The Mothers' Group E-Book

Fiona Higgins

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

All those things no one ever tells you about motherhood. It's like secret mothers' business. Lots of my friends had babies before me, but not one of them ever told me it would be this hard. It's like a code of silence. The Mothers' Group tells the story of six very different women who agree to regularly meet soon after the births of their babies. Set during the first crucial year of their babies' lives, The Mothers' Group tracks the women's individual journeys - and the group's collective one - as they navigate birth and motherhood as well as the shifting ground of their relationships with their partners. Each woman strives in her own way to become the mother she wants to be, and finds herself becoming increasingly reliant on the friendship and support of the members of the mothers' group. Until one day an unthinkably shocking event changes everything, testing their bonds and revealing closely-held secrets that threaten to shatter their lives.

Leseprobe

The

Mothers’

Group

FIONA HIGGINS

First published in 2012

Copyright © Fiona Higgins 2012

The epigraph on ♣ is taken from Sherrard, J., Mother Warrior Pilgrim, New York, Andrews and McMeel Inc, 1980, p. 75

‘Forever Young’ Music: Marian Gold, Bernhard Lloyd, Frank Mertens Lyrics: Marian Gold © 1984 Rolf Budde Musikverlag GmbH Reproduced with the permission of Fable Music Pty Ltd (Australia)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: [phone] Fax: [phone] Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australiawww.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 76063 960 0

Internal design by Lisa White Set in 11.5/18 pt Minion Regular by Post Pre-press Group, Australia Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my mother, Lesley, who did a remarkable job of motheringthe three of us under very difficult circumstances

The mothers agree that indeed the years do fly. It’s the days that don’t. The hours, minutes of a single day sometimes just stop. And a mother finds herself standing in the middle of a room wondering. Wondering. Years fly. Of course they do. But a mother can gag on a day.

JAIN SHERRARD

Contents

Ginie

Made

Suzie

Miranda

Pippa

Cara

Acknowledgements

Preview chapter from Wife on the Run

Ginie

She lay naked on the dune, the sand stuck wet against her skin. Seagulls circled, calling to their mates through the sea fog, curling low and languid across the beach.

The smell of rotting seaweed was distracting, even as his tongue and hands moved over her.

She looked down at him, beyond her bare stomach.

Let go, he said. Let go.

She arched her back, pulling thousands of grains of sand into tight fists . . .

Startled by a sharp rapping at the front door, Ginie opened her eyes. She blinked, registering where she was. On the couch. In the lounge room. Next to Rose. The dream sprinted away and disappointment plummeted through her. She felt cheated.

Sex had become a thing of the past. Alongside other common pleasures like Sunday morning sleep-ins and uninterrupted showers, Rose’s arrival had signalled the abrupt departure of Ginie’s sexual appetite. She closed her eyes again, wondering if she’d ever get it back. That delicious sexual abandon with Daniel, a level of intimacy she’d never known before.

The knocking at the door resumed, more insistent now.

For fuck’s sake, she thought, I’m tired. Go away.

She glanced at Rose, a soft bundle of pink in an old-fashioned bassinette, a nostalgic gift from her grandmother. The knocking hadn’t disturbed the baby at all. Once she was asleep, nothing much did.

Maybe if I just lie quietly, Ginie thought, whoever it is will leave.

She stared at the modern chandelier suspended above her, its crystal beads catching the morning light. What time was it? She couldn’t have been asleep for very long. Her laptop was still perched on her knees, cursor flashing in an unfinished email.

She’d been out of hospital for five weeks and Rose was doing everything right. Feeding from a bottle, settling easily, sleeping as well as a newborn could. A textbook baby, so her mother said. As if she’d bloody know.

As usual, thoughts of her mother sent a wave of anger coursing through her. Ginie took a deep breath, attempting to calm herself.

Her Buddhist-leaning life coach had taught her ‘mindfulness’, the technique of watching her anger as if she was a third party. It was all part of making peace with her mother’s absence during her childhood, apparently. Had Ginie’s mother been sick or died, it might have been easier to understand. But instead, as a primary school principal, her mother had devoted her life to education. She’d worked slavishly during school terms and holidays, ensuring thousands of children reaped the benefit of her dedication. Other people’s children, Ginie had sometimes reflected.

When her mother wasn’t working, she’d always seemed more occupied with her siblings. Ginie could remember watching her older brother at endless weekend soccer matches, her mother bellowing encouragement until she was hoarse. Or sitting by her side in the rooms of countless specialists, from orthopaedic surgeons to occupational therapists, discussing her younger sister’s medical condition. Hip dysplasia at birth, her mother had explained to anyone who’d listen. One of her legs is longer than theother. Ginie had always been the dutiful middle child, compliant and sensible, playing Best Supporting Actress to her siblings.

But none of that mattered anymore. When Ginie looked at her present life, one thing was sure: it was far superior to that of her siblings. It was her time now.

She exhaled, soothed by the thought.

The tapping at the door grew louder.

She glanced again at Rose, certain the noise would wake her.

Through the opaque leadlight panels of their front door, she could discern two figures. Her iPhone flashed an impatient alert: Daniel (Mobile). Her husband again.

I’ve organised painters for the nursery. They’re waiting outside.

She rolled her eyes. Hopeless prick.

