When I met Hayden I hid the prosthetic bumps away and hoped he might fall in love with me. He was kind and considerate and just handsome enough not to stray too far. I could imagine being his wife and having his child.
Jules fell pregnant and I celebrated even as I cried inside. I envied her swollen ankles and her sticky-out navel and her bliss. Hayden had gone back to his ship. I found the fake bellies in the back of the wardrobe and strapped on the largest size. Was that when I decided? Perhaps. Not all ideas come fully formed or from a single source. Often there are no lightbulb moments or crashes of thunder.
Faking a pregnancy isn’t difficult. It helped having Jules living so close. First I drained the water from my toilet and sabotaged the cistern so it wouldn’t flush. Then I invited Jules downstairs and plied her with cups of tea until she had to use my bathroom.
“Your toilet is broken,” she said. “It won’t flush.”
“It’s being temperamental.”
“Do you want Kevin to look at it?”
“No, Mrs. Brindle should call a plumber.”
After Jules had gone, I dipped a jar into the toilet bowl—a little icky, I know, but when needs must. The next day I went to see an out-of-area GP and sat in his waiting room amid coughing infants and crumbling old people, rehearsing a story in my head.
Dr. Bailey ushered me into a consulting room that smelled of alcohol swabs and handsoap. He had thinning hair and bushy eyebrows that made his forehead seem enormous. I wondered if his brain expanded to fill the space, or if it rattled around like a walnut in a saucepan.
“So this is your first visit,” he said, looking at his notes. “How do I pronounce your surname?”
“Fyfle.”
“And what can I do for you, Ms. Fyfle?”
“I think I might be pregnant.”
“How late are you?”
“Four weeks.”
“Have you taken a test?”
“I didn’t know how accurate they were.”
“Very.” He rolled his chair across the floor to a small bank of drawers, producing a syringe in sealed plastic. “I can do a blood test.”
“No, no, not a needle,” I said, covering my arms. “I faint at needles—ever since I was a little girl.”
He reached into a different drawer and handed me a jar. “The women’s room is just down the hall. Fill this up for me and I’ll do a pregnancy test.”
Inside the toilet cubicle I opened my bag and pulled out the bottle containing the sample I collected from Jules. After transferring the contents, I washed my hands and went back to Dr. Bailey’s office.
“Well, you’re definitely pregnant,” he said, showing me the stick. “You won’t see a pinker line than that one.”
“You’re sure?”
“These tests are never wrong.”
He signed a letter confirming that I was pregnant and told me to see my own GP, who would schedule an ultrasound and give me my dates. I took the letter home and pinned it to the fridge. Later I showed it to the girls at the supermarket, who were all excited for me, maybe even a little jealous, which I could understand.
I have been very diligent since then. No alcohol or soft cheeses, or sushi or mayonnaise, and I’ve put the bungee-jumping and skydiving on hold. If anyone lights up a cigarette nearby, I glare at them and hold my swollen belly.
In that first trimester I complained of morning sickness until the nausea seemed real and I slipped away to the staff toilet, retching into the bowl. Abigail held back my hair and fetched me water, telling me to sip it slowly.
Mr. Patel grumbled that I was avoiding the heavy jobs and disappearing to the toilet whenever he had a chore. I tried to explain to him about increased blood supply to the pelvic area and pressure on the bladder creating the urge to pee, but he covered his ears and retreated.
When I first wore a prosthetic belly outside—the smallest size—I felt self-conscious, but now it has become part of me. I wear tight-fitting dresses and proudly arch my back as I walk along the street, letting the world know that I am with child.
At twenty weeks I downloaded ultrasound pictures from the Internet. I doctored them up with my name and National Insurance number, making them look official. I showed them around work and stuck them on the fridge beside my favorite photograph of Hayden. By then I was so confident I wore my fake belly with summer dresses and silk blouses. Days and weeks went by when I lost myself in the dream. I felt the baby growing inside me. He kicked and hiccuped and rolled while I stroked my belly and spoke to him.
I’m on the biggest size now—the third-trimester version—and I love the looks I get from random strangers who smile at me as though I’m their favorite niece or daughter-in-law.
For months I told myself I could stop at any time. I could “miscarry” or move away from London, beginning my life somewhere else. But a small, irrational part of me hoped I could keep the deception going forever. Impossible, I know. A clock has been set running inside me—an hourglass with trickling sand. I have less than two weeks to go. Come that time I will have to lose my baby . . . or find one.
MEGHAN
* * *
I’m at a yoga class for pregnant women at a studio beneath Barnes Bridge station. I know most of the women, although each week we lose a few mothers as their babies arrive. The instructress is also pregnant, wearing a leotard so sheer and tight I can see her outie belly button. Her tank top has a cartoon drawing of a scowling pregnant woman and the caption: The word you’re looking for is “radiant.”
Speaking with breathless fervor, she exhorts us to “Inhaaaaale. Exhaaaaale. Inhaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaale. Start to find your breath, becoming more conscious of it. Inhaaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaale. Use my voice as a guide . . .”
I look past her at my reflection in the mirror. The only time I see my toes is at these yoga classes.
“Now take one hand to your precious baby, the other hand to your heart. Allow your lungs to expand and gently draw your baby towards you like you’re giving him or her a hug.”
I like these sessions—the stretching bits and meditation, not the new-age babble about self-exploration, emotional balance, or surrendering to a higher being. The trick, I’ve decided, is to add the science and subtract the spiritual.
“Inhaaaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaaale. Two more breaths . . . that’s right . . . now come back to center and get on all fours for a prenatal sun salutation.”
On my hands and knees, I feel more like a cow than ever. I look past my bump and notice Agatha at the back of the class. I give her a little wave. She smiles nervously.
“One arm to the leg, the other behind you. Innnhaaaling and exxxhaaaaling. Keep moving with the breath. Your body is bedding down your baby and creating a beautiful home.”
I roll my eyes and Agatha copies me.
I look for her after the class. She’s brushing her hair and pulling it into a ponytail.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” I say.
“I try to hide at the back,” she replies.
We’re both wearing the same brand of leggings and sports top. “We could be twins,” I say.
“Except I do yoga like a hippo.”
She’s funny. “How about that coffee?” I ask.
“Me?”