Chapter Twelve: Babies Stink and Ruin Your Life

Carla had also undergone a miraculous transformation. Gone was the hangdog expression, the talcum powder complexion and in their place a weak smile and a pink flush on each cheek. Even her voice was more modulated and she didn’t fake it with customers anymore - she actually came across as someone who really cared about whether the latest Jodi Picoult novel was in stock yet.
‘I just feel amazing, I feel whole somehow,’ she said as I priced down the latest batch of slow - selling hardbacks.
All the serious ‘literature’ especially hardback had to be priced down whilst anything to do with golf or war just flew off the shelves. This was something to do with our target customers who were predominately bored, macho types looking for inspiration whilst their partners rifled through the discounted knick-knacks in Debenhams. The women usually came into the shop later, as a last resort and after they’d flexed their retail muscles elsewhere. That’s when they dove into the self- help section, after the hollow realisation that spending only made them feel worse. Simon and I had discussed this at great length and decided that in our shop we’d move books around depending on time of day so as to capitalise on our shifting customer base. We’d even thought about sectioning the bookshop off so we had a bloke’s bit with lots of posters of Andy McNab and Terry Wogan and then a women’s bit with posters of Marian Keyes, self- help gurus and Kerry Katona. But then we remembered yet again that we hated these books and wouldn’t stock them in the first place out of principle. Needless to say, the future of our bookshop endeavour wasn’t top of my agenda that day but I needed something to cling onto so Simon didn’t realise how upset I was.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Simon asked as we sat in the stock room eating out lunch, ‘You’re awfully quiet.’
‘Of course I’m okay, why wouldn’t I be?’
Simon stared like I’d just dropped out of the eye of a tornado.
‘Are you sure?’
I crammed as much sandwich into my mouth as possible and nodded my head vigorously. If I was going to go ahead with my plan, if I really was going to ‘steal’ this baby then I had to convince everyone that I had no vested interest in whether Carla and George kept the baby or not. And besides Simon would only try and talk me out of it. Like the true friend he was, he only ever had my best interests at heart. What I really needed was an evil friend, someone who’d encourage my dastardly scheme. Meanwhile I could feel Simon analysing each expression like I was in a police interview room – had he noticed the way my mouth quivered ever so slightly and twitched downwards every time I reassured him I was fine? Did he notice the blue circles under my eyes from the hours of lying in bed looking up at the ceiling listening to my eggs slowly destroying themselves, literally hearing each one sighing and surrendering to time? I forced a smile and stood up, I needed to get away from him, set my plan into action before he guessed anything and tried to talk me out of it.
‘I wanted to tell you something,’ Simon said folding up his paper sandwich bag and tossing it into the bin.
I know what you’re planning. I think you’re sick. I’m going to do everything in my power to stop you.
‘I saw that guy, you know the one who’s phone number you wanted - the one that didn’t call back.’
He raised an eyebrow and then leant forward to dissect my expression up close.
‘Who?’ I said staring ahead, not flinching, not even twitching the miniscule face muscles that lived inside the tiny ones. Inside I could feel the monster working its way up from the pit of my belly, trying to exit my mouth so it could shout, screech and pulverise all the books in the stock room with its giant, hairy fists.
‘The one who’s phone number you BEGGED me for.’
‘Oh him, I’ve gone off him. Can’t even remember what I liked about him to be honest.’

And with that I left the stock room, the monster pushed back into the pit of my stomach (for now at least). Medium Brown was no longer relevant. I needed to fight any urges to see him or hear anything about him. The plan had changed. Stealing a baby was a much more practical idea. It didn’t involve so much work - I wouldn’t have to stand on my head for days afterwards and best of all I wouldn’t be required to give birth. The whole labour thing had been something I’d pushed out of my mind but I knew in my heart that I’d be useless. I’d probably go all floppy and my body would refuse to cooperate. I’d be in labour for days, literally screaming and crying in agony, having out of body experiences, torn in two and even then I’d have to give up and have a caesarean. Truth was I couldn’t deal with pain or even the tiniest bit of blood. Once I’d actually passed out with a nosebleed and woken up face down on my bed thinking I’d just been murdered. No it was a good thing I wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of labour. And from now on there was no role in my life for men or sex. I’d just get my kicks from Internet porn like George did (or had done, I doubt Carla would have been happy with his prolific appetite for dwarves and Nazis). Once I had my hands on that baby I’d swear myself to celibacy and dedicate all my energies to looking after it. And of course I’d feel horribly guilty so I’d have to work double hard to make it the most intelligent, most emotionally stable child in the history of the world. Anything less and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

