother on child’s development . . .”
    “Don’t.” I’m getting the giggles. “They’ll hear you. Seriously, I’m knackered.”
    “. . . not forgetting the joys of breast-feeding until the child is thirteen. Now, another cup of peppermint tea?”
    Sue swivels around. Is she missing anything? She needs to regain control of this rebellious conversational tributary. “Where will Evie go to primary, Amy?”
    “Oh, I’m not sure.” Haven’t the faintest. Last time I passed the local state primary a boy no older than ten pinched my bum and called me a fat bitch. Besides, the thought of standing at the school gates makes me feel horribly middle-aged and mumsy.
    “Hermione has put Amelia down for five schools already!” Sue exclaims. “Five! It’s a world gone mad. The problem with the private . . .”
    Nicola studies her teacup, taking noisy deep breaths, trying not to laugh.
    “Sorry, but I’ve got to go.” I stand up.
    “Oh. What’s the more exciting prospect?” Sue pretends she’s joking.
    I shrug my shoulders and smile. Nicola helps me pack up. No small task; Evie travels with a suite of luggage like a rap star.
    “I was going to say earlier . . . ,” Sue says cheerily, offering a teaser of