Ingredients:A splash of EstherA drop of meA smattering of Daddy Number OneAbout 6 chicken tikka masalas, 16 onion bhajis, one table sized naan1litre of vodka and some of that WKD (probably)‘I won’t.’‘You . . .
Ingredients:A splash of EstherA drop of meA smattering of Daddy Number OneAbout 6 chicken tikka masalas, 16 onion bhajis, one table sized naan1litre of vodka and some of that WKD (probably)‘I won’t.’‘You will.’‘He won’t.’‘He will.’‘I can’t.’‘You can.’‘I won’t’Esther can be quite stubborn when she wants to. I wasn’t even asking her to do anything difficult, just look inconspicuous and blend into the background – two tasks she can generally accomplish quite well, especially when there’s work around. Two tasks which are completely beyond me at the moment.I had this theory you see, and it came to me at about three o’clock in the morning when I was lying awake in bed listening to the bastard students carouse their way down the road chucking cans on the pavement and generally reminding everyone what it was like to be young. Young people don’t sleep. Fact. They drink, they party, they look fantastic but they don’t sleep. This gives Amazed something of an advantage in the ‘who’s going to be the best Daddy’ stakes. All I needed to do was prove it. So Friday night came around and still Esther wasn’t convinced after a whole week of trying.‘I won’t.’‘You will.’‘It’s illegal.’‘It isn’t.’‘It’s immoral.’‘Think of the baby.’‘You’re immoral.’‘Well clearly.’‘I can’t.’‘I can’t. You can.’And so on. She relented, but I had to threaten to sack her.Add ingredients and whisk thoroughly.So its nine o’clock and I’m standing behind a very large bin behind some grotty bar in the middle of London trying to look inconspicuous and blend into the background. Three people have already asked me if I want to sit down. Esther appears round the corner. ‘Still in there?’ I ask, hoping that the answer will be no if only for the change of scenery.‘Still in there,’ she confirms sadly, handing me another bottle of water. ’Can I sit down now?’I shake my head. ‘What’s he doing?’‘Drinking. Laughing. Eating peanuts. A***hole,’ she says.I can only agree. Daddy Number One is out on the lash with his little mates and we’re going to follow him until he goes to bed. Whenever that might be. Wherever that might be. Whether or not I die or boredom first.Bring ingredients to a boil and simmer gently.It’s eleven o’clock. I’m in a restaurant across the street from another restaurant in which Daddy Number One is having a curry. I’m trying to remain inconspicuous and blend into the background so there’s a table sized naan over my bump. It isn’t really working, especially since Esther keeps eating it. The naan, not the bump. I've just ordered another chicken korma because despite the fact that I hate coconut and can’t eat curry what with the raging indigestion, the baby has decided that it’s hungry and has so far forced me to stuff my face with six onion bhajis, five poppadoms, four tikka things on sticks, three glasses of lemonade, two entire pots of minty green sauce and the partridge in the pear tree knows its days are numbered. There’s movement from across the street. ‘Go.’ I kick Esther under the table.‘You go.’‘I’m eating.’‘You’ve finished.’‘I’m waiting.’‘You’re greedy.’‘I’m pregnant.’‘You’re greedy.’‘I’m paying. Go.’She sighed. ‘I’ve been standing around in bars for five hours on my own watching other people have a good time. Isn’t that enough?’‘Think of the pay rise.’‘There isn’t going to be any pay rise. 'You really think he’s’ – she indicated Daddy Number Two with a curl of her lip –‘going to be pleased when he finds out you might not be carrying his baby? He’ll be chasing you for the cost of that cheesecake for a start. And meanwhile you’ll be off on holiday or maternity leave or whatever they call it and I’ll be stuck in the office with his bad mood every day. I’ll be lucky if I keep my job.’I hate it when she changes the subject. ‘Go - right now. He’s leaving. You’ll miss him if you wait. I’ll catch you up.’Esther went nowhere, and quite stubbornly. ‘This is ridiculous. You can’t just foist off a child on the most likely looking candidate. Why don’t you wait until it’s born and get a DNA test like anyone else? The dad’s got rights. The child’s got rights – everyone’s got rights and you’re paying no attention to them at all.’ I hate it when she's right. ‘You’re wrong.’‘I’m right. You know I am.’‘I don’t.’‘You do.’‘Go.’‘No.’‘Please.’‘No.’‘Alright. You’re right. This is the last thing I’ll ever ask you to do. Now will you go?’She sighed. ‘Will you be more careful in future? And think about what I’ve said?’‘Of course. You’d better run.’ I hate it when she looks at me like that.Put bun in oven and heat till 37degrees. Cook for 9 months.It’s two o’clock in the morning. It’s dark. I’m queuing, as you do. It took longer than I thought to eat the curry, and the dessert, pay, text Esther, find a late night newsagent, buy some chocolate, text Esther, get some money out of the bank, find a cab, get lost, get out, text Esther. Text Esther. Text Esther. She wasn’t replying. It was possible she’d abandoned the chase and gone home but more likely that she'd lost reception and ended up in a basement somewhere. I was standing outside the gaping pit of hell – two respectable rows of shops spread wide on either side to reveal a sweat smeared entrance, drenched with the dank stench of alcohol and spewing rhythm at irregular intervals. With no word from Esther I had no choice but to follow.But since I was in the club, there was no way I was getting in the club. For a start, women over thirty five don’t generally go clubbing unless they are on a hen do or getting divorced and pregnant women aren’t allowed in clubs because they’re a walking warning for why getting very drunk with a lot of strange men is a Really Bad Idea. So I’m near the back of the queue trying to look inconspicuous and blend into the background with the assistance of… another rubbish bin. I’m keeping it between my stomach and the bouncers in the hope they won’t notice I’m pregnant and turn me away. The queue moves and I’m forced to pick up…a paper out of the bin and hold it at waist level, pretending to read. That lasts me a couple of minutes before everyone shuffles forward again and I’m saved by…a very large handbag held by the woman in front. I turn sideways to conceal the bump behind it. There is no way they’re letting me in. Then the woman moves and I rush forward to the sanctuary of…a street sign advertising a coffee shop which is at thigh height so I bend forward a bit and pretend to fiddle with my laces. Pregnant women should not go clubbing, it’s bad for the club. There’s only a few people between me and the bouncers now and when the few becomes a couple I run to hide behind…a lamppost. This is not a success. I can see the bouncer eyeing me suspiciously so I yank out my phone, put my back to him and have a long and animated conversation about the price of fish. They’re not going to let me in.Then I’m the front of the queue and there’s nowhere to hide. I sort of cross my hands over my stomach, then pull them apart, hoping the bouncer will miss the baby in the darkness. He’s not going to let me in, he’s not going to let me in. He looks me up and down. He shakes his head.Bloody anorexic humping, nappy dodging, steroid fuelled slab of pea b****cked babyhater. I can be very judgemental. ‘Sorry, miss,’ he says. ‘No trainers.’Esther comes out ten minutes later and power walks her way to the nearest mini cab office. I trail in her wake.‘He’s in there,’ she grits. ‘With a woman. I’ve had enough of watching him stick his tongue down her throat. Try and stop me going home.’I’m quite surprised, although I shouldn’t be. ‘What sort of a woman?’Esther smiles for the first time this evening. ‘An old woman.’I’m still surprised.Esther beams. ‘Look around you. We’re in the middle of North London. That club’s as big as my toilet. They’re playing Donny Osmond. This is ‘Grab a Granny’ night.’I find I’m more insulted than surprised.
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