Page 3 of From LA to London, With Love

“Sorry about that. We had an emergency nappy change just as we were leaving. But we’re here now!”

Cynthia ushered us inside.

“Thanks so much for having us over.”

“It’s my pleasure.” The unconvincing smile reappeared.

I followed Cynthia down the long hallway, wracking my brains for something to say. I was usually a decent conversationalist, but every time I hung out with the mothers’ group, I struggled. Babies, Sophie, just talk about babies—that’s what we all have in common.

“How’s Harriet?” I smiled at Cynthia.

“She’s good, although I think she likes Marine more than me.” Cynthia rolled her eyes.

I’d really taken to Marine, Cynthia’s French nanny, the few times I’d met her. Marine seemed genuinely fond of Harriet, and the feeling was mutual. In fact, it was a shame Marine wasn’t part of the mothers’ group.

Cynthia’s voice lowered. “You know, I’ve actually been thinking of getting rid of her and getting another one that Harriet’s less attached to.”

My heart plummeted. Poor Marine. And poor Harriet. Now, I really had no idea what to say. Relief washed over me when I realized Cynthia was ushering us into her living room, and so no response was necessary.

Bec, one of the other mothers, was gesturing wildly as we walked in, clearly part way through a dramatic retelling. I smiled at her captivated audience and waved hello, but they didn’t seem to notice me. Heat crept into my cheeks. I plonked Elliot and his rattle next to the gaggle of babies on the rug and helped myself to some tea. On the plus side, at least I didn’t need to make any more awkward small talk while Bec was holding court.

“And then, he put the nappy on backwards and dressed her in green trousers that clashed with the red top she was wearing. The poor thing looked horrific!” It was clear from Bec’s intonation that the subpar fashion choice was a much more serious crime than the incorrect nappy application.

We all shook our heads in sympathy.

I took a seat on an overstuffed floral armchair, shifting my weight around, trying to get comfortable. The floral furniture, combined with the lace curtains, rose-colored walls, and pink rug—currently covered in babies—created a “girly meets grandma” vibe. It was most definitely not my cup of tea, I thought, as I sipped Earl Grey out of a delicate porcelain cup.

It quickly became apparent the mums were taking turns regaling each other with tales of their husbands’ various failings. These failings seemed to fall into two main categories—either not helping enough with the baby, or trying to help and messing things up. This was one of their favorite topics of conversation, and not one I could contribute to, thanks to my lack of a key ingredient—a husband.

In contrast to the women sitting sedately around the edge of the room, there was chaos on the pink rug in the center. The babies were sucking on toys, grabbing at each other, or trying to eat their feet—-in some cases, all of the above. Elliot, hurling his rattle around with great determination, stood out in his plain Marks & Spencer’s onesie. The other babies were dressed in designer baby wear—the girls in dresses, sporting headbands with enormous flowers, the boys in various stiff-looking trousers, paired with braces, shirts and/or shoes. All very cute, but not exactly practical or comfortable.

A whimper broke my thoughts.

Daphne’s headband with the fake pink rose had fallen over her eyes, blinding her. She writhed around on the floor, crying, and nearly took Elliot out with a kick. Her mother, Bec, who only moments ago had been complaining about her husband not properly supervising Daphne, was oblivious to Daphne’s plight. I leaned over, pulled the headband up, and was rewarded with a relieved gummy smile. Daphne returned to sucking her thumb.

“Sophie.” Cynthia turned to me, looking curious, and my heart sank. “I hope you don’t mind me asking... ”

Oh boy. I braced myself. In my experience, people only said that before asking questions I did mind them asking.

“You look so exotic. What’s your background?”

I fought back a sigh. I’d been asked this question so many times, but it never stopped being irritating. It was amazing how many people found my appearance—brown hair, eyes, and skin, and features they couldn’t immediately attribute to a particular race—deeply confusing and felt the need to clarify my heritage so they could work out how I fit into the world.

At least she didn’t ask where I was from, and then when I responded “London,” ask where I was really from. Or what are you? That really pissed me off.

“My dad is Indian, and my mum is white.” I gave a forced smile.

Cynthia’s features softened. “Ah, that explains it. Mixed-race people are always so beautiful.”

Again, nothing I hadn’t heard before, but it still made me shift uncomfortably. For the first time since I’d joined the mothers’ group, I wished the conversation would turn back to hopeless husbands. I knew she meant it as a compliment, but it never felt like a compliment. It just made me feel self-conscious and othered.

“And what about Elliot? He has such a lovely skin color. What race is his dad? I always thought it would be so cute to have a mixed-race baby.” Cynthia peered approvingly at Elliot, who was now sucking on Daphne’s fake rose. “His skin looks a little lighter than yours? And his hair as well?”

Heat rushed to my face. I was used to people questioning me about my heritage, but I wasn’t prepared for them to start on Elliot. He was only six months old, for god’s sake. I’d always found the Western obsession with mixed-race babies disturbing, but having my own child being subjected to scrutiny over his heritage really brought home how screwed up it was.

Cynthia, seemingly oblivious to my reaction, continued. “If I’d done IVF by myself, I would have probably picked out a Black sperm donor. Or maybe a Vietnamese one. Ohhh, or a South Korean one could be nice.”

Oh. My. God. She sounded like she was trying to decide what to order for dinner on Uber Eats. What the hell?