Be Careful What You Hear Read Free Page B

woollen top and skirt had been around since the
nineteen nineties. I didn’t normally wear them, but I’d still not
quite lost all my weight after the pregnancy, and the fashion in
the late 1990s was a bit baggier. ‘It’s good to see you happy,
Georgina.’
    ‘In no small
part down to you.’
    Sophie sipped
at her coffee, seemingly embarrassed by the compliment. But she had
no right to be. In those first four months after Grace arrived,
Sophie had been a massive support – not just for Grace and me, but
also James. Sophie and James were old school friends – they’d been
through the school system together in Islington, North London, from
four years old until eighteen during the nineteen eighties and
early nineties. Their families had been close for a time too, as
their mothers knew one another from night school. They’d even
holidayed together as families during their youth, and Sophie had
delighted in pulling out a photo of a six year old James wearing
swimming trunks and beaming at the camera, huge vanilla ice cream
in hand and smeared around his mouth.
    They’d lost
touch after going to university, but had been reunited again at the
first meeting of our antenatal group. Sophie and her husband,
Michael, had been at the same early stage of pregnancy as us. We
hit it off as a foursome straight away, and soon began socialising
outside of the official group – visiting each other’s homes, going
out for coffees, planning for the arrival of our babies.
    And then, at
twenty-one weeks, Sophie miscarried.
    They were, of
course, devastated at the loss of their first child. Not just the
loss of the baby, but the future that they had mapped out ahead of
them. James and I were naturally cautious people, and had
restrained ourselves from buying too much baby paraphernalia, in
case it tempted fate. We still didn’t have a pram, or a cot, and we
hadn’t prepared the house in any way for an impending arrival. The
most we had done was to shop around, considering what we might buy.
But Sophie and Michael had gone all out. The top of the range
pram/pushchair combo was already bought and assembled, the spare
room was filled with unopened packs of nappies, blankets, clothes
and cuddly toys, and the nursery was complete.
    While Michael
closed up on his grief, Sophie threw herself into being my new best
friend. And when Grace arrived, and I began to sink into
depression, she kept things afloat. She took Grace out for walks,
helped with our meals, comforted me, and supported James by doing
errands such as shopping for essential supplies. Her self-employed
career allowed her to be there for me in a way that she otherwise
wouldn’t have been able to be. She ran a successful sewing website
and blog, and made money from selling patterns and running classes,
as well as bringing in income via advertising on her site and
referrals to companies that provided fabric and other things for
her creations. She had built up a wonderful business over the
years, backed by a dedicated following – her posts to Instagram were devoured by her followers, and there would be
hundreds of responses within an hour or so, not to mention even
more “likes” and “shares”. She’d never told me how much money she
made from the business, and I would certainly never ask, but once
she did mention that it was more than she had earned in her
previous role as a communications officer for a major clothing
company.
    My mother and
father had passed away five and three years ago respectively, and
James’ parents now lived in Scotland, so Sophie’s availability and
unstinting support filled a gaping hole in my support network.
    ‘Before I
forget,’ Sophie said. ‘The meal next week, I’m afraid we’re going
to have to cancel. Michael’s got a deadline at work, so he needs to
go into the office. Sorry.’ She smiled apologetically. We’d
arranged to go for lunch in town a week on Saturday, to a new
vegetarian restaurant that had been getting rave reviews –