The Three of U.S.: A New Life in New York. Peter Godwin

the sales of your book on a daily basis – an agonizing process for us so-called ‘mid-list’ authors. Customers may also air their own reviews and bestow you with a star rating. Today my latest book, Mukiwa, a memoir of growing up in Africa, is the 20,181st best-selling book in American cyberspace.

      While online I collect an e-mail from Amazon.com. It is an advertorial plugging new books on the subject of writing. I must have signed up for this electronic junk e-mail sometime by failing to tick the box declining it. I am very taken with an account by the children’s writer, Maurice Sendak, best known for his fantastically fuzzy Wild Things, who says he’s ‘never spent less than two years on the text of one of his picture books, even though each of them is approximately 380 words long’.

      Two years to do the words alone. All 380 of them. By my calculations he’s polishing off 190 words a year. That’s fifteen words a month. Say, a bon mot every couple of days, on average.

      Go, Maurice! That’s my man.

      Sunday, 14 June Joanna

      Having checked in with my sister first, who assures me our mother is ‘getting used to the idea’, I phone Yorkshire again, hoping that the excitement of a first grandchild will have dimmed her moral disquiet.

      ‘How are you? Oh, and the baby of course?’ she asks, in tones which clearly suggest she’s been got at by both my father and sister.

      ‘We’re fine,’ I say, giving Peter a thumbs up.

      ‘Well, I’ve stopped knitting blankets for Bosnian babies,’ she says, sounding almost cheerful. ‘Do you have any thoughts on what colours you’d like?’

      Wednesday, 17 June Peter

      Margarita has come to clean, and I am tapping at my keyboard, trying to stay out of the way of her vacuum’s mighty vortex, when a shadow crosses the light, and she approaches, clucking disapproval.

      ‘Mr Peter, Mr Peter, no thank you,’ she admonishes and, rather than feeling like her employer, I feel like a child who is about to be bawled out by a kindergarten teacher. In her pink dayglo glove she is clutching a pile of discarded mail, which she has retrieved from one of our waste bins. ‘This, Mr Peter, no good. Very bad. No thank you.’

      I look down at my desk, inexplicably ashamed of myself, though I am not sure what I have done wrong.

      ‘Do like this,’ she says, and begins to tear up the old press releases and credit card offers, and other detritus of the junk mail age, into smaller and smaller pieces. Then she deposits them in the bin bag with a flourish so that their individual shards scatter, making it impossible to reconstruct them. I am still uncertain of our sin, though I am beginning to suspect we have breached one of New York’s arcane recycling regulations.

      ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why must we tear up all our old mail?’

      ‘Why?’ She looks at me as though I am truly to be pitied. ‘Because …’ she struggles to find the word in her slowly improving English vocabulary. ‘Because is dangerous.’ And with that she retrieves some of the intact mail and pretends to be surreptitiously reading it, as though she is a spy. ‘You see?’ she asks. ‘Is dangerous.’

      I try to explain that we couldn’t care less if strangers wish to peruse our old mail, but Margarita is unmoved and continues laboriously ripping up the letters. And in the end I cannot bear to witness this time-wasting exercise and I join her at the dining-room table tearing up inconsequential paper. Which is where we are found when Joanna returns from having her hair blow-dried.

      Thursday, 18 June Joanna

      I am only nine weeks pregnant and already my wardrobe doesn’t fit. This seems especially alarming because as I was flicking through Sheila Kitzinger’s Complete Book of Pregnancy this morning I noticed the entry for sixteen weeks: ‘Your waistline will be starting to disappear.’

      It has already disappeared, completely. I begin a listless hunt through my wardrobe only to find myself, incredibly, fantasizing about wearing a comfortable turquoise smock.

      Kelly has given me a book called Pregnancy Chic. Ostensibly a fashion guide, it is actually a vehicle to push leggings and spinnaker-shaped T-shirts manufactured by the authors. I can’t work out what’s worse, the jaunty illustrations of smiling women in caftans or the advice itself, which seems to concentrate largely on the many different things you can do with a scarf.

      ‘Medium square: looks great tied loosely around your neck or shoulders over a tunic or a sweater! Pocket square: tied neckerchief-style with a tunic or button-down shirt! Oblong: looks best with a solid tunic, sweater or cardigan!’

      I don’t want to wear a neckerchief-style scarf, I want to be able to fit back into my Joseph bootleg pants, of which I have four pairs, and the size 4 jeans I bought in the Boston Banana Republic after losing half a stone covering the Louise Woodward trial.

      I e-mail Jane in London, whom I cannot remember looking even vaguely pregnant during her ninth months carrying William. She sends back an encouraging missive, which she entitles, ‘Sick Male Notions of Female Attractiveness’. ‘Don’t worry about buying maternity wear, squeeze into your old stuff and wear long jackets. Clothes are the least of your worries. If you haven’t done so already, make sure you book a maternity nurse asap. All the best ones get booked fast and you won’t get through the nights without one.’

      Saturday, 20 June Peter

      216 days to B-Day.

      I flop down on our vast bed for an afternoon nap after another noisy night of meat deliveries. It is the biggest bed I have ever slept in, a Serta Perfect Sleeper with an orthopaedic California King Sized mattress, six foot six inches wide, topped with a soft quilted upper lining, to give you the best of both worlds: firm support for your back and an inch of surface softness to snuggle into. With such vast dimensions, the California King Size presents various serious engineering problems, so, for example, our box spring base is in two halves, with extra legs in the middle of the bed to keep it from sagging. Of course, none of our English linen fits.

      Our new bed feels especially luxurious given that for our first few days in New York we slept on a mustard-coloured sleeping Lilo that I had acquired at The Leading Edge in Whiteleys Mall on Queensway and shipped over with us on the QE2. The sleeping Lilo, according to The Leading Edge, which specializes in the latest gadgetry, was a breakthrough in somniac science, easy to store and transport, but with its own system of internal baffles, providing all the comfort of a real bed. Best of all, by simply altering the amount you inflated it, it could simulate a soft, fluffy mattress or deliver firmer support. In reality we found that every time one of us shifted weight the other was bobbed up on a swell of air pressure – it was like trying to share a trampoline.

      The Leading Edge Lilo came complete with a foot pump and hose attachment. But it also came with a slow and unlocatable leak. Before we retired for the night, I would tread-pump the Lilo to full pressure. It would then slowly deflate until about two hours later, Joanna, a lighter sleeper than me, would awaken to the ungiving pressure of the parquet floor. She would elbow me and I would get up, attach the foot pump and groggily tread it for ten minutes until the Lilo had reinflated. I would repeat this performance every two hours, getting up to feed air to our bed.

      This is what I now imagine having a small baby will be like.

      The pleasure of our California King Sized Serta Perfect Sleeper is only ruined by the fact that every time I flop down upon its vast quilted acreage I am reminded that we paid too much for it at Bloomingdale’s. I am taunted by the saturation advertising on TV by ‘1–800-Sleepys’, and its rival, ‘1–800-Mattress, Leave Off the Final “S” for Savings’ in their apparently cut-throat war to be purveyors of the best mattress deals to New York’s fitful sleepers. Always an ex-post-facto comparison