From the moment they’d discovered she was pregnant, she’d repeatedly asked Daniel to repaint the room for the nursery. She’d been frantic at work, organising the complicated handover required before she went on maternity leave. As the most senior female lawyer at the firm, she earned a hefty salary that allowed Daniel to pursue his writing and photography ventures. Most of which came to nothing.

‘I’m tired,’ she’d complained to him, eight months into her pregnancy. ‘I really need you to repaint the nursery. Please, Daniel.’

‘I’ll get to it,’ came his stock-standard response. ‘Trust me.’

And then the baby had arrived, a full month early, and Daniel had run out of time.

Ginie read the message again, then tossed the telephone onto the coffee table.

Angry? she thought. I’m fucking furious.

Rose stirred in her bassinette. A tiny arm reached out of the muslin wrap. Ginie’s anger instantly receded. From the moment Rose had been pulled from her body, covered in vernix and squirming in the light, Ginie was smitten. The depths of her newfound tenderness for this tiny mysterious creature had taken her completely by surprise.

For a moment she watched, transfixed, as her daughter’s delicate hand grasped at the air. Floating fingers, no bigger than her own fingernails. My daughter. She shook her head, marvelling. Just a few months ago, the concept had seemed so abstract. Yet now, here she was, a mother to this living, breathing, milky soft being.

The knocking persisted. Ginie couldn’t ignore it any longer.

She glanced at her watch and hauled herself off the couch. The first session of the mothers’ group was due to begin. A reminder had arrived from the local baby health centre a week ago but she’d chosen to ignore it. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than sitting around with a bunch of women she didn’t know, eating biscuits and talking babies. Now, with the painters banging down the door, attending a mothers’ group seemed an attractive alternative to watching paint dry.

She opened the front door and directed the tradesmen to the nursery, on the lower floor of their split-level home. Then she placed Rose in the pram and gathered up the nappy bag, a bunny rug and several stuffed toys.

‘Nicole, we’re going out for an hour or two,’ she called up the stairs.

There was no reply. The nanny had arrived from Ireland yesterday, but she still hadn’t surfaced. Jetlagged, no doubt.

The baby health centre was at the top of a hill, only a short walk from the car park. Yet the all-terrain baby jogger, purchased by Daniel the week before, was heavier than she could manage. She was forced to stop along the way to catch her breath, her caesarean scar throbbing beneath her jeans. It was a crisp June day, the sky so blue it almost hurt her eyes. Cerulean, Daniel would call it, in his writer’s way.

When she arrived at the centre, the mothers’ group had already started. She hated running late, for anything. Flustered, she pushed open the glass door with a force that caused it to slam against the adjacent wall. A group of women turned in her direction.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. She turned her back on the group and attempted to pull Rose’s pram up the step.

‘Shit.’ The door was heavy against her back, and the pram unwieldy. I’ve got a law degree, she thought, and I can’t even get a baby jogger through the bloody door.

A woman with honey-coloured hair appeared at her side. ‘Let me help,’ she offered, holding the door open for Ginie.

‘Thanks,’ said Ginie, hauling the pram inside. ‘I’m still getting the hang of this.’

‘Heavy, aren’t they? I got mine jammed at the supermarket checkout the other day and a security guard had to help me. I was so embarrassed.’ The woman grinned at her. ‘I’m Cara, by the way.’

‘Ginie.’

‘Well, hello! Come on in.’ A bespectacled silver-haired woman sat at the front of the group, waving a clipboard in Ginie’s direction. This must be Pat, the chatty midwife who’d telephoned several weeks earlier to check on her post-natal progress. Ginie had declined her offer of a home visit.

‘Have a seat, Ginie,’ the woman said, consulting the clipboard and ticking her name off. ‘I’m Pat. You’re just in time for introductions.’

A dozen chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, but fewer than half were occupied. Most of the seats closest to the door had already been taken. As if the women in them might run from the room at any moment, Ginie chuckled to herself.

Cara returned to her seat, in the middle of the row, and leaned over a bassinette to check her baby. Ginie steered her pram towards an empty chair on the far side of Pat, sidestepping car capsules and nappy bags. She sat down next to a woman with wavy black hair and startling green eyes, who was attempting to comfort her baby. She smiled at Ginie in a distracted way, while pushing a dummy into the baby’s mouth. This only seemed to enrage the infant, all red-faced and writhing in its pram.

‘Shhh, Rory, shhh,’ the woman soothed. As the baby’s cries grew louder, she stood up from her chair and began to push the pram around the room.

‘Well,’ said Pat. ‘Now that everyone’s arrived, let’s get underway. Welcome.’ She smiled. ‘You’re all here because you’ve had a baby in the past six weeks and you live in the Freshwater or Curl Curl areas. So, let’s get to know each other first. I’d like you to tell us your name, your baby’s name, and something you’d like to share about your birthing experience. We’ll start at the front.’ She waved a hand at Ginie.

Ginie shifted in her seat. She was adept at public speaking in corporate settings, but this was different. She felt strangely nervous.

‘Okay, I’m Ginie,’ she started. ‘This is Rose. She’s asleep, obviously.’ She glanced down at Rose and, for the first time, realised how much she resembled Daniel. They shared the same high cheekbones and sandy-coloured hair. She looked at Pat again; she couldn’t remember what else she was supposed to say.

‘Would you like to tell us something about your birthing experience?’ prompted Pat.

‘Oh yes, sorry.’

Birthing. She hadn’t properly described the experience to anyone. It was something she’d rather forget.

‘Um, I was in labour for fifteen hours, then I ended up having a caesarean.’

Pat nodded, the picture of concern. ‘And how did you feel about that?’

Ginie shrugged. ‘Relieved, actually. I was bloody glad to get her out.’

Someone giggled.

‘Right. Next.’ Pat nodded at a voluptuous blonde. Ginie sat back in her chair, grateful the focus had shifted elsewhere.

She hadn’t been ready for Rose’s arrival at thirty-six weeks. It was seven thirty-five am and she was steering her two-door black BMW across the Spit Bridge, notorious for its peak-hour bottlenecks. At any other time of day, it only took her thirty minutes to drive from her home in Curl Curl to the Sydney CBD, but on this particular morning she’d already spent an hour behind the wheel. She was speaking to a client, leaning towards the hands-free phone on the dashboard, when she felt a sudden warmth between her legs. She glanced down to see light red fluid oozing beneath her, creeping across the cream leather seat. For a moment she stared at it, as if it was a phenomenon disconnected from herself, then she swerved out of her lane and towards the kerb. Flicking on the hazard lights, she’d abruptly ended her call and telephoned Daniel.

‘There’s something wrong. I’m . . . bleeding all over the car.’

‘Just take a breath, Gin,’ he’d said. ‘Do you think you can keep driving to the hospital?’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Daniel, what do you think?’

‘Alright, I’ll call an ambulance. Where are you exactly?’

The ambulance officers had determined quickly that neither she nor the baby was in danger.

‘The baby’s kicked a couple of times, so that’s a good thing,’ said one.

‘What about all the blood?’ she asked.

‘Looks like your placenta has started bleeding,’ he said. ‘It’s quite common at the end of pregnancy. Very soon, you’ll be a mum.’

‘So close to Mother’s Day too,’ said the other. ‘You planned that well, didn’t you?’

Oh yeah, very well, she thought. That’s why I’m going to the hospital in an ambulance, propped up on a stretcher, wearing a business suit.

‘Trying to give us all a scare, eh?’ the obstetrician joked as he attached the CTG machine to her bulging abdomen. ‘Let’s see what’s going on in there.’

The scan indicated that the baby was fine.

‘You’ve had a placental bleed,’ he confirmed. ‘We’ll give it twelve hours and see what happens. But you’ll have to stay in hospital, I’m afraid.’

At least she’d brought her laptop.

Several hours later, she felt the first contraction. But after fifteen hours of labour, her cervix was only five centimetres dilated. She was slippery with sweat, exhausted. Daniel stood next to her, offering her water, a cool washer, lip balm. And what should I do with that? she wanted to scream at him. Stuff it up your arse? Instead, she ignored him, pacing the room and squeezing a cushion as the contractions peaked.

She wished she’d opted for an elective caesarean. At thirty-nine and with private health insurance, she could have demanded one. But a part of her wanted to conquer childbirth, as she had conquered all the other challenges in her life to date. An elective caesarean seemed like a cop-out, and Ginie wasn’t a quitter.

‘Ginie.’ The voice came from afar.

She looked up from the cushion and watched the obstetrician mouth the words. ‘I’m recommending a caesarean.’

‘Okay.’ She was beyond caring. She squeezed her eyes shut against another crushing contraction.

The operation was a haze of anaesthesia and bewildering sensations. She was conscious throughout the procedure, with Daniel standing beside her, stroking her hair. Two obstetricians hovered over her abdomen, talking between themselves like pilots landing a jumbo jet.

‘I tend to go in here, less vascular,’ said one.

‘Do you?’ replied the other. ‘I prefer a more muscle-sparing route.’

She felt suddenly nauseous. ‘I think I’m going to die,’ she breathed.

The anaesthetist, an impassive man in his fifties, leaned towards her. ‘It’s just your blood pressure dropping,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Let me fix that for you.’ He injected a vial of clear liquid into her drip and, almost immediately, she began to feel better.

She clung to Daniel’s hand and begged him to talk to her, to drown out the matter-of-fact commentary of the obstetricians.

Suddenly there was some forceful pushing and pulling, as if her insides were being wrenched apart.

She couldn’t take any more. ‘Daniel, I . . .’

‘Here we are,’ announced one of the obstetricians.

A bloodied baby floated above her eye line, not even crying. It was a little girl. She was perfect.

Back on the ward, Ginie’s pain was intense. The wound itself—incision through skin and muscle—throbbed with even the slightest movement. The painkillers they had given her appeared to be having little effect. She watched with interest as the curtains began to billow of their own accord, swelling in front of the unopened window. It was a narcotic hallucination, she knew, yet the pain was getting worse.

She tried to explain this to an officious-looking midwife at three o’clock in the morning.

‘Well,’ came the stern reply, ‘you’re not due for any more pain relief. If you have an intervention like a caesarean, it will hurt more. Natural births are much easier on the body. Pain is very subjective, dear.’ The midwife bustled away.

Ginie was too exhausted to object. Defeated, she lay back on her pillow. Rose was in the nursery; the midwives would bring her in when she woke. Ginie desperately wanted to hold her again, to bury her nose in her folds of soft flesh, but she couldn’t even climb out of bed. The noise from the nursery was audible across the corridor. Every time the door opened, the sound of babies crying was like cats mewling in an alley.

Six hours later, Ginie’s limbs trembled beneath the blanket, defying all control. Her wound was throbbing, weeping through the cotton pad stuck across her pelvis with surgical tape. Beneath her hospital gown, her nipples were chafed from repeated unsuccessful attempts to clamp Rose to her breast. So much for natural, she’d thought, as a midwife palpated her nipples like a farmhand milking a cow. Nothing much had happened, despite these exertions. A thin watery substance had oozed from her right nipple, which the midwife attempted to capture with a syringe.

‘Hello there,’ chirped a friendly voice. ‘How are you this morning?’

She’d never seen this nurse before, a young woman with red hair. She strode over to the window and threw back the curtains. The sunlight was painful.

The nurse turned to her. ‘You’re shaking. Are you alright?’

Without warning, Ginie’s eyes filled with tears.

‘How’s your pain?’ asked the nurse.

Ginie’s voice cracked. ‘I’ve been telling your imbecile colleagues all night. But they’re too interested in making sure my milk comes in, never mind my fucking pain.’

The nurse looked taken aback.

Instantly ashamed of her outburst, Ginie began to cry. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘We’ll fix that straight away,’ said the nurse. She patted Ginie’s hand. ‘You shouldn’t be in that sort of pain, you poor thing. I’ll call the anaesthetist and get something stronger written up for you.’

The nurse’s kindness caused Ginie to cry harder. She wept into her hands with long, shaking sobs.

‘You’ll be alright,’ said the nurse, passing her a tissue. ‘Once you’re pain-free, you’ll feel so much better about everything.’

Ginie doubted it.

‘Hello, everyone. My name’s Suzie.’

Ginie started at the sound. The voluptuous blonde pushed a mass of ringlets behind her ears. Her pale blue eyes darted nervously around the room. She couldn’t be much older than twenty-five, Ginie guessed.

Suzie glanced into the pram parked next to her. The baby was making loud suckling sounds. ‘I think Freya needs a feed,’ she said, apologetic. She fumbled with the top buttons of her camel-coloured cardigan, then lifted her baby to her chest.

Ginie looked away, a little embarrassed. Briefly she wondered if her chest might have looked like that had she persisted with breastfeeding. But she hadn’t. After five futile days of hot packs and breast pumps in the hospital, she’d gone home with a tin of formula and a plastic bottle. ‘You’ve got the lowest milk supply I’ve seen in years,’ one of the nurses had said.

Ginie had been gutted. The benefits of breastfeeding were spruiked from every corner—her obstetrician, her mother, even Daniel was an advocate—and Ginie had just assumed it would all happen effortlessly. No one had considered that she might not be able to breastfeed, let alone prepared her for the crushing guilt when she couldn’t. Now, watching Suzie feed her baby so naturally, Ginie felt responsible for depriving Rose of the best start in life.

It was hard to tell if the baby was a girl or a boy: it was pudgy and pink, with a white-blonde tuft of hair poking up from its crown.

Suzie cleared her throat. ‘My daughter’s name is Freya,’ she began. ‘After the Scandinavian goddess of love.’

Oh God, thought Ginie. Bring on the flower power.

‘My partner has Swedish heritage,’ she continued. ‘My ex-partner, I should say. We separated when I was seven months pregnant. So my birthing experience . . .’ Her blue eyes filled with sudden tears. ‘I mean, I had the loveliest midwife at the hospital, but . . .’ She brought a hand to her mouth and shook her head, unable to continue.

No one moved. Ginie looked at Pat, willing her to intervene. But Pat sat motionless, her head tilted to one side, a contemplative look on her face.

Eventually, someone spoke. ‘That must’ve been hard.’

Ginie turned towards the voice. It was Cara, the woman who’d helped her at the door.

‘Do you mind if I go ahead?’ she asked.

Suzie nodded, clearly relieved.

‘I’m Cara,’ she continued. ‘And this is Astrid.’ She bent over her pram, flipping her thick ponytail over her shoulder. She was attractive in an understated way, with a classic hourglass figure and lively brown eyes. When she smiled, it was hard not to follow suit.

Cara beamed as she held up a chubby, strawberry-blonde baby. Daddy must be a redhead, Ginie mused.

‘Astrid was overdue by ten days. So when she finally came along, she was in a bit of hurry.’ She shifted Astrid into the crook of her arm and stroked her hair. ‘I had my first contraction at six o’clock and she arrived two hours later. It wasn’t too painful either, which was a bonus. I guess I was expecting the worst.’

Pat clapped her hands together. ‘Wonderful. Was anyone else pleasantly surprised by the birthing experience?’

‘Me.’ It was the woman Ginie had sat next to earlier. She’d been pushing her pram around the room nonstop.

‘I’m Miranda.’ She pointed to a muslin cloth covering the pram. ‘This is Rory. I don’t think I can stop walking him just yet.’ She peeped under the edge of the cloth, and Ginie caught a glimpse of dark hair. ‘Well, at least he’s closed his eyes.’ She lifted a bottle of water to her lips and swallowed several mouthfuls.

Ginie admired her profile; she was tall and slender, with no trace of baby weight. Her green eyes stood out against translucent skin, peppered with attractive freckles. Her hair fell in black waves over slightly pointed ears, giving her a pixie-like look. Ginie guessed she was in her early thirties. The substantial diamond on her ring finger glinted as she screwed the lid back on to her water bottle.

‘And what about your birthing experience, Miranda?’ asked Pat.

‘Well, I thought it would be horrible.’ She shrugged. ‘But I quite enjoyed it.’

Ginie wondered how anyone could associate the word enjoy with giving birth.

‘But, then, I’d done a lot of prenatal yoga and breathing exercises beforehand,’ Miranda added, ‘which probably helped me move through the contractions.’

Well isn’t your life perfect? thought Ginie.

Pat lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘And I suppose they’ve helped with your recovery?’

Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t have much time to do yoga anymore. I’ve got a three-year-old at home too. My husband’s son from his first marriage.’

Ginie raised an eyebrow. Perhaps not so perfect after all.

‘But do you get a bit of a break when the toddler visits his mum?’ Pat asked hopefully.

‘No,’ said Miranda. ‘Digby’s mother died when he was six months old.’

God almighty, thought Ginie, rather guiltily.

‘Oh.’ Pat looked deflated. Then she rallied. ‘Well, one of our topics in the coming weeks is “Making Time for You”. When there’s a demanding older sibling around, it’s doubly important to schedule in me-time.’

Miranda didn’t look terribly convinced.

Pat glanced around the group. ‘So . . . who haven’t we done yet?’

A pale, unsmiling woman raised her hand. ‘I’m Pippa.’

Her mousy brown hair, pulled back in a tight bun, was oily at the crown. She was diminutive in stature and her high-pitched voice wavered like a child’s, but the fine lines around her eyes suggested a woman in her thirties. Her clothes were drab; a shapeless grey skivvy teamed with an ankle-length black skirt.

‘That’s Heidi asleep in there.’ Pippa nodded at an oversized stroller shrouded in black windproof meshing, through which it was impossible to see the baby. ‘My birth experience wasn’t pleasant.’

Ginie leaned forward, straining to hear.

‘Would you like to share some of it with us?’ Pat asked.

‘Not really.’

Pat faltered; she clearly wasn’t used to such directness.

‘Right,’ she gushed. ‘That’s absolutely your prerogative.’

Pippa’s hazel eyes were expressionless as she shifted in her seat, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

‘Now, lucky last . . .’ Pat scanned her clipboard. ‘Made . . . and baby Wayne?’

An Asian woman raised her hand. She was petite, almost doll-like, with a heart-shaped face and warm brown eyes. Her shiny black hair was cut into a chin-length bob, which she pushed behind her ears with long, smooth fingers. She smiled shyly at the group, white teeth flashing against caramel skin. She looked barely old enough to have a baby.

‘I am Made.’ Pat had pronounced ‘Made’ as if it rhymed with ‘paid’, but Made herself pronounced her name as ‘Ma-day’. ‘And this is baby Wayan.’

‘That’s an unusual name,’ said Pat.

‘We from Bali.’

The baby gurgled from beneath a colourful sarong that covered the pram. Made reached in to lift out a toffee-skinned infant with a shock of black hair. She held the baby up to the group.

‘My firstborn boy,’ she said proudly.

Ginie stifled a gasp. The baby’s mouth was open, disfigured by some kind of bulbous growth adhering to his lip and spreading up towards his nose.

Ginie glanced around the room. Everyone else was poker-faced. Made was nuzzling her son’s ear, oblivious.

Pat was the first to speak. ‘Is . . . Is there anything about your birthing experience that you would like to tell us, Made?’

Made paused, thinking for a moment. ‘It was very paining,’ she said. ‘But he is . . . healthy boy. This is appreciating.’

Ginie smiled. Made’s grasp of English was rudimentary, but her meaning was clear.

‘Good, good,’ said Pat. She shuffled her notes. ‘Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, let’s have a chat about how this group works. My role is to support you on the marvellous journey of motherhood, because being a mum is the most important job in the world.’

Ginie glanced at her watch.

‘Today we’ll talk about sleeping, which is something every new mum is interested in.’ Pat chuckled. ‘Sleep is extremely important for growth and development.’ Her voice had assumed a rehearsed, singsong quality. Ginie wondered how many times Pat had subjected a group of new mothers to this exact spiel.

The session dragged on for another thirty minutes. Ginie spent much of this time checking work emails on her iPhone, concealed beneath the nappy bag balanced on her lap. Officially, she’d taken three months’ maternity leave. But as the firm’s only venture capital specialist, she couldn’t trust Trevor, a private equity colleague, to manage her files properly. She checked her emails regularly, often sending two-line commands to Trevor which usually went unanswered. Her colleagues seemed reluctant to ‘bother her’, as they termed it, so soon after the birth. Ginie had never felt so disconnected from her working life.

‘Oh, ladies, one more thing,’ said Pat, turning to the whiteboard. ‘We’ll meet once a week until the end of July, then once a month to November. You’ll be experts by then.’ She wrote out the dates in a neat line on the board. Even her handwriting was irritating, Ginie thought, all curly and feminine. Instead of dots above the i’s and j’s, she drew tiny heart shapes.

‘Around the four-month mark, we’ll have a special “Fathers and Partners” session.’ Pat circled the date for emphasis. ‘It’s important to get the dads involved.’

The bell on the back of the door jangled and Pat whirled around, a curt expression on her face.

‘It’s not eleven o’clock yet.’ She scowled at a thin, white-haired man who stood in the doorway. ‘There’s a mothers’ group in session here. Didn’t you see the sign?’

The man looked contrite. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

Made stood up. ‘I go,’ she said. ‘My husband. Thank you, Pat.’

She wheeled Wayan in his pram towards the exit. Cara, who was closest, rose to her feet and held open the door for her.

