Shopaholic and Baby

EIGHT

SUZE AND I spend the rest of the day together, and it’s just fab. We dump all our parcels in Suze’s enormous Range Rover, then she drives to the King’s Road and we have tea at a great children-friendly place with ice-cream sundaes and everything. (I am always having crayons on the table from now on.) Then we go to Steinberg & Tolkien, and I buy a vintage cardigan and Suze buys an evening bag, and then it’s time for supper, so we go to Pizza on the Park, where a jazz group is warming up and they let the twins bang their fists on the drums.

And then at last, we lift the sleeping babies into the Range Rover and Suze gives me a lift home. It’s about ten by the time we drive in past the porter’s lodge and pull up in front of the entrance to the building. I call Luke on my mobile to help us upstairs with all my stuff.

“Wow,” he says as he takes in the pile of bags on the ground. “So, is this it? Is the nursery complete now?”

“Um…” It’s just occurred to me that I never did buy a sterilizer. Or a nursing pillow or any diaper rash cream. But never mind. I’ve still got fifteen weeks to go. Plenty of time.

As Luke struggles into the flat with the paddling pool and hobbyhorse and about six carriers, I quickly take the bag with the Gender Predictor Kit and hide it in my underwear drawer. I’ll have to choose a moment when he’s out.

Suze has popped into the bathroom to change one of the twins and as I emerge from the bedroom she’s lugging both car seats down the corridor.

“Come and have a glass of wine,” Luke says.

“I’d better get going,” she says regretfully. “But I’ll have a glass of water if you’ve got one.”

We head into the kitchen, where a CD is softly playing Nina Simone songs. A half-empty bottle of wine is open on the counter, with two glasses next to it.

“I’m not having wine,” I begin.

“That wasn’t for you,” says Luke, filling a glass of water from the fridge. “Venetia popped round earlier.”

I feel a shot of surprise. Venetia was here?

“There’s some extra paperwork we need to fill out,” Luke continues. “She passes this way anyway, so she dropped it off on her way home.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “That was…helpful of her.”

“She’s just left, actually.” Luke hands Suze the glass. “You missed her by a few minutes.”

Hang on. It’s gone ten o’clock. Does that mean she’s been here all evening?

I mean, not that I mind or anything. Of course I don’t. Venetia is just Luke’s friend. His beautiful, ex-girlfriend, platonic old friend.

I’m aware of Suze’s eyes boring into me, and quickly look away.

“Bex, can you show me the nursery before I leave?” she says, her voice strangely high-pitched. “Come on.”

She practically hustles me down the corridor and into the spare room, which we’re calling the nursery even though we’ll have moved by the time the baby arrives.

“So.” Suze shuts the door and turns to face me, agog.

“What?” I shrug, pretending I don’t know what she means.

“Is that normal? To ‘pop round’ to your ex’s house and stay all evening?”

“Of course it is. Why shouldn’t they catch up?”

“Just the two of them? Drinking wine?” Suze utters the word like some Baptist teetotal preacher.

“They’re friends, Suze!” I say defensively. “Old…very good…platonic…friends.”

There’s silence in the little room.

“OK, Bex,” Suze says at last, lifting her hands as though in surrender. “If you’re sure.”

“I am! I’m totally, completely, one hundred percent…” I trail off and start fiddling with a Christian Dior bottle warmer. I’m clicking the lid on and off like some obsessive-compulsive. Suze has wandered over to the wicker toy hamper and is examining a little woolly sheep. For a while we’re both silent, not even looking at each other.

“At least…”

“What?”

I swallow several times, not wanting to admit it. “Well,” I say at last, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “What if…just hypothetically…what if I weren’t sure?”

Suze raises her head and meets my gaze. “Is she pretty?” she says in equally matter-of-fact tones.

“She’s not just pretty. She’s stunning. She’s got red shiny hair and these amazing green eyes and really toned arms….”

“Cow,” says Suze automatically.

“And she’s clever, and she wears great clothes, and Luke really likes her….” The more I say, the less confident I’m feeling.

“Luke loves you!” Suze cuts in. “Bex, remember, you’re his wife. You’re the one he chose. She’s the reject.”

That makes me feel better. “Reject” makes me feel a lot better.

