Praise for Anna Bell

‘Warm-hearted and hilarious. It will make you giggle and want to hug the book when you finish it. I flippin’ loved it!’

Miranda Dickinson, Sunday Times bestselling author of Take a Look at Me Now

‘A brilliantly funny, uplifting yet emotional rom-com that I just lost myself in’

Elle Spellman, author of Running Into Trouble

‘Romantic and refreshing’

Mhairi McFarlane, Sunday Times bestselling author

‘The perfect laugh-out-loud love story’

Louise Pentland, Sunday Times bestselling author of Wilde Like Me

‘Smart, witty and completely fresh’

Cathy Bramley, Sunday Times bestselling author

‘Funny, romantic and uplifting’

Cressida McLaughlin, author of The Cornish Cream Tea Bus

‘This is the fun breath of fresh air we need right now!’

Fabulous

‘Funny and touching’

My Weekly

‘Perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella’

Take a Break

‘A funny, feel-good read’

Closer

‘Romance, comedy and drama sparkle in this fun, fresh and frothy concoction’

Lancashire Evening Post

‘A fun, bouncy, brilliant tale’

Heat

‘Funny, relatable and fabulously written’

Daily Express

Also by Anna Bell

We Just Clicked

If We’re Not Married By Thirty

It Started with a Tweet

The Good Girlfriend’s Guide to Getting Even

The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart

Don’t Tell the Brides-to-be

Don’t Tell the Boss

Don’t Tell the Groom

ANNA lives in the South of France with her young family and energetic Labrador. When not chained to her laptop, Anna can be found basking in the summer sun, heading to the ski slopes in the winter (to drink hot chocolate and watch – she can’t ski) or having a sneaky treat from the patisserie – all year round!

You can find out more about Anna on her website – www.annabellwrites.com or follow her on Twitter @annabell_writes.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

Copyright © Anna Bell 2021

Anna Bell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © Febraury 2021 ISBN: 9780008340810

Version 2020-12-24

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008340803

For Jessica,

For inspiring me to always be braver.

Contents

Cover

Praise

Also by Anna Bell

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

Extract

Prologue

About the Publisher

Prologue

When deciding to go to Comic Con this year dressed as Wonder Woman, with a very short skirt and tiny corseted top, I had not factored in the possibility that we would end up in a meat market of a club afterwards. I tug down at my skirt, which seems to have become even shorter in the few minutes since I last pulled it down, before I squeeze through the dance floor, fending off bum pinches and guys trying to grind in my direction. Ugh. To think I’ve been wearing this outfit all day and I didn’t have one unwelcome advance. And yet, I’ve been in this club less than an hour and I’ve been slapping hands away left, right and centre.

I didn’t really want to come, but my friends dragged me here and I’ve only gone and lost them. Neither of them are answering their phones, so I’ve spent the last twenty minutes searching the different floors, which are so dark and full of sweaty bodies, trying to find them. You’d think that dressed as the Incredible Hulk and HawkGirl they’d be easy to spot. It’s late and it’s been a long day, and if I can’t see them on my final scan of the upstairs dance floor, I’m going to call it a night.

I look over at the people standing around the tables at the edge of the dance floor and my heart almost stops. Standing at one of those tables is Max Voss – my best friend Rachel’s brother, aka my teenage crush. I haven’t seen him in years, but he is every bit as gorgeous as he was when we were younger, perhaps even more so. I can’t stop staring. I feel like I’m 15 again, trapped in his power.

It’s one thing to be a gormless 15-year-old with an embarrassing crush; it’s quite another to be behaving the same way at the ripe old age of 28. Yet, I can’t help it. This is exactly why I don’t meet up with Rach at her parents’ house if I know he’s going to be there.

He must sense me staring at him as he looks up and our eyes meet. I expect him to quickly turn away – I doubt he’d recognise me with my hair this long and without the trademark thick glasses that I wore until I was in my early twenties – but to my utter surprise he starts furiously waving at me. I look behind, expecting to see some leggy blonde, but no one behind me is paying him any attention. He points at me again and, thanks to the rum and Cokes I’ve been drinking, I’ve got the confidence to go over.

‘Hey,’ he says, beckoning me closer and shouting in my ear. ‘You’re here.’

He’s so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek when he talks. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to him; he’s certainly never been this friendly with me before.

