‘Oh dear,’ I reply diplomatically.
‘Never mind. I’m not complaining. Well, I guess I am a bit,’ she quickly adds. ‘But it’s just what babies do. And lawyer husbands, I guess … So, tell me about the sex. Remind me, please, what it’s like to have a whole night of bacchanalian bliss without the tandem wailing of year-old twins as an immediate passion killer, because I can’t even remember my last time.’ She does a feeble laugh. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d literally die for my girls, but it would be sooooo nice to have just one whole night off – to drink champagne, share a bath and have wild uninterrupted multiple orgasms courtesy of my own husband. Just like before. You know how much I love sex … does that make me a bad mother?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not an expert – hell, I’m not even a parent, so what do I know about mummies and their orgasms, but aren’t there places that use sleep deprivation as a preferred method of torture?’
‘Ha! Yes, very good point. Nathan reckons we should get a nanny. A team of six, to work eight-hour shifts ensuring twenty-four-hour cover for each twin.’ She heaves another weary sigh. ‘He’s practically dead on his feet at work each day – me too, I’m so exhausted, I feel like I’m wading through treacle most of the time. And I’m making mistakes – baked a whole batch of lemon drizzle cupcakes yesterday and totally forgot the crucial ingredient, the actual lemon juice!’
‘Oh no!’ Sam’s lemon drizzle cupcakes are legendary; shoppers come from all over Mulberry-On-Sea to devour them. She’s even had phone orders from people who’ve moved away but just can’t live without them.
‘Yep, we’ve tried the whole taking-it-in-turns thing to stagger out of bed, which never works as we both still end up wide awake in the middle of the night, and then start bickering over the duvet and whatever other trivial things our addled brains have suddenly elevated to paramount importance. But an actual nanny? I’m just not sure.’
‘Why not?’
‘Hmm, well, it just seems so grown up, somehow. And I’d feel a bit guilty, I guess. I’ve overheard the stay-at-home yummy mummies in the café bitching about the “lazy women with help”
‘Oooh, harsh,’ I tut.
‘Indeed.’
‘But that doesn’t mean you have to be superwoman. Sam, you can’t do it all – run the café, oversee Alfie’s estate with all those meetings up in London, not to mention the management of the Carrington’s freehold, and still find time to be Mary Poppins. For the sake of your orgasms you must say no!’ I laugh to lighten the mood.
‘Don’t you mean yes yes yes?’ Sam laughs too, not missing a beat.
‘Ha!’
‘Do you think Mary Poppins had orgasms?’
‘Stop it! There’s no place inside my head for that image.’
‘Hmm, on second thoughts, you’re right.’ And Sam makes a bleeeeugh sound down the phone.
‘Besides, you’re already a fantastic mother just the way you are. You really are. So you must do whatever works best for you and ignore the opinions, because everyone has one, but they’re just that … opinions!’ I say gently, wondering where the old Sam went – she would never have been bothered by a bit of gossip; she’s always been so self-assured and confident. Blimey, she’s put me right on many occasions, but now it seems to be the other way around, which is OK – of course I’ll champion her as best I can – but I’d much sooner see Sam happy. And by the sounds of it, this really doesn’t seem to be the case.
‘I know. And you’re right, of course. But then my own mother couldn’t be bothered with me, remember? So I don’t ever want the girls to feel the way I did, and still do sometimes …’ Her voice trails off.
‘Oh Sam, that will never happen. You’re not Christy …’
At boarding school, Sam and I had shared a bedroom, and she’d lie awake at night wondering about her mum, Christy, an interior designer who ran off to LA with a famous rock star client when Sam was only five years old. I used to try to comfort her by sharing sweets and whispering bedtime stories about princesses in castles, and even though Sam hasn’t mentioned Christy for years until now, I think she still struggles to understand why she left. And even more so since becoming a mother herself, but then who can blame her? Christy literally did a moonlight flit. There at bedtime and gone by breakfast, and that’s tough, especially when all you have is a bag of Haribo Strawbs and the vivid imagination of a nine-year-old friend to comfort you.
‘True … but my brain is so addled from lack of sleep, it’s affecting everything, and it’s just sooooo not like me,’ she replies.
‘Of course it isn’t, you’ve always been the most positive, upbeat person I know. Tell you what, why don’t I babysit for a weekend or something? You and Nathan could stay in a hotel overnight, get some rest, chat, have loads of sex – do whatever you like, it would be just like the old days,’ I say impulsively, instantly pushing away the panicky feeling that follows – I’m sure it can’t be that hard to look after two tiny babies for an evening. Heeeelp!
‘Would you really do that?’ Sam perks up.
‘Sure, that’s what best friends are for. I’m just sorry I didn’t think to offer before now.’ I know Nancy will jump at the chance to lend a hand should I need it. She adores children and really cannot wait to be a grandmother; she even asked me one time if Tom and I had chatted about all that yet. I didn’t have the heart to tell her we haven’t – that our time together is spent mostly in bed, or across my kitchen table or in the shower, or the hallway, and my sofa has certainly seen a lot of action too – and that I’m just not interested in having babies, to be honest. No wild urge to procreate. That biological thing I hear so much about hasn’t kicked in for me yet. Maybe it never will.
‘Well, that would be brilliant. I’ll chat to Nathan about it. It might put him off the nanny idea for a while longer.’
‘Are you really that against it, then?’
‘Hmm, I can’t help wondering – what if she tries it on with him and they end up having a steamy affair? I know it’s a cliché, but you hear about that kind of thing all the time, and the way I feel at the moment, I’m not entirely sure I’d have the energy to confront them, let alone slap her before chucking them both out,’ she laughs wryly.
‘Don’t be daft. Nathan adores you, so that would never happen. Besides, you could get a manny …’
‘A male nanny! Yes, now that’s a good idea. Like a fit pool boy … But with childcare qualifications obviously,’ Sam confirms, sounding a whole lot perkier, and more like her old self now.
‘Yes, something like that.’ I smile.
‘You could help me with interviews?’
‘Of course I could.’
‘Wonder if I could get away with issuing a uniform – tiny running shorts, perhaps? Perfectly reasonable, seeing as they would definitely be doing lots of running around, the twins will make sure of it.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, enough of this manny talk – more importantly, what are you wearing to the soirée? Indulge me with a few minutes of adult chat about frivolous things like dresses and shoes, instead of eco-friendly reusable nappies because, to be honest, I couldn’t give a shit … oops, no pun intended,’ we both snigger, ‘what little Luella wears on her backside.’
‘Who’s