Husband? Ginie stared at the man beyond the door. He must be in his fifties, she thought. Is Made a mail order bride?

‘Made, you might need some help with breastfeeding, considering Wayan’s condition,’ Pat called after her. ‘I’ll contact you next week to organise a meeting with one of our lactation consultants.’

Ginie repressed a snort. There could only be one thing worse than a midwife, as far as she was concerned: a specialist midwife.

Made nodded politely as she stepped onto the street. Ginie craned her neck to peer beyond the door. She caught a glimpse of the white-haired man stooping to kiss Wayan in his pram, before placing a protective hand on Made’s hip.

The rest of the group began to assemble their things.

‘Well, thank you, ladies,’ said Pat. ‘I’ll see you next week. Everyone’s contact details are here.’ She waved a bundle of photocopies at them. ‘I suggest you meet up informally before we reconvene. Being a new mum can be daunting, so it’s good to support each other.’

Cara stood up and looked around the room. ‘Well . . . would anyone like to meet up for coffee this Friday morning?’ She seemed a little self-conscious.

No one said anything. Suzie and Pippa were fussing over their babies, while Miranda drained the last of her water. Ginie stared at her iPhone, pretending to read a message.

‘We could go to the café across the road?’ Cara ventured.

Ginie glanced around the group. She didn’t have time for old friends, let alone new ones. All the same, she reasoned, her problems with breastfeeding had taught her that babies weren’t always predictable. There was hardly anyone in her social network she could turn to for advice—most of her friends were childless professionals. And damned if she was going to ask her own mother.

‘Okay,’ said Ginie. ‘I can make it unless something comes up at work.’ It was a convenient excuse, should she need an exit strategy.

Some of the others nodded too.

‘Great,’ said Cara. ‘Ten o’clock across the road, then?’

‘Um . . . what about the beachfront park, instead?’ Pippa’s voice was hesitant. ‘There’s a little kiosk there, Beachcombers. It might be nicer for the babies, being outdoors.’

Do babies even care at this age? Ginie wondered.

‘Yes, there’s that little playground nearby,’ said Miranda. ‘I’ll have Digby with me and he needs somewhere to run around.’

‘Okay,’ said Cara. ‘Let’s say ten o’clock this Friday at Beachcombers. I’ll let Made know.’

Ginie plugged the date into her iPhone. The rest of the group began to disperse. Unlike the other babies, Rose was still asleep in her pram. She looked like a cherub, floating in layers of pink and white. A tiny pulse flickered at her temple. She was so fragile, so dependent upon Ginie for everything. And I’d do almost anything for her, Ginie said to herself. Even attend a mothers’ group.

She gathered up her things and began to push the pram towards the door. Pat held it open for her.

‘My husband bought the deluxe model, I’m afraid,’ Ginie said ruefully, nodding at the pram. ‘I can’t even fit it in the boot of my car.’ Her BMW coupé had been perfect pre-baby.

‘I’m glad you decided to join the group, Ginie,’ said Pat.

‘Well, I’m going back to work next week,’ Ginie told her. ‘But I’ll come along to as many sessions as I can.’

‘Goodness, that’s a rapid return to the workforce.’

Ginie forced a smile. ‘Well, someone has to pay the mortgage, I’m afraid.’

She lowered the pram onto the street and started towards the car park.

Why did everyone have an opinion on her returning to work? She’d had a similar reaction from her mother, and Daniel hadn’t been all that enthusiastic, either. If she’d been a man, no one would have questioned it. People expected fathers to go back to work as quickly as possible after their children were born. But mothers, she was learning, were judged differently. An alternative set of principles applied, even if the mother was the breadwinner of the family.

Ginie lifted her face to the warm winter sunshine, such a welcome relief from the dull hours she’d spent inside the house lately. The truth was, as much as she adored Rose, she’d been thinking about returning to work since her release from hospital. In the days after the birth, she’d been half expecting to have the sort of personal epiphany she’d heard about in other women: a loss of desire to work, and a sudden passion for the grander, higher calling of motherhood. But Ginie had worked too hard, become too specialised, to let go of it all lightly. One type of love, the maternal kind, had not usurped the other. Her love for the law remained.

She’d waited until Rose was one month old before raising the issue with Daniel.

‘We need a nanny,’ she told him, returning to the dinner table for the third time in thirty minutes. The quiet Friday night meal she’d planned had been hijacked by an unusually fractious Rose. Daniel looked up from his plate, a chunk of lamb speared on his fork.

‘What?’ she asked, defensive.

‘I’m listening,’ he replied.

‘Okay.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should go back to work sooner rather than later. I mean, I’m enjoying Rose and everything, but it’s been a month now and the bills keep coming in.’ Ginie’s salary was quadruple that of Daniel’s earnings. It had always been that way, from the moment they’d met on Curl Curl beach, just over a year ago. And now, with the global financial crisis worsening and Daniel’s communications work dwindling, hers was the only income on which they could rely. Daniel kept insisting that the novel he’d started not long after their wedding would be finished within the next few months, but as far as Ginie was concerned, that was about as likely as winning the lottery.

‘We’ve got a great life,’ she continued. ‘Why change it? Obviously I don’t expect you to alter your own working arrangements because of Rose.’ She paused, offering him the opportunity to say that he would be the primary carer until he started bringing in more work. Daniel remained silent.