He puts his hand on the small of my back, causing me to melt at his touch. I reach out to hold onto the table beside me to stop my legs from buckling. I hate that my teenage crush still has such a hold on me.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry?’ I say.

‘Come and meet Dodge,’ he says, ignoring my confusion.

He takes me by the hand, leading me to his group of friends, and places me in front of one who is dressed in a lime-green Borat mankini. Out of all the costumes that I’ve seen today, this is by the far the worst assault on my eyes. I try to ignore the hair and bits of flesh popping out from where they’re not supposed to.

Max whispers something into his friend’s ear and his friend looks me up and down; a huge grin appears on his face.

He comes towards me, holding out his hand, and I don’t know what to do other than to shake it.

The rest of Max’s friends seem to have taken great interest in what’s going on and they’ve formed a circle around me. A couple of them start to shout and sing the Wonder Woman theme tune; they’re smiling and clapping and, because it seems like a good idea after my rum and Cokes, I start to join in with them, putting my hands above my head and moving my hips to the music.

The chanting starts to change and it’s hard to make out what they are saying at first, but then I hear the word ‘kit’ and then ‘tits’. Why would they want me to strip? Unless? I suddenly stop, looking down at my outfit and thinking of Max’s reference to him thinking I wasn’t coming. The fact that they’re all men in their group. The fact that he didn’t make any reference to my name or knowing who I was. Oh God. I think he thinks I’m a stripper.

The man in the Borat mankini is nodding encouragingly at me, presumably waiting for the show to start, and I look over at Max in horror.

I watch his facial expression change from one of amusement to one of confusion.

‘Wait, I know you,’ he says, taking a step forward, his eyebrows furrowed. ‘Oh my God!’ he shouts. ‘Spider, it’s you!’

I cringe at the use of the nickname he used to call me. I haven’t heard it in years. When I was younger my glasses were really thick and, if you looked through the side of them, it often looked like I had multiple eyes. Add to that my tall, gangly limbs and my flat chest, and Max had once said that I looked like a spider, and the name stuck. Heartache and pain coming flooding back, of having the kind of teenage crush that consumed every fibre of my being, only for the object of my affection to see me as a spider.

Tears start to form as the memories come in thick and fast, Max’s friends all still calling for me to strip. It’s too much. I turn and push my way through the crowds on the dance floor and down the stairs towards the exit.

‘Spider, wait!’ I hear as Max thunders down the stairs after me.

I ignore him and find myself out on the pavement, wrapping my cape around me to counter the chill in the air.

‘Spider, please. I’m sorry,’ he says, turning me round gently from my elbow.

‘You thought I was a stripper?’ I say, putting my hands on my hips. My cape billows out behind me in the wind.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, taking me by the hand and walking me away from the bouncers who are trying not to laugh at us. ‘It was the outfit. My mate Jez said he’d booked one and then you were standing right in front of us and you were looking over and I just thought… Shit, I’m so sorry. But look at you, Spider, all grown up.’

I’m aware that he’s looking at my boobs, which are squeezing over the top of my corset, and my cape is no help; no matter how many times I try and wrap myself in it, it keeps flying back in the wind.

‘Um, Max,’ I say, waving and pointing at my face. His eyes flick up.

‘Oh yeah, sorry, it’s just. That outfit. Do you always dress…’

‘I went to Comic Con today.’

‘Comic what?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Are you here with friends?’

‘I was, but I lost them. I was looking for them when I bumped into you. But I think I’m just going to go home,’ I say, scanning the street for a cab.

Two bouncers struggle out of the club; they’re manhandling Max’s friend in the Borat mankini. They practically throw him into the arms of his waiting friends, who have scrambled out after him.

‘What the hell happened?’ asks Max.

‘Rodge’s just been sick on the dance floor.’

Max winces.

‘We’re going to take him home,’ says his friend.

‘I’ll help.’

‘Nah, mate, we’ve got him,’ the friend says, tapping Max’s chest. ‘You stay here.’

He gives me a big grin and then he helps prop Rodge up and they lead him down the street. It’s then that I see Rodge’s bare bottom.

‘Oh, that costume,’ I say, wishing I could unsee it. ‘Is it his birthday or something?’

‘His stag do.’

‘He came here on his stag do?’ I say, raising an eyebrow at the exterior of the cheesy club.

‘If you knew Dodge, you’d know it was pretty fitting. So, Spider—’

‘The name’s Ellie.’