When I got back onto the shop floor, Carla had lost some of the rosy glow and her skin had taken on the hue of concrete pavement and she was swaying slightly, having to hold herself steady with both arms embracing the till. I was already thinking about some of the seeds I needed to plant and the fact that I needed to start planting those insecurities right away in order to get maximum impact. Then George appeared out of nowhere. He seemed to be keeping Carla close, never moving more than ten metres away, constantly worrying about her wellbeing and offering her glasses of water or a stool to sit on. And still he insisted on wearing his ridiculous adult uniform but when you squinted you could still see the computer addicted taramasalata child inside. His collar was standing up and his hair was trying to rebel and fight its way out of the extra strong product he’d taped it to his forehead with. I really needed to get rid of him. He knew me too well and would guess I was up to something.
‘Hey George, isn’t it time for your lunch break?’ I said.
George was whispering some sort of disgusting baby talk into Carla’s ear and Carla was practicing her lukewarm attempt at a smile. She pulled herself up straight when she saw me.
Don’t try and fool me Carla. I can tell that you feel terrible.
‘We’re having lunch breaks together from now on,’ she said, ‘We’ve got to start looking at flats and baby stuff. You and Simon can take your breaks together and George and I will do the same.’
‘You’re going to live together?’ I said incredulously, ‘George, does Mum know about this? I don’t think she’ll be happy to hear you’re moving out.’
George took a deep breath.
‘Of course she’ll be happy for me. What do you think I was going to do? Have the baby and carry on living at home? It’s time I moved out anyway. I’m almost twenty - I can’t sit in the dark playing computer games forever you know!’
Carla had drugged him; she’d put a witches potion in his coffee and it had drained all the George out and replaced it with some foreign monster who was responsible and said all the right things. I started to miss all the George things like the way his underpants ballooned out the top of his low slung trousers and the terrible cheesy stink that radiated from his person and the way he always slumped forwards at a right angle like he only had enough energy to operate the lowest hanging sections of his body. Where was the George I loved? It was clear that I was going to have to be much more devious and would need to wheedle my way into their lives and then work on both of them. Subtlety would be my mantra from now on. And I’d need a specific plan for each – a more tailored approach playing on all their underlying fears and insecurities.

After work I told Simon I was tired and needed an early night (he wanted to go for a drink and discuss the book shop endeavour- didn’t he realise it wasn’t important to me anymore?). Once I got home I made myself comfortable on the bed, a lush new moleskin notebook in one hand (the same one used by all the great writers!) and a black felt tip pen in the other.

I started with my plan for Carla.
Carla: Her Biggest Fears about Impending Motherhood and Material that Can be Used to Persuade Her To Hand Over the Baby
I underlined this sentence and then got to work.
1. The likelihood of Carla suffering from terrible postnatal depression - Her predilection for the dark side makes her a perfect candidate, does she realise this? How is she going to take care of a baby when she can’t even gather up enough enthusiasm to mash up a banana? Does she realise what sleep deprivation does to people with Grim Reaper tendencies?
I knew that all of Carla’s fears lay relatively near the surface (they were etched across her face, you didn’t have to be a genius to read her soul!) so the depression talk would potentially work really well. That weedy smile stencilled on her face couldn’t disguise her natural maudlin, anxious personality traits.
2. A good opportunity to capitalise on her work obsession and need for control - Who does she think will do the excel sheets at work? How will Head Office be able to judge the figures when neither Simon nor I can do maths? They’ll have to bring another manager in and this one will be twenty times better than she is- sales will soar. We’ll even get in-store signings with prolific authors like Jordan. Is she really going to throw twelve years hard work down the pan?
3. Try and speak to her pessimist side- What kind of world is she bringing a baby into? She knows how much pain and suffering there is- how the hell does she expect the baby to be normal and happy? (I scratched this one out later because I didn’t want to risk her getting an abortion).
4. Potential to harness her creative frustrations and desire to be a proper ‘artist’- Those doodles that you do in your pad everyday during break are absolutely fantastic. One day someone is going to commission a book of those and it will be number one on the bestseller list for months. I guess you’re not interested in all that anymore. And I guess the Brontë sisters would have made great Mums too if they hadn’t believed in the importance of self-expression and creativity.

