It Happened at Cafe Nix

Stand and Deliver

Stand and Deliver

Ros Baxter

A story about lasagne, handcuffs and compression knickers.

Stand and deliver is a “what happened next” story that shows us things don’t get any less complicated for Lola and Wayne from Lingerie for Felons once step-kids and new babies enter the fray.

“You aren’t fat,” Wayne insisted, swallowing hard on an enormous mouthful of lasagne, his huge craggy face crinkling up the corners the way it always did when he thought something I said was confusing but amusing. “You’re pregnant.”

“Shhh,” I hissed at him, as Eve came walking back towards us. “You know I don’t want her to catch any of my body crap.”

“It’s not contagious,” Wayne laughed, leaning forward to kiss my enormous belly. “Just irrational. You should know that, being a mathematician and all.”

Wayne looked up at the thirteen year old coming towards us, delicately balancing a hot chocolate fudge sundae and a plate of beer-battered fries. “I think we’re safe, Rocket,” he laughed, standing up to pull out the chair for his stepdaughter. “Not hungry today, darlin’?’ he asked her, giving her the Big Smile that still made me catch my breath. Even when I wanted to rip his heart out and stomp on his body. Like I did most of the time right now. Not because he’d done anything wrong. Just because he could go through life happy, relaxed and not vomiting in public places.

“Not really,” Eve grinned back. “That poor waitress is run off her feet, it’s fun to help.” She examined the fries and sundae critically. “It’s so hard to decide.”

“I know, right?” Wayne nodded enthusiastically, squeezing my hand under the table. “You eat the sundae first, fries go cold. You eat the fries first, sundae melts.” He sighed dramatically, and he could have been teasing except I knew he took his food as seriously as my daughter did. “You shoulda staged, love. I’ve told you before. There’s no shame in ordering two or three times to get the scheduling right.”

I wanted to kick them both. I love food too. Usually. Just not right now.

Or for the last nine months, actually.

The thought of food made me want to cry, puke and (sometimes) sneeze. I was through the worst of the vomiting, but the low-level nausea that persisted ate away at my joy of life in ways I imagined was even less sexy than the way my body had been taken over by a baby elephant. I eyed Wayne off the way I’d been doing quite a bit lately, taking in the sheer proportion of him. Birthing Eve had been the hardest, scariest, most painful thing I’d ever done. Birthing this man’s progeny was going to make that look like a day trip to the Met.

He should live at the top of a beanstalk.

I loved him, but now that I was days away from going Round Two with the labour suite, I was thinking I should have picked someone smaller, slighter, to fall madly in love with, marry and play happy families. I was definitely going to advise Eve to consider head size, for example, when selecting a potential life partner. One look at Wayne’s huge, handsome head made my knees turn to water. I closed my eyes as I remembered the shocked “O” the radiographer’s mouth had formed as she had studied my last ultrasound and started talking up the benefits of caesarean section.

Fuck, I was toast.

I opened my eyes and tried to smile at the two of them as I recited my inner mantra.

You are in Sydney. The sun is shining. You wanted your baby to be born here.

Smile, you ungrateful bitch.