He screws up his face. ‘Of course, Ellie. Shit, I’m supposed to be apologising and I’m digging myself a deeper hole. Look, I can’t remember the last time I ate, can I make it up to you by buying you some food?’

Max Voss has just asked me if he can buy me food? Didn’t I always fantasise about this moment? Play it cool, Ellie. ‘Why not,’ I say with a simple shrug.

‘Great,’ he says, turning and walking into the fried chicken shop next door. Not quite what I had in mind.

We order some chicken and chips and when it arrives Max carries the tray over to the red plastic chairs by the window. My skirt is so short that I’m concerned that my skin’s going to get so stuck to the plastic that it’ll peel off when I stand up.

‘Of all the people to bump into here, I never expected to see you in a club. Didn’t think it would be your kind of thing,’ he says, taking the cardboard boxes off the tray and handing one across to me.

‘Oh yeah, and what did you think would be my kind of thing?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, sci-fi conventions. You always were a geek,’ he says with a cheeky grin. I throw a chip at him and he laughs. ‘Ow, bloody hell, they’re hot.’

‘I know, I just burnt my fingers,’ I say, laughing.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I just meant that, you and Rach, well, you weren’t exactly known for going out. The only time I can remember is when I had to escort you both into a party because you were too scared to get out of the car.’

‘Well, I’ve got slightly more confident in the last twelve years,’ I say, cringing at the thought. Him walking us into the party wasn’t the embarrassing part…

He gestures briefly at my chest. ‘And I see you have no need for tissue paper any more.’

That was the embarrassing part.

I close my eyes and I’m instantly transported back there. Max had driven us to the cricket club and – when Rach and I had been too nervous to walk past a group of cool boys hanging around outside – Max had walked us over. Rach and I were just saying goodbye to Max when he pulled at what he thought was a rogue bit of tissue stuck to my top, only to pull out a long strip of toilet roll that had been stuffed inside my bra.

‘I never did thank you for that night, for not laughing at me.’

When Max had pulled the first bit of loo roll from my top, it had torn and left a part of it hanging out. Instead of laughing at me, like most teenage boys would do, he’d stepped forward and hugged me to discreetly pull the rest of it out. I might have been left with wonky boobs, but at least the whole school didn’t find out I’d stuffed my bra in the first place.

‘I did what anyone would have done.’

‘No, you didn’t. It was really kind.’

‘Well, you were always at our house and you became like a sister to me.’

‘Huh, and do you still see me as that now?’

His eyes keep flitting between my outfit and my face and I can see he’s still quite drunk by the way he’s swaying.

‘That outfit’s playing tricks with my mind and I don’t know what I’m thinking any more.’

My cheeks go red. Is he flirting with me?

‘I don’t think your girlfriend would like you saying things like that to me.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Sorry, I thought Rach said a few months ago that you were seeing someone and I just assumed.’

‘Oh yeah, didn’t work out. She moved abroad,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders. ‘We weren’t serious or anything.’

‘Oh right,’ I say, feeling a little awkward bringing it up. ‘So, what did you do for the stag do?’

‘Now, I can’t tell you that, but it’s been a long day, that’s for sure. We started drinking at eight in the morning.’

‘Bloody hell, how are you still going?’

‘Tactical nap at… an undisclosed location that had some comfy chairs. Plus, I switched to vodka Redbulls, so I might not sleep until next Tuesday, but I outlasted Dodgy Rodge, which is sort of an unwritten rule of a stag do.’

‘What are the other unwritten rules?’

‘I don’t think I can tell you them either.’

‘Right, I like the fact you’re creating an air of mystery for something that, to be honest, is pretty much about you guys getting as wasted as possible and going to strip clubs.’

Max laughs.

‘Were you always this funny, Spid— Ellie?’ he says quickly as I go to scowl.

‘Yeah, you were just too cool to talk to me.’ I pick up a chicken wing, planning to eat a small delicate bite, but I’ve well and truly got the booze munchies and I ravage it like a caveman.

‘That’s not true,’ he says, but we both know it is. Max was one of those kids at school – the ones that everyone worshipped, whereas Rach, his sister, and I… well, we’d struggle to find anyone that knew our names.

‘So, aren’t you like some kind of rocket scientist?’ he asks.

‘A data analyst, so not quite.’