‘I’ve looked into au pairs,’ she went on. ‘They’re quite inexpensive for what they do. They stay in your home, help with the housework, look after the baby. I could work four days a week in the office and one from home. You’d be free to do your own thing without having to worry about Rose. Maybe we could even get some quality time together. I mean, we haven’t been ourselves lately . . .’ The words were tumbling out of her mouth. She stopped herself short.

Things had changed between them almost as soon as she’d discovered she was pregnant. When the severe morning sickness had finally subsided, mind-numbing fatigue set in. In the final weeks of pregnancy, her stomach’s swollen surface had resembled blue vein cheese, crisscrossed with newly formed blood supply lines to the baby. And while Daniel claimed her pregnant body was beautiful, she was appalled by it. He’d actually wanted to photograph it, for God’s sake. It was a secret relief to Ginie when Rose came early, so it was no longer an option. But they hadn’t been intimate since. Something had changed for her after the birth. Her body was different, that was clear, but it was more fundamental than that. Every time he reached for her, she almost flinched.

Daniel coughed. ‘When do you think you might go back to work, then?’

‘Three weeks,’ she replied. ‘I spoke to Alan today. He wants me back as soon as possible. Trevor’s covering the Kentridge matter, but he’s struggling.’

‘Oh.’ Daniel nodded, the movement slow and exaggerated. It was something he did, she’d learned, when attempting to contain his irritation. The ticking of the cedar clock on the sideboard punctuated the silence.

‘Why don’t you consider this a bit more?’ he said finally. ‘I mean, Rose is only a month old.’

Ginie shook her head. She’d spent hours trawling the internet in the weeks before the birth, researching and comparing agencies. She’d already spoken to the staff at Mother’s Little Helpers and confirmed the availability of a likely candidate, willing to start in a fortnight. Ginie had been impressed by her profile: a registered nurse from Ireland with qualifications in childcare. What else was there to consider?

‘But this way, with an au pair, we can both keep working,’ she said. ‘We don’t have to change our lifestyle, we don’t have to worry about compromising Rose’s care. And we can still get some time for us.’

Daniel stared at her.

‘Right, well, mother knows best.’ He pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

As he reached the doorway, he turned to face her. ‘Not everything in life can be controlled, you know. Babies can’t be. But go on, Gin, try to map it all out before Rose is two months old.’

The front door slammed behind him.

Ginie dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, her lips trembling.

It’s all very well for you, she thought. Taking the moral high ground with no work to speak of, except a bloody novel. We can’t eat words.

An electronic chime announced receipt of a new message. She reached across the table for her iPhone.

I hate this fucking thing, she thought.

When Ginie got home from the mothers’ group, the painters were crouched near the front door, cigarettes dangling from their lips.

‘Smoko,’ said one, stating the obvious.

She grunted an acknowledgement and steered the pram around them.

Typical bloody tradesmen, she thought. They’d only been there an hour and were already having a break. Where had Daniel found them, anyway?

As she manoeuvred Rose’s pram along the hallway, she detected clattering sounds from the kitchen. She rounded the corner to find Nicole standing at the sink, pink rubber gloves stretched up to her elbows, scrubbing the bottom of a baking tray. The flesh on her upper arms jiggled with exertion. Her brown hair was pulled up into a dishevelled ponytail and her skin was the typical milky pallor of the Irish.

Ginie cleared her throat.

‘Oh, hello,’ said Nicole, wheeling about. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. I hope you don’t mind me getting started?’

‘God no,’ said Ginie. ‘That’s great, thanks. Have you settled in?’

Nicole couldn’t possibly object to the guest quarters on the top floor, complete with king-size bed and ensuite.

‘Honestly,’ said Nicole, her eyes alight, ‘it’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen. With ocean views, too! It’s the Sydney I’ve seen in the movies. I can’t wait to tell the folks back home.’

Ginie smiled at her girlish enthusiasm. Nicole was only twenty-three, and it showed.

‘Yes, Curly’s a great spot,’ she said. ‘We love it here.’

Daniel had moved in not long after their engagement, selling his one-bedroom apartment near Mona Vale, ten kilometres north of Curl Curl. The price differential was significant; the proceeds of the apartment’s sale paid off only twenty per cent of Ginie’s mortgage. After her break-up with Frederic, her former partner of four years, she’d borrowed heavily to purchase her dream home on the North Curl Curl headland. And while money couldn’t buy happiness, the hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the Pacific Ocean had certainly helped.

‘Well, Rose has woken up and is due for a feed,’ Ginie announced, lifting Rose out of the pram.

‘I can do that,’ said Nicole, peeling off the rubber gloves. ‘I’ve seen where you keep the bottles.’ She began spooning powdered formula into a bottle of cooled boiled water, before attaching a teat and shaking the mixture. ‘Is Rose still having six feeds a day?’

‘Five actually,’ said Ginie. ‘I think she might have dropped the midnight feed. She’s been sleeping through to dawn over the past few days.’

‘Oooh, lucky you,’ said Nicole. ‘They don’t all do that at six weeks, you know. What a good girl you are!’ She took Rose from Ginie’s arms and lay her in the bassinette, clicking her tongue and waving her fingers. Rose looked at her with interest, hands and feet pummelling the air.

‘Oh, you’re excited are you?’ Nicole laughed. ‘We’re going to have some fun, you and me.’

Ginie smiled. Nicole was a natural.

Daniel would surely see that too.