I then started on George. I needed a completely different approach for him. The advantage was I knew him really well and could crawl up underneath his skin. I also knew some of the things that kept him awake at night.

George: Addressing the Teenage Reprobate That Lurks Inside So He Realises That’s He’s Far Too Young to be a Father and is Going to Miss Out on EVERYTHING
I underlined this twice because I could already feel that there was a lot more power to this argument. Who wanted to be a parent when they were only nineteen years old for god’s sake?!
1. Impact on success with girls & becoming a popular person that COOL people want to spend time with- How are you ever going to meet sexy girls like the ones that you look at on the internet all day when you’re holed up with a screaming baby? Do you think baby vomit is sexy? How will you meet all the interesting people that you fantasise about being friends with if your routine is taken up with changing nappies and coping with a grumpy, depressed partner? (who is already losing her looks by the way - that glow is only temporary.)
2. Impact on career as a ‘Computer Game Programmer’- Do you want to end up working in a book shop all your life like your sad, demented sister? Didn’t you always secretly dream about a career in California where you created cool computer game concepts and got paid millions and had your own pool and lived with a Playboy Playmate? Or is living in Crystal Palace with your manic depressive boss and a screaming child what you really want?
3. Speak to George’s insecure, disorientated ‘teenage’ side – You know you were asking me about when ‘life really starts’? Remember that? Well I can tell you one thing - it doesn’t start when you’re nineteen and have no money and Mum’s nagging you everyday and you’ve got a baby and not a clue how to even look after yourself and you’re going to have to wait at least eighteen years until you can think for yourself and really decide what you want!

I stopped there. George was easy and I could have gone on forever. I didn’t even need to write them down because there was so much readily available ammunition. Any which way you looked at it, it was a terrible idea for him to have a baby. And anyway where had he disappeared to all those weeks ago? Did he really think once he was a father that he could run off to some bong-house in East Dulwich? (because I was sure that’s where he’d gone- to one of his dubious hash loving zombie friends). And he could forget about taramasalata! They’d be lucky if they could snuggle up with a couple of Pot Noodles especially when Carla’s maternity pay stopped and they were left with George’s part time salary!

The whole thing was going to be a breeze. The trick was not to go in with too much at the same time. I needed to drop each bit of information slowly, let it sink in and then slowly pollute everything. And I needed to use practical examples to really bring to life what each of them would be missing. Really rub their noses in it all. Make them FEEL what their life would be like with a screaming baby. In fact the first thing I’d do would be to borrow my friend’s baby for a day and expose them to the reality of a small crying person that is purely driven by self-interest. I picked up the phone and called one of my old school friends, Tanya. She’d be happy to get a babysitter for the day and it would provide the perfect opportunity to showcase what was to come for those two monkeys.

The plan was evolving.
The eggs could go rusty for all I cared.
No more counting the days, no more fondling the breasts to feel if I was ready or not. And in essence I was being tremendously altruistic- I was saving my poor brother and his depressed partner from terrible fates. It was pretty clear their relationship was hopeless and an age difference like that would never work - once they handed the baby to someone else, they’d realise it was for the best and Carla would go back to being the Grim Reaper and George would discover his true path and not repeat the terrible mistakes I’d made.
And my conscience was completely clear.