‘Still impressive,’ he says with a head bob. He eats a chicken wing quicker than I did. ‘And do you live around here? I know Rach comes up to stay with you, but I thought you lived in Ealing or somewhere out that way.’

I’m slightly flattered that he knows where I used to live.

‘Yeah, I used to, but I got a new job and was finding the commute too long. I live in Clapham North now.’

‘Oh, not far from me. I’m in Brixton.’

Of course I know this fact.

‘Cool,’ I say.

We both look down at our food that we’ve decimated.

‘I guess we were hungry,’ I say.

‘Yeah. I needed that. So, um, did you want me to make sure you get home safely?’

‘Sure,’ I say, and as we leave to find a taxi I try and stop myself from having a mild panic attack. He’s just being polite and he’ll drop me off on his way past in a cab.

It turns out that Max wasn’t just being polite because he is now standing in my living room drinking a quick nightcap of limoncello, which was the only spirit I had in.

‘You know, it’s a really long way back to Brixton,’ says Max, stretching out his arms and faking a yawn.

‘Yeah,’ I say, agreeing, even though I know it’s a very short bus ride away. ‘You know, you can always stay here.’

‘Thanks, that would be great. Of course, I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

‘How perfectly gentlemanly of you,’ I say.

‘Naturally,’ he says, and he takes a step closer to me. My heart is pounding. He’s looking at me in the same way he was looking at his chicken before he devoured it.

‘But, you know, I think I’m going to have a little trouble getting this costume off.’

‘I could help you out of it.’

‘Well, that would be the gentlemanly thing to do.’

He nods.

‘It might be easier to do it in my bedroom.’

‘Of course,’ he says, holding his arm out as if to say lead the way. He follows me into my room and, as soon as the door slams shut, he launches himself at me, kissing me furiously.

We fall on to the bed and there are drunken hands everywhere running all over each other’s body. It’s not the most co-ordinated of efforts but there’s a kind of hot and heavy panting that comes from a lot of lust.

‘The costume,’ I pant.

‘Gotcha,’ says Max and he starts to wrestle the top, but it won’t budge. We sit upright and he gives the zip at the back another tug, but it’s stuck.

‘Hang on, let me have a go,’ I say and I put my arms round at the back, just as Max bends down to have a better look, and I whack him in the face with my elbow.

‘Ow, fuck,’ he says, cradling his eye.

‘Shit. Let me see, hold still,’ I say, leaping up.

He’s clutching at his face so tightly that I have to prise his fingers away to make sure there’s no blood spurting out of anywhere.

‘It doesn’t look like it’s bleeding,’ I say.

‘It fucking hurts, though.’

‘And your eye’s still there; that’s a good sign, right?’

I curse my Wonder Woman costume. I have dreamt about this moment for years and years and the one time I get Max in my bedroom I accidentally assault him.

‘I’ll go and get you some peas, OK? Stop the swelling.’

I hurry into the kitchen, find half a bag of peas and wrap them in a tea towel.

I make it back into my bedroom in record time but Max is passed out on the bed. Oh shit. I can feel my heart racing in a completely different way; now it’s in a sheer terror – what if he’s got a concussion?

I bend over to him to check his breathing and he’s lightly snoring. Do people snore if they’ve got a concussion? The clock on my desk reads 3.32 a.m.; it’s the kind of ridiculous situation where I’d usually phone Rach for advice, but I don’t think it’s quite the time to broach the subject of what I was doing in bed with her brother.

In a panic I go back into the kitchen and fill up a glass of water and I rush back to Max. I check his vital signs once more before I tip the water over his head, wincing as I do it.

‘What the…’ he shouts, sitting bolt upright and shaking the water off his face and out of his hair.

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ I say. ‘I thought you had concussion.’

‘No, I’m just drunk,’ he says, and he reaches out his hands and pulls me in, wrapping his soggy arms around me. He nuzzles into the back of my neck and goes back to sleep.

And I just lie there, in my Wonder Woman costume, trying to ignore the worry of the inevitable awkward morning after the night before, because I’ve got Max Voss in my bed and, even if it’s just for this moment, I feel like all my wildest dreams have come true.

Chapter 1

Four Years Later

‘Here we go,’ says Max, rummaging through my wardrobe. ‘Why don’t you wear this?’

I take off the dress I’m wearing, my bump feeling relieved to be free. It was definitely wishful thinking that, at this late stage in my pregnancy, I’d be able to slip into that dress.