She’d met Daniel on Curl Curl beach just after sunrise on a winter’s morning. The beach was deserted, as it often was at that hour, with the exception of a few surfers bobbing about like teabags on the swell. Ginie jogged along the soft sand near the dunes, her head down, focusing on her feet. She’d sprained her ankle six months before and didn’t want to injure it again. The physiotherapist had recommended a program of hydrotherapy to aid recovery, but floating around with a group of retirees depressed her. Unless she was puffing and sweating, it didn’t feel like real exercise. As soon as her ankle felt stable, she’d taken up beach jogging again.

Her iPod blared in her ears and she sang aloud to The Verve, unselfconscious in her solitude. She turned to see her footprints in the sand, a transient protest against the corrosive wind. This was one of the wildest beaches on the peninsula, with notorious undertows and collapsing sandbars. She loved its volatility. Starting the day on Curl Curl beach was an antidote to the long hours at Coombes Taylor Watson.

He was almost on top of her when she saw him, running up the beach carrying his surfboard. Given the beach’s emptiness, he was ludicrously close. She stopped jogging to let him pass.

‘Hi.’ He smiled.

For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. The ocean was upon him, tanned skin gleaming in the wet. A long sandy fringe flopped into bright blue eyes. His wetsuit was rolled down below the navel, a fine trail of blond hair disappearing beneath it.

She instantly wanted to touch him.

‘Hi,’ he said again.

She removed her earphones.

‘Beautiful morning,’ he said.

She sensed he might keep running.

‘How are the waves?’ she asked, trying to stall him.

‘Awesome. The big green void puts everything in perspective.’

Who was this delicious creature?

‘I’m Ginie,’ she said, suddenly courageous.

‘Glad you told me,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you jogging every day for the past month.’

This surprised her: she’d never seen him once. But then again, she’d never really looked in the surfers’ direction. They were as much a part of the landscape as the flocks of seagulls at the water’s edge.

‘I’m Daniel.’ He stretched out his hand. She felt its cool, calloused palm against her own.

‘Might see you tomorrow then?’ he asked.

She felt her cheeks flush. Then he hoisted his board under his arm and disappeared over the dune.

*

They exchanged pleasantries on the beach for two months. In the beginning, their conversations were brief and oriented around the weather. Then, slowly, they began to disclose minor details about their lives.

One morning, Daniel hailed her with particular enthusiasm.

‘Six-foot waves out there,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now that gets the creative juices flowing. I’ll be productive today.’

Ginie seized upon the inference.

‘You’re an artist?’

‘A writer.’

She remembered his calloused hand. The idea of writing for work was alien to her.

‘What sorts of things do you write?’

‘Well, all sorts of marketing junk at the moment.’ He laughed. ‘Keeps the wolves from the door. I run a communications company with a friend of mine.’ He planted his board in the sand. ‘But when I’m not doing mindless corporate work, I write poetry, plays, fiction. The sorts of things that don’t pay. It’s hard to be a full-time renaissance man, but that’s my dream. To write the stuff I’m passionate about, and be paid for it.’

Ginie digested his words. He’d released more information in two minutes than in the past eight weeks. But poetry, plays and fiction? Was anyone successful at that?

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What do you do?’

The sorts of things that do pay, she thought.

‘I’m a commercial lawyer. In venture capital, mostly.’

She thought she saw his eyes widen a little. She was used to that sort of response. Most of the men she’d dated over the years had been intimidated by her intelligence, her success.

‘Well, you keep pretty fit for a fuck-off lawyer,’ he said, his eyes dancing. ‘There can’t be many like you.’

Her mouth dropped open. She didn’t know whether to laugh or feel offended.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, winking at her.

*

Later that morning, she buzzed herself into the office. She was usually one of the first to arrive, but she’d been slow in getting ready. She’d stood for half an hour under the shower, water coursing over her shoulders, thinking about Daniel. How he’d dropped the word fuck into their conversation. There was something coarse about it, and something intimate.

‘Nice skirt!’ Arnold popped up from behind the reception desk. ‘Got a hot date tonight?’

Arnold, the firm’s business manager, was the only element of office culture that ever surprised her. He’d worked at Coombes Taylor Watson for almost as long as she had; in fact, she’d been instrumental in giving him the chance. Amid all the pinstriped suits and plaid bow ties, he was a breath of fresh air. And if he hadn’t been so good at his job, the firm’s conservative partners would have jettisoned him long ago. He was loud, he was camp, but he was far superior to any other business manager they’d ever had.

‘Not in a good mood, hon?’ He pouted theatrically. ‘This will cheer you up. I’ve got a great piece of spam for you this morning.’ He pointed to his computer screen. ‘Subject line of email reads: Your sex prong will grow likeon yeasts.’

She suppressed a smile.

‘Body of text reads: Lovers will hanker to observe your bulge and exhibit.Press button now.’ He removed the lid from his grande-sized skinny-cino. ‘I tell you, I’m gonna press that button big time. I just love those spammers in the Ukraine. Now, can I get you a coffee, hon?’

She shook her head and started towards her office.

‘You ignoring me?’

Ginie pulled a face.

‘Well, what about this, then? These arrived for you.’ Arnold lifted an enormous bunch of yellow roses from beneath his desk. ‘A super-cute courier delivered them five minutes ago. Could’ve opened a bottle with his buttocks. I almost got his number.’

Ginie frowned. ‘Who’s trying to bribe me this time?’