“But that doesn’t mean she’s not after him.” Suze starts pacing up and down, pensively tapping the woolly sheep on her palm. “We have several options here. One: she genuinely is just a friend and you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Right.” I nod earnestly.

“Two: she came by this evening to check the lay of the land. Three: she’s totally going after him. Four—” She stops herself.

“What’s four?” I say in dread.

“It isn’t four,” says Suze quickly. “I reckon it’s two. She came to scope things out. See the home territory.”

“So…what do I do?”

“You let her know you’re onto her.” Suze raises her eyebrows meaningfully. “Woman-to-woman.”

Woman-to-woman? Since when did Suze get so worldly-wise and cynical? She sounds like she should be wearing a pencil skirt and blowing cigarette smoke in some film noir.

“When are you seeing her again?” she asks.

“Next Friday. We’ve got a checkup appointment.”

“OK.” Suze sounds firm. “Go in there, Bex, and stake your claim.”

“Stake my claim?” I say uncertainly. “How do I do that?” I’m not sure I’ve staked my claim on anything before. Except maybe a pair of boots in a Barneys sale.

“Give off discreet little signals,” Suze says in knowledgeable tones. “Show her Luke belongs to you. Put your arm round him…talk about your great life together…. Just nip any little ideas she might have in the bud. And make sure you look fabulous. But not like you’ve made any effort.”

Discreet little signals. Our great life together. Look fabulous. I can do that.

“How’s Luke about the baby, by the way?” Suze asks casually. “Is he excited?”

“Yes, I think so. Why?”

“Oh, nothing.” She shrugs. “I just read this piece in a magazine the other day about men who can’t cope with the idea of becoming a father. Apparently they often have affairs to compensate.”

“Often?” I echo in dismay. “How often?”

“Er…about half the time?”

“Half?”

“I mean…a tenth,” Suze amends hastily. “I can’t remember what it said, actually. And I’m sure that’s not Luke. But still, it might be worth talking to him about fatherhood. The article said some men can only see the pressures and stresses of having a child, and you have to paint a positive picture.”

“Right.” I nod, trying to take all this information in. “OK. I’ll do that. And Suze…” I pause awkwardly. “Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so.’ You told me to steer clear of Venetia Carter and…maybe you were right.”

“I would never say ‘I told you so’!” exclaims Suze in horror.

“I know you wouldn’t. But loads of people would.”

“Well, they shouldn’t! And anyway, maybe you were right, Bex. Maybe Venetia’s not interested in Luke and it’s all totally innocent.” She puts the woolly sheep down and pats it on the head. “But I’d stake your claim anyway. Just to be sure.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” I give a determined nod. “I will.”

Suze is so right. I need to give Venetia the message: Keep your hands off my husband. In a subtle way, of course.

As we arrive at the birth center on Friday I’m dressed in my best “looking fabulous with no effort” outfit of Seven maternity jeans (frayed), a sexy red stretchy top, and my new Moschino killer heels. Which are a bit dressy maybe, but the frayed jeans compensate. When we arrive, the waiting room is pretty empty, with not a celebrity in sight, but I’m so psyched up I don’t mind.

“Becky?” Luke looks down at my hand, gripping his. “Are you all right? You seem tense.”

“Oh…you know,” I say. “I’ve just got a few concerns.”

“I’m sure you have.” He gives an understanding nod. “Why not share them with Venetia?”

Yu-huh. That was the general plan.

We sit down on the plushy chairs, and I pick up a magazine, and Luke opens the FT with a rustle. I’m about to turn to “Your Baby’s Horoscope” when I remember Suze’s words yesterday. I should talk to Luke about fatherhood. This is the perfect time.

“So…it’s exciting, isn’t it?” I say, putting my magazine down. “Becoming parents.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Luke nods and turns a page.

He doesn’t sound that excited. Oh God, what if he’s secretly daunted by a life of diapers and is seeking refuge in another woman’s arms? I have to paint a positive picture of parenthood, like Suze said. Something really good…something exciting to look forward to…

“Hey, Luke,” I say, suddenly inspired. “Imagine if the baby wins a gold medal at the Olympic Games.”

“Sorry?” He raises his head from the FT.