I turn around to see what Max has found lurking in my wardrobe, to find him holding up a green catsuit with a big grin plastered on his face. ‘I’m pretty sure this is stretchy.’

‘Max Voss,’ I say in my best scolding voice, ‘that catsuit is what got us into this predicament in the first place, plus there’s absolutely no way this bump or these boobs are getting into that.’

There’s a flicker in his eyes and I know exactly what he’s thinking. I wouldn’t say that we’re a married couple with telepathy but I can tell in an instant when my husband’s horny.

‘Put it back in the wardrobe,’ I say firmly.

The catsuit belonged to the costume I’d made for our daughter Sasha’s first birthday. The theme was children’s books and I’d dressed as the Hungry Caterpillar, but the catsuit was more skin tight than I’d expected and I’d spent most of the party running away from The Gruffalo, aka my husband, until Sasha had gone to sleep and all the guests had left, and then the Gruffalo’d had his wicked way with me. Seven months later, we’re now expecting the Gruffalo’s child.

I’m actually a little flattered, though. When I was pregnant with Sasha we were at it like rabbits, but between moving house a few months ago, having a toddler and working demanding jobs, we haven’t been having a lot of sexy time lately.

‘I’m going to have to go in my underwear at this rate,’ I say, planting my hands on my hips.

‘Well, I for one would be very in favour of that,’ says Max, taking a step closer to me. ‘Are you sure we even have to go? Mum and Graham are looking after Sasha and we’ve got the whole house to ourselves. When does that happen?’

‘Never,’ I say, and he steps into touching distance. ‘But we’re going to these birthing classes.’

‘Why? We’ve done this before; we know what to do. I have to give you my hand to hold which you’ll crush, and I’ll tell you to breathe and you’ll tell me to fuck off.’

I pull a face.

‘That’s why we’re going this time, so that it’ll be different.’

‘Good, I’m looking forward to not having to have my hand X-rayed for fractures after.’

He leans over and gives me a kiss. My arms instinctively wrap around him and I kiss him back.

‘No, no, no,’ I say, pushing him gently away even though my heart’s racing furiously. ‘We don’t have time.’

‘Come on, that was at least a seven kiss.’

Max and I have this game that we play where we rate kisses out of ten, usually when we’re watching a film or TV programme. I don’t remember how it started, but pretty much only Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams in The Notebook have been awarded a perfect ten by both of us. Not that Max has sat through the whole film, but I did make him watch that kiss in the rain.

‘I dunno, I reckon that was only a five,’ I say, lying. Usually seven and above kisses end in sex and we really don’t have time for that.

‘Gee, thanks, and there was me trying to spice up our marriage a little,’ he says, taking the piss out of an article I was reading on my phone this morning.

‘I promise, there’ll be plenty of time for that before the baby arrives and I’m on maternity leave. We can do all the spicing, and role play, and whatever else they suggested then. Anything to make this baby come along quicker.’

I put on the very first dress I tried on and check myself out in the mirror, still not satisfied. ‘Maybe I should try and find some leggings and a tunic?’

‘If we don’t have time to have sex, you don’t have time to change again. Plus, it’s boiling outside and you’ll roast.’

I laugh. He’s right.

‘OK, OK.’

‘I don’t know why you’re so worked up about this, anyway,’ he says, shoving a black v-neck T-shirt on. Men have it so easy with clothes. ‘You do realise that you’ve already given birth and done these classes before.’

I only have to raise my eyebrows and tut. My raging pregnancy hormones are not to be messed with at the moment.

‘Yes, but we all know it’s not actually about the course. I want to find mums I can hang out with here and I don’t think it’ll be a bad thing for you to have some local dad friends.’

‘I don’t think I want to be friends with other “dads”,’ he says, pulling a face and doing air quotes.

‘You know they’re just men who happen to have a child, like you,’ I say, laughing. Why is it men never feel the pressure to make friends the same way women do? ‘Plus, you need more friends; you hardly see anything of Owen any more.’

‘That’s because he’s sowing his wild oats now that he and Sarah have split up.’

We walk out of the bedroom and I try not to notice the worn floral carpet underfoot as I plod down the stairs. I equally try and ignore the textured pink stripy wallpaper covering the walls, or the glossy pink banister, and the seascape mural that covers an entire wall of the hallway downstairs. In fact, I’ve got quite good at blocking out the decorative features that the previous owners, who seemed to be allergic to taste, had installed.

