Free The Yummy Mummy by Polly Williams Page A

cranberry juice in a tall glass. “Hi, Amy,” she drawls. Ah, Blythe is American.
    “Hullo.” She looks so familiar. “Er, um, think we may have met before,” I say apologetically.
    “Oh really?” She gives me the once-over. “No, I don’t think so.”
    “Hmmm . . .” Where the hell would I meet someone like Blythe? Work? Joe’s friends? Oh God. Yes! Dare I? “Primark!”
    Everyone starts. Alice’s curls vibrate with laughter.
    “You must be mistaken,” Jasmine says. “Of all the people in the Northern Hemisphere, Blythe is the least likely one to be found in Primark.”
    “Not her habitat,” confirms Annabel.
    The accent. The hair. It’s definitely her. “Last Saturday. You were buying loads of white T-shirts.”
    A thought troubles her smooth complexion. Alice looks at her quizzically. “Okay, I confess.” Blythe puts up a twiggy tanned arm. “My name is Blythe and I am a Primark shopper.”
    “What were you doing
there
?” Annabel asks. “It’s so cheap. What on earth is there to buy?”
    “Oh, I was driving back from Hampstead from yet
another
school open day. Thought I’d stock up on T-shirts for a certain function coming up in the distant future. . . . ,” Blythe smiles conspiratorially.
    “Aha!” Alice colludes and whispers the words “baby shower” to me. “Terribly organized of you, Blythe.”
    “You know me, I like to be on schedule. And I wasn’t about to go to Calvin Klein for things we’ll wear once and throw away.” She sips her drink and the lime wedge nudges against her nose, leaving a wet dot on its snub. “I don’t know why you have such a problem with it, Annabel. You’re missing out. Pile it high, sell it cheap,” Blythe continues, rather too loudly, as if she were speaking into a mobile. “Free market in action.”
    Alice nods. “Amy’s on the money. Primark’s so cheap it’s cool,” she declares, not wholly convincingly. “Haven’t they done a cute military jacket for a fiver or something?”
    “Exactly! Of course you have to remember to wash your hands after touching the money that’s touched the sticky paws of the checkout girl,” adds Blythe. I can’t tell if she’s joking. “But hey, no issues.”
    Everyone laughs, light confident laughter like you might hear in a movie. Jasmine catches her silver flip-flop on my pram and curses.
    “Why don’t you shove it in here, Amy?” Alice says quickly. “Get it out of the way.” She helps me nudge my battered old Britax (secondhand, an annoying unturndownable gift from a cousin) in between the gleaming contraptions of chrome and denim with huge wheels and so many First Class Flyer accessories (drink holders, reclining padded seat, meshed air vents) that a retractable DVD screen wouldn’t seem extravagant.
    “Careful of the Bugaboo,” Blythe says.
    “Sorry, the . . . ?”
    “Bugaboo.” Alice winks. “The Frog. As used by Gwyneth, Kate, et al. Murder to get into the car boot.”
    “Unless it’s an SUV,” mutters Blythe.
    “Now, meet the little darlings.” Alice points down at four toddlers, Lilliputian in their enormous chariots, asleep or zoned out, fiddling with toys. They are beautifully dressed: mini Converse trainers; cashmere ponchos; Petit Bateau nautical blue and white stripes. Evie is in a two-for-one grubby white Poundland Babygrow, accessorized by two tusks of snot streaming from her nostrils. A pang for the flabby comfort of the NCT group.
    “Right. Alfie, my boy, you’ve met,” Alice says, pointing to a ringletted blond toddler. He looks twice the size out of his swimming trunks. “Asleep, just how I like him. And that little princess next to him is Blythe’s Allegra. Jasmine’s Marlon. That’s Annabel’s Finn. The youngest of her three.”
    “Three?” And she’s pregnant with her fourth? Christ. Superwoman.
    “Absolutely. Annie’s single-handedly raising the birth rate of Queen’s Park.” Annabel bats Alice playfully with her elbow. “We’re drinking to her