Free OMG Baby! by Emma Garcia Page A

laugh.
    ‘Why not? Write the guests’ names on them.’
    ‘But you’d better not, had you, Viv? No one can read your writing. Imagine the mix-up that would cause – no one would have a clue where to sit.’
    ‘That’s true . . . Christie, are you able to write without making the dots of the eyes into hearts?’ I say, pointing both forefingers at her.
    ‘I’ll give it a go.’
    I scoff the chocolate boobs and the fortune cookie to stave off sickness while Christie practises grown-up writing. The chocolate has a soapy consistency, but the sugar is welcome – I’m starving. Now, where will we get really lovely ribbon? I start to search online.
    ‘And no eyes in the “o”s, or flowers,’ I say with my mouth full, unfurling the strip of paper from the cookie. ‘“You will be travelling and coming into a fortune,”’ I read. ‘Hmm, that’s uncanny, because we will be travelling shortly . . . to a haberdasher’s!’
    A short while later we leave Dibbons for Ribbons £80 poorer, not counting the bus fare, and go our separate ways, she with a calligraphy pen and a list of guest names to practise and me lugging bags of sex-themed wedding crackers to work on at home.

8
    Mummy, Dear
    M other n afemale parent that has produced or nurtured anything; a protective nurturing quality.

    A t home , I’ve set up a cracker-titivation table with all the bits and pieces I need and locked Dave in the kitchen after he shredded £10 worth of ribbon. The thing about decorating stuff, I find, is to not overthink it. I’m getting better at these fat bows with each cracker, and this bright pink satin ribbon makes the Monday-morning grey look deliberate. I’ll take the best one this evening to show Lucy. I’m going with her to the practice wedding make-up session. If she sees the crackers now, it will be less of a shock when she sees them on the actual table. They are meant to be funny, after all . . . Positive energy, that’s it. Then the phone rings and by the time I’ve found it in my coat pocket, I answer out of breath.
    ‘I’d like to speak with Vivienne Summers.’ A woman’s calm, sonorous voice. Her. I feel a million urgent thoughts rushing. How to be? My heart bungee-dives.
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘Ah, it’s you.’ There’s a long silence.
    ‘Who’s speaking, please?’ I say slowly. How will she answer?
    ‘Vivienne, it’s . . . it’s Rainey. Vivienne?’ she almost whispers.
    ‘Hi.’
    ‘Don’t you know me?’
    I don’t know how to answer.
    ‘It’s me, Lorraine, your mother.’
    I notice the end of the ribbon in my hand is vibrating.
    ‘I’m having a baby,’ I say.
    ‘Ah.’ There’s a pause. I hear her moisten her lips and I try to picture how she looks, gathering scraps of memory from three years ago. She’s pretty, I think. ‘Can we meet?’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘Now?’
    I walk to the sofa and perch on the edge. I’m panic-trapped. Now? Is this a test? That’s a pretty small window of time and quite short notice, considering.
    ‘Vivienne? I’m sorry for not being in touch. I understand it’s a bit sudden. I’ve been plucking up the courage to phone for a few days now, but anyway . . . I’m fully prepared for you to reject me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’
    ‘I’ll meet you.’
    ‘Thank you,’ she breathes.
    We plan to meet for coffee at a place she knows on Portland Street. I jot down the details, feeling like I’ve swallowed a jack-in-the-box.
    I wander to the window curling the ribbon through my fingers. I gaze out at the shops’ backsides and across to the pillars of flats. My mother’s here. She’s in this city right now. If I focus, I would probably feel her presence drawing ever closer to claim me like some parent bird. Or not. Hold on, how did she get my number?

    I ’m lacing my trainers when the phone rings again.
    ‘Vivienne?’ It’s Nana, sounding crackly, like an old gramophone.
    ‘Hi, Nana! Where are you calling from? Are you having a nice time?’
    ‘We’re