When we outgrew our tiny flat in London, Max and I decided to move to our hometown of Fleet, which was still commutable to London but conveniently close to our parents. To get the type of house we wanted within our budget – where we wouldn’t be mortgaged to the hilt and have to sell both our kidneys and probably any future children – we’d bought one that was a bit of a ‘project’. What we’d really love to have done was gut the whole house and have a fancy renovation with a big open-plan living space, big windows and bi-fold doors, but there’s no way that we can afford that. Instead we drew up a list of all the cosmetic bits that could make the house look less like an experimental art exhibit. Only we moved in three months ago and I’m still waiting for the enthusiastic DIY-er that Max turned into when we viewed the house to make another appearance.

I sigh, looking up at the seascape that I hate so much.

‘I’ll get to it soon,’ says Max, grimacing. ‘You know, when work calms down a bit.’

He’s been working ridiculously long hours for the last month, often catching the train into London at the crack of dawn and arriving home late at night.

‘I’d forgotten what it’s like to leave the house without Sasha – look at us, just breezing out the door,’ says Max.

‘I know, no scrambling round to find shoes and coats and look! I’m using a tiny handbag for the first time in for ever,’ I say, slipping it over my shoulder.

Max chuckles as he opens the door and we head outside. ‘You know, this has definitely been the best bit of moving back home, having the grandmas around to babysit.’

‘We didn’t move back to Fleet just for that.’

‘I know, but isn’t it a bloody brilliant upside? Two sets of babysitters nearby.’

‘Well, one set. You know my parents are never here with all their cruises,’ I say, climbing into the car. My parents downsized into a tiny flat above a fish and chip shop a couple of years ago, and since then have been spending all the money they made from selling their first and only house – bought in the 1980s – on cruises around the world.

‘When do they get back from this one?’

‘In about five weeks. Don’t worry, I’ve made sure they’re going to be back in plenty of time for this one,’ I say, patting my bump.

‘I think we’re going to need all the help we can get,’ says Max, starting the car engine.

‘So, today, with the people,’ I say, choosing my words carefully, ‘can you, um, just tone things down a little – you know, with the jokes?’

Max stops reversing the car and snaps his head back at me. Usually Max makes an excellent first impression, but when it comes to talking about female anatomy, he seems to turn into a teenage boy making inappropriate jokes.

‘Tone it down?’ he says, narrowing his eyes.

‘Yeah, you know… perhaps not make the jokes you did last time. The one about the stitches.’

‘What? The guys totally laughed their arses off.’

‘The guys might have done, but the girls didn’t. We didn’t even meet for a pre-baby coffee in the end. I’m sure it wasn’t all about that joke, but I just think we should do everything we can to make friends. Just try to fight the instinct to be funny.’

‘OK, one boring bastard coming up,’ he says.

‘Oh no, you’ve got to be interesting,’ I say, as he pulls off the drive. ‘They’ve got to like you. Women judge their friends on what men they pick to be their husbands.’

‘Then you will have absolutely nothing to worry about,’ he says. ‘I can charm anyone.’

I rub my sweaty hands on my thighs hoping that he’s right. Our move to Fleet hasn’t exactly been as I pictured it, and it would be nice for something to finally go our way, and a ready-made friendship group could be just it.

‘Right then, everyone,’ says Mary, the course leader, standing in front of the class. ‘I’m glad that you’re all settled in nicely. It’s my job to hopefully ease any of those fears and apprehensions that you might have about the next few months of your life as you transition into your new role as parents.’

It’s a good job that the plastic chairs we’re sat on are so ridiculously uncomfortable or else her soft, soothing tones would send me right off to sleep. Although at seven months pregnant, pretty much any sitting down for more than ten minutes has me nodding off. Perhaps that’s why they’ve kept the chairs of torture.

Mary starts to talk about the importance of positive thoughts and I start to look around at my potential new BFFs. Discounting the husbands, there are four other women. There’s a woman who looks like she’s impersonating a royal with her perfectly styled hair, smart tailored dress and sensible court shoes; she is sat on a plump cushion, which I’m very jealous of. Another with cascading blonde curls who’s got her notepad out and is studiously making notes. One with long brown hair and a gorgeous maternity dress, who looks absolutely terrified. And finally the woman sat beside me, with a short blonde bob, who catches me looking and gives me a smile in return.