“The Olympics! Imagine if the baby wins a gold medal at something. And we’ll be its parents!” I look at him for a reaction. “Won’t it be great? We’ll be so proud!”

My mind is totally seized by this idea. I can totally see myself at the stadium in 2030 or whenever, being interviewed by Sue Barker, telling her how I knew my child was destined for greatness, even from the womb.

Luke appears a bit bemused.

“Becky…have I missed something? What makes you think our child will win an Olympic gold?”

“It might! Why shouldn’t it? You have to believe in your children, Luke.”

“Ah. Fair enough.” Luke nods and puts his paper down. “So, which sport did you have in mind?”

“The long jump,” I say after some thought. “Or maybe the triple jump, because it’s less popular. It’ll be easier to win a gold.”

“Or wrestling,” suggests Luke.

“Wrestling?” I look at him indignantly. “Our child’s not doing wrestling! It might hurt itself!”

“What if its destiny is to become the world’s greatest-ever wrestler?” Luke raises his eyebrows. For a few moments I’m flummoxed.

“It’s not,” I say at last. “I’m its mother and I know.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Brandon?” The receptionist calls over and we both look up. “Dr. Carter will see you now, if you’d like to go through.”

I feel a flurry of nerves. OK, here I go. Stake my claim.

“Come on, darling!” I put my arm firmly round Luke’s shoulders and we head down the corridor, me staggering slightly because I’m thrown off-balance.

“Hello, you guys!” Venetia is coming out of her room to greet us. She’s dressed in black trousers and a sleeveless pink shirt cinched with the most fabulous shiny black crocodile belt. She kisses us both on each cheek and I catch a whiff of Chanel’s Allure. “Great to see you again!”

“It’s great to see you too, Venetia,” I say, raising my eyebrow in an ironic if-you-have-any-plans-to-steal-my-husband-you-can-forget-about-them way.

“Marvelous. Come on in….” She ushers us into the room.

I’m not sure she noticed my eyebrow maneuver. I might have to be more obvious.

Luke and I sit down, and Venetia perches on the front of her desk, dangling her Yves Saint Laurent heels. God, she’s got a good wardrobe for a doctor. Or even not for a doctor.

“So. Becky.” She opens her notes and studies them for a moment. “First of all, we have the blood test results back. All your levels are fine…although we might want to watch that hemoglobin. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling great, thanks,” I say at once. “Very happy, very loving…Here I am, in a wonderful marriage, expecting a baby…and I’ve never felt closer to Luke in my life.” I reach out and grab Luke’s hand. “Wouldn’t you agree, darling? Aren’t we particularly close at the moment? Spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and…and…sexually!”

There. Take that.

“Well…yes,” says Luke, looking slightly stunned. “I suppose we are.”

“That’s lovely to hear, Becky,” Venetia says, giving me a strange look. “Although I was really meaning your own physical state. Any faintness, nausea, that kind of thing?”

Oh, right.

“Er…no, thanks,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“Well, then. Let’s pop you up and we can have a look.” She gestures to the examination table and I obediently get up onto it. “Lie back, make sure you’re comfortable…. Is that a little stretch mark I see?” she adds gaily as I lift up my top.

“A stretch mark?” In horror I grab the metal side-grip and try to struggle up. “I can’t have! I use a special oil every night, and a lotion in the morning, and—”

“Oops, my mistake!” says Venetia. “Just a stray fiber from your T-shirt.”

“Oh.” I collapse in slight posttraumatic shock and Venetia starts feeling my abdomen.

“Although, of course, stretch marks normally appear at the last minute,” she adds conversationally. “So you may still get them. Those last few weeks of pregnancy can be cruel. I see my patients waddling in, desperate for their babies to be out….”

Waddling?

“I’m not going to waddle,” I say with a little laugh.

“I’m afraid you will.” She smiles back. “It’s nature’s way of slowing you down. I always think it’s only fair to give my first-time patients a heads-up on the realities to come in pregnancy. It isn’t all roses and sunshine, you know!”

“Absolutely,” puts in Luke. “We appreciate that, don’t we, Becky?”

“Yes,” I mutter as Venetia wraps a blood pressure cuff round my arm.

