Although I see Meg most days, I’ve only ever spoken to her once. She asked if we had any more bran flakes, but we had sold out. I wish I could have said yes. I wish I could have gone back through the swinging plastic doors and returned with a box of bran flakes just for her.
That was in early May. I suspected she was pregnant even then. A fortnight later she picked up a pregnancy test from the pharmacy aisle and my suspicions were confirmed. Now we’re both in our third trimester with only six weeks to go and Meg has become my role model because she makes marriage and motherhood look so easy. For starters, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. I bet she could easily have been a model—not the bulimic catwalk kind, or the Page Three stunner kind, but a wholesome and sexy girl-next-door type; the ones who advertise laundry detergent or home insurance and are always running across flowery meadows or along a beach with a Labrador.
I’m none of the above. I’m not particularly pretty, nor am I plain. “Unthreatening” is probably the right word. I’m the less attractive friend that all pretty girls need because I won’t steal their limelight and will happily take their leftovers (food and boyfriends).
One of the sad truths of retailing is that people don’t notice shelf-stockers. I’m like a vagrant sleeping in a doorway or a beggar holding up a cardboard sign—invisible. Occasionally someone will ask me a question, but they never look at my face when I’m answering. If there was a bomb scare at the supermarket and everyone was evacuated except me, the police would ask, “Did you see anyone else in the shop?”
“No,” they’d say.
“What about the shelf-stocker?”
“Who?”
“The person stocking the shelves.”
“I didn’t take much notice of him.”
“It was a woman.”
“Really?”
That’s me—unseen, inappreciable, a shelf-stocker.
I glance outside. Meg is walking towards the supermarket. The automatic doors open. She picks up a plastic shopping basket and wanders along aisle one—fruit and veg. When she gets to the end she’ll turn and head this way. I follow her progress and catch a glimpse of her when she passes the pasta and canned tomatoes.
She turns into my aisle. I push the bucket to one side and step back, wondering if I should nonchalantly lean on my mop or shoulder it like a wooden rifle.
“Careful, the floor is wet,” I say, sounding like I’m talking to a two-year-old.
My voice surprises her. She mumbles thank you and slides by, her belly almost touching mine.
“When are you due?” I ask.
Meg stops and turns. “Early December.” She notices that I’m pregnant. “How about you?”
“The same.”
“What day?” she asks.
“December fifth, but it could be sooner.”
“A boy or a girl?”
“I don’t know. How about you?”
“A boy.”
She’s carrying Lachlan’s scooter. “You already have one,” I say.
“Two,” she replies.
“Wow!”
I’m staring at her. I tell myself to look away. I glance at my feet, then the bucket, the condensed milk, the custard powder. I should say something else. I can’t think.
Meg’s basket is heavy. “Well, good luck.”
“You too,” I say.
She’s gone, heading towards the checkout. Suddenly, I think of all the things I could have said. I could have asked where she was having the baby. What sort of birth? I could have commented on her stretch jeans. Asked her where she bought them.
Meg has joined the queue at the register, flicking through the gossip magazines as she waits her turn. The new Vogue isn’t out, but she settles for Tatler and a copy of Private Eye.
Mr. Patel begins scanning her items: eggs, milk, potatoes, mayonnaise, arugula, and Parmesan. You can tell a lot about a person from the contents of a shopping cart; the vegetarians, vegans, alcoholics, chocaholics, weight watchers, cat lovers, dog owners, dope smokers, celiacs, the lactose intolerant and those with dandruff, diabetes, vitamin deficiencies, constipation, or ingrown toenails.
That’s how I know so much about Meg. I know she’s a lapsed vegetarian who started eating red meat again when she fell pregnant, most likely because of the iron. She likes tomato-based sauces, fresh pasta, cottage cheese, dark chocolate, and those shortbread biscuits that come in tins.
I’ve spoken to her properly now. We’ve made a connection. We’re going to be friends, Meg and I, and I’ll be just like her. I’ll make a lovely home and keep my man happy. We’ll do yoga classes and swap recipes and meet for coffee every Friday morning with our mothers’ group.
MEGHAN
* * *
Another Friday. I am counting them down, crossing them off the calendar, scratching tally marks on the wall. This pregnancy seems to be longer than my other two. It’s almost as though my body has rebelled against the idea, demanding to know why it wasn’t consulted.
Last night I thought I was having a heart attack, but it was only heartburn. Chicken Madras was a big mistake. I drank a whole bottle of Mylanta, which tastes like liquid chalk and makes me burp like a trucker. This baby is going to come out looking like Andy Warhol.
Now I need to pee. I should have gone at the café, but it didn’t seem necessary then. My pelvic floor muscles are working overtime as I hurry across the park, cursing every time Lachlan’s scooter bashes me in the shins.
Please don’t pee. Please don’t pee.
An exercise class has taken over one corner of the park. Elsewhere there are personal trainers standing over clients, telling them to do one more push-up or sit-up. Maybe I’ll get one of those when this is all over. Jack has started making cracks about my size. He knows I’m bigger this time because I didn’t lose my baby weight after Lachlan.
I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty. Pregnant women should be able to eat chocolate and wear sensible pajamas and make love with the lights off. Not that there’s much of that nowadays. Jack hasn’t touched me in weeks. I think he has this strange aversion to sleeping with a woman who is carrying his child, viewing me as some sort of virginal Madonna figure who can’t be soiled.
“It’s not because you’re fat,” he said the other night.
“I’m not fat, I’m pregnant.”
“Of course, that’s what I meant.”
I called him a bastard. He referred to me as Meghan. He does that when we’re having an argument. I hate the long form of my name. I like Meg because it reminds me of nutmeg—an exotic spice that men and countries have fought wars over.
Jack and I have skirmishes rather than battles. We are like Cold War diplomats who say nice things to each other while secretly stockpiling ammunition. When do couples run out of things to say, I wonder. When does the passion wane? When do the conversations become dull-witted and boring? When do iPhones make it to the dinner table? When do mothers’ groups graduate from talking about their babies to bitching about their husbands? When does the house-training of a man become proof of love? When does the gap between every woman’s dream husband and every man’s dream wife become a journey from pole to pole?