‘Now,’ says Mary, ‘you’re not far off the end of your pregnancy journey, and you’ve got so much to look forward to.’

‘Yes, like delivering a watermelon out of your vagina,’ says the woman with the blonde bob.

Her husband groans.

‘What? We’re all thinking it and it’s terrifying,’ she says, and I give her a nod in solidarity before we turn our attention back to Mary.

‘Yes, it’s true that birth can seem very daunting, but we will come to that. By the end of these sessions, you’ll realise that no matter how big the watermelon is – and sometimes the watermelon can be very big – your body will be able to cope. In fact, last month one of our course members gave birth to a ten-pound baby,’ she says, and the woman next to me almost shrieks in horror.

‘Who was that, Mary?’ asks the smartly dressed woman.

‘Ah, Anneka, I forgot that you took last month’s class too.’ That at least explains how she knew to bring a cushion. ‘It was Aimee with the long blonde hair.’

‘Oh,’ Anneka says, nodding her head.

‘Now, before we get into all the serious stuff, I thought that it might be quite fun to do an ice-breaker,’ says Mary, getting us back on track.

The woman with the blonde bob next to me mutters what sounds like ‘FML’ under her breath.

‘I’m going to give you all a pack of ten different coloured bits of wool, which are all different lengths. You’ll also see that around the walls there are cards with writing on them, like length of cervix when fully dilated, length of bump at full term, and what you’ve got to do is match the different lengths of wool with the cards. Don’t forget the idea is to talk as you go round and discuss it with your fellow classmates,’ says Mary, handing out our packets of cut string.

I’m sorting through the strands of wool when Max holds one up and looks at it.

‘Length of my penis,’ he says with a grin.

‘Firstly, what did we say about anatomy jokes, and secondly,’ I say, taking hold of his piece of string and dangling it in front of his eyes, ‘only in your dreams.’

‘Ouch,’ he says, laughing and snatching it back.

There’s an uneasy scraping of chairs as people get up and walk about.

I separate from Max and start looking at the card closest to me. Circumference of average baby’s head during birth. I wince. Despite the fact I’ve already gone through this once, I tried my best to block out the memories of it.

‘Do you reckon any of this wool is big enough to wrap around our necks?’ says the woman, who was sitting next to me, attempting to do it. ‘Sorry if that was really bad taste; I pathologically hate ice-breakers.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I’m Ellie.’

‘Helen.’ She turns to read the card and pulls a face. ‘You know there have got to be better ways to make friends with other mums-to-be. You know, some kind of Tinder for pregnant people. That way we could swipe left and right and select our friends without having to be traumatised for the rest of our pregnancy.’

‘Probably pretty niche, isn’t it, in Fleet?’ I say, laughing. ‘Plus, what if people lied on their profiles? At least this way you get to vet them.’

‘True,’ says Helen, nodding. ‘And I bet you’d get pervy men catfishing. You know, ones who have a thing for pregnant women.’

‘Do men have a thing for pregnant women?’

Helen nods again. ‘I bet they do.’

The woman in the royal blue dress walks up to us and has a quick read of the card on the wall before she looks us up and down and then breaks into a polite smile. ‘So, November babies, huh?’ she says, pointing at the bumps. ‘When are you due?’

I look at her incredibly neat bump that almost looks like she’s just shoved a beach ball up her dress.

‘Fourth,’ says Helen.

‘Third for me,’ I say.

‘Oh, that woman over there is due on the fifth. Isn’t it an amazing coincidence that you’re all due around the same time?’

‘I know,’ says Helen. ‘It’s like there’s some kind of romantic day that happens in February that results in all these early November babies.’

We all giggle, even though I know mine was more to do with Sasha’s birthday party on 12 February rather than Valentine’s Day.

‘I’m Anneka,’ says the woman, and Helen and I introduce ourselves.

‘When are you due, Anneka,’ I ask.

‘Twenty-fifth of October, although I’m having a C-section the week before.’

‘How are you smaller not bigger than us?’ asks Helen.

‘My gynaecologist says that I haven’t put on one pound of non-baby weight.’

‘Sod that. If I’m not allowed gin for nine months I’m damn well eating cake,’ says Helen.

‘Me too,’ I say.

‘Gestational diabetes is a real thing you know,’ Anneka says horrified.

‘Oh, so you’ll be the first one out of us to have the baby then,’ I say, trying not to spoil the group harmony I’m so desperate to create.

‘I guess you’ve saved us from any awful ice-breaking games of guessing who’s going to be the first to have their baby,’ says Helen.

‘Well, you never know. I did one of these classes last month and one woman went into labour just after the class, at thirty-two weeks,’ says Anneka.

‘Was the baby OK?’ I shudder at the thought.

‘Oh yes. It turns out that there had been a bit of a miscalculation of the dates. But mother and baby are doing fine – or at least as fine as you can be after your boyfriend walks out when he realises that he can’t be the father of the baby.’

‘Crikey. Sounds a bit dramatic.’

‘I know, if only Jeremy Kyle was still on air, they would have been a shoo-in for the show.’

‘So how come you’re doing this group twice?’ I ask.

‘Because my baby is due late October, it straddled the two groups, so I thought I’d do both and pick which group I preferred.’

‘And how are we doing compared to the last group?’ asks Helen.

‘Gosh, they weren’t my type of people at all. Didn’t have a single thing in common, and did I mention the whole Baby Daddy scandal?’ she says, coming across as a bit of a snob. ‘Despite that, I’m sure I would have picked your group as you all seem lovely.’

‘Hmm,’ I say, not knowing quite what to make of her.

‘I’m going to go and talk to the other ladies over there.’

She points at the other two members of the group who are chatting away.

‘FYI,’ says Anneka, ‘the string you were going to use here for the baby’s head is actually the length of your birth canal. Try this one instead,’ she says, selecting one of the larger lengths of wool in her pack.

I gasp in horror at the length of it as she pins it up.

‘I think I preferred it when I only thought it was a watermelon coming out,’ says Helen. ‘Isn’t this class supposed to ease our tensions, not scare us silly?’

‘I know. I’ve actually been through this all before with my little girl, but I think there are some things I’d rather not know.’

‘Come on, ladies, rotate, rotate,’ says Mary, clapping her hands.

‘How much more have we got of this?’ says Helen, raising her eyebrows as she goes off and talks to one of the husbands who’s looking cluelessly at another card.

I start to relax, feeling like this whole making friends malarkey might not be so hard after all.

By the time the intensive course draws to a close I’ve met all the other couples. I’ve particularly warmed to Helen with her sharp wit, and Polly reminded me of myself in my first pregnancy – like a rabbit caught in headlights. Anneka took a shine to Max and his charming personality, and despite his risqué jokes she still prefers us to her previous group. Then there’s Nina with the cascading curls who’s funny and friendly.

‘You see,’ says Max, as we climb back in the car, twenty minutes later. ‘That went pretty well. And I wasn’t embarrassing and at least I showed up, unlike Anneka’s husband, what’s his name?’

‘George… I think he went last month with her and what do you mean you weren’t embarrassing? At one point you licked the poo from the nappy.’

‘I didn’t lick it; I licked my finger, which it had leaked on, and it was Nutella. But despite that, I think everyone liked me and you, so that’s the main thing, right?’

‘Yep, I guess so.’

We all swapped numbers after the session and Anneka had put us all in a WhatsApp group, and set up one for the men, before we’d even made it to the car.

‘See, I told you there was nothing to worry about, and, as Mary says, you’ve got a couple of months to sit back and chill out before the little one arrives.’

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I say, laughing. ‘I’m going to still be working, even if it is from home.’

‘Yeah, yeah, you’re going to be working in your PJs on the sofa with This Morning on in the background,’ he says, taking the mickey. ‘Plus, you’ve only got another month of it, then you get a whole year off,’ he says.

‘You know maternity leave isn’t actually a holiday, right?’

‘Come on, this new little baby will be as easy-going as Sasha.’

I splutter a laugh. ‘Sasha, easy-going?’

‘Yeah, she is when I have her.’

‘And how often do you look after her alone?’ I say, meaning it as a joke, but it comes out a bit sarcastic.

‘I’d take her more, but you always want to do things as a family at the weekend.’

‘Yeah, because I want to see you too,’ I say, trying to soften the mood. ‘It’s all going to be fine, isn’t it?’

‘Relax, Ellie,’ says Max, starting to mimic Mary’s dulcet tones. ‘Your last two and a half months of pregnancy are going to be completely calm and stress-free, I’ll make sure of it.’

I laugh and hope that he’s right.

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