This is a lie. I don’t appreciate it. And just to make it crystal clear: I am never going to waddle.

“Blood pressure’s just a little high….” She frowns at the screen. “Make sure you take it easy, Becky. Try to take a rest every day, or at least get the weight off your feet. And try to stay nice and calm….”

Stay calm? How am I supposed to do that when she’s telling me I’ve got stretch marks and am going to waddle?

“Now, let’s have a listen….” She smears some gel on my stomach and gets out the Doppler, and I relax a little. This is my favorite bit of every appointment. Lying back, listening to the baby’s heartbeat going wow, wow, wow over the fuzzy background noise. Remembering that there’s a little person in there.

“That all sounds fine….” Venetia moves away to the desk and scribbles something on her notes. “Oh, Luke, that reminds me — I spoke to Matthew the other day and he’d love to meet up. And I found that article by Jeremy we were talking about….” She rifles in her desk drawer and holds out an old copy of the New Yorker. “He’s come such a long way since Cambridge. Have you read his book on Mao?”

“Not yet,” says Luke, heading toward the desk and taking it from her. “I’ll read this when I have time. Thanks.”

“You must be busy,” Venetia says sympathetically. She pours a glass of water from the cooler and offers one to Luke. “How are all the new offices working out?”

“Good.” Luke nods. “The odd hiccup, of course…”

“But it’s fabulous that you’ve got Arcodas as a client.” She leans on the desk, frowning intelligently. “It must be the way forward, to diversify out of finance. And Arcodas’s rate of expansion is phenomenal — I was reading a piece about it in the FT. Iain Wheeler sounds very impressive.”

Er…hello?

They’ve completely abandoned me on my back, like an upturned beetle. I clear my throat loudly and Luke turns round.

“Sorry, sweetheart! Are you all right?” He hurries over and offers me a hand.

“Sorry, Becky!” says Venetia. “Just getting you some water. You seem a little dehydrated. It’s vital to keep your fluids up. You should really be drinking at least eight glasses of water a day. Here you are.”

“Thanks!” I smile at her as I take the glass, but as I sit down, suspicions are circulating darkly round my mind. Venetia’s very chatty with Luke. Too chatty. And trying to make out I had a stretch mark. And the way she keeps flicking her hair about like a hair model in a TV ad. It’s not exactly doctorly, is it?

“So!” Venetia is behind her desk again, writing on my notes. “Did you have any questions? Issues you’d like to raise?”

I glance at Luke, but he’s pulled his phone out of his pocket. I can just hear the faint bzzz as it vibrates.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I’ll pop outside. Carry on without me.” He gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

So it’s just the two of us. Woman-to-woman. I can feel the room prickling with tension.

At least…it’s prickling on my side.

“Becky?” Venetia shows her perfect white teeth in a smile. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

“Not really,” I reply pleasantly. “As I said, everything’s fine. I’m fine…. Luke’s fine…. Our relationship couldn’t be better…. You know this is a honeymoon baby?” I can’t resist adding.

“Yes, I heard all about your wonderful honeymoon!” Venetia exclaims. “Luke said you went to Ferrara while you were in Italy?”

“That’s right.” I give a reminiscent smile. “It was so romantic. We’ll always share it as a wonderful memory.”

“When Luke and I visited Ferrara, we couldn’t tear ourselves away from those fabulous frescoes. I’m sure he told you?” Her eyes are all wide and innocent.

Luke and I never went to any frescoes in Ferrara. We sat at the same outdoor restaurant all afternoon, drinking Prosecco and eating the yummiest food I’ve ever had. And he never mentioned he’d been there before with Venetia. But no way am I admitting that to her.

“Actually, we didn’t go to the frescoes,” I say at last, examining my nails. “Luke told me all about them, of course. But he said he thought they were overrated.”

“Overrated?” Venetia seems taken aback.

“Uh-huh.” I fix my gaze dead on hers. “Overrated.”

“But…he took masses of pictures of them.” She gives an incredulous laugh. “We talked about them for hours!”

“Yes, well, we talked about them all night!” I shoot back. “About how overrated they are.”

I casually fiddle with my wedding ring, making sure my engagement diamond glints under the lights.

I’m his wife. I know what he thinks about frescoes.

Venetia opