“Oh, my God!”

I looked up at Phoebe from where I was trying to fit a load of the freshly delivered button-holes and bouquets into our special chiller cabinet, “What?”

“My water just broke.” She wailed.

I stared at her. No way. This couldn’t be happening. “What?” I repeated. Yes. I know I’d heard her perfectly well but I really didn’t want her to have just said that and I was stalling.

“MY WATER JUST BROKE!” She screamed at me at the top of her voice, “DO SOMETHING ZOE!”

I panicked. Running to the bottom of the stairs, I called for back-up “DYLAN!” I yelled, “I NEED YOU!”

He came belting down the stairs, “What?” he asked, his massive blue-green eyes full of fear, “Are we being held up?”

I shook my head, wondering what sort of a person would hold up a wedding planner business. “Phoebe’s gone into labour!” I shouted, even though we were now practically nose-to-nose, “Do something!”

He looked at me as if I was quite mad. Pulling out his mobile phone he calmly dialled 999, “Ambulance, please.” He said politely as I panted next to him, a total sweaty mess. Of course. I could have done that…

He ended the call and smiled at me, “We just have to keep her calm and safe while we wait.” He said.

Cool…

Only it wasn’t cool. The baby wasn’t prepared to wait for the emergency services. She was as impatient as her mother and she wanted out of that cosy space.

“Oh, God.” Phoebe whimpered, “I need to push.”

“Oh, my God.” I whimpered, “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Oh, God.” Dylan whimpered, “I’m not good with girl-parts.”

“Well, I can’t do it.” I said.

Phoebe looked at the pair of us, hatred for our patheticness oozing out of every pore, “Please.” She said, “Just pretend I’m your pet cat or something.”

Dylan nodded resolutely, “I can do that.” He said bravely. He turned to me, “Zoe.” He said, “put a couple of towels or something under her while I go and wash my hands.”

I nodded. Running around like a headless chicken for a good minute, I finally found something that would suffice as ‘a couple of towels or something’ and Dylan re-appeared wearing a clean apron (I know – he really was amazing). He’d discarded his suit jacket and had rolled up his sleeves and he was talking to someone on FaceTime, “They haven’t turned up yet,” he was saying, “And the baby is definitely crowning.”

How did he even know what he was talking about? I had no idea what he was talking about.

The person on the other end of the phone clearly did though, “Okay, sweetie,” she said, “Ask Phoebe if she went to classes and learned how to breathe through the pain.”

Phoebe was listening as intently to the phone conversation as Dylan and I and she nodded, “Yes,” she panted, “I did.”

“Good. Hello Phoebe, I’m Harriet – I’m Dylan’s mum and I’m also a midwife. I want you to breathe slowly and deeply through your nose…”

I tuned out a bit. I felt nauseous enough and seeing Phoebe, propped on cushions on the floor with only a towel covering her modesty but with her legs really wide apart was making me feel even worse. I had no idea how Dylan was coping.

“Dylan,” Harriet said, “What’s happening downstairs?”

Dylan lifted the towel, “Oh, God.” He whimpered again, “Baby’s a little further out. Do I have to touch anything?”

His mother chuckled, “Turn the camera around, sweetie,” she said, “I’ll take a quick look.”

We all waited as he turned the camera around and let his mother see Phoebe’s girl-parts. “Not yet,” she said, “You’re doing really well, Phoebe.”

Phoebe made a sound that was barely human.

I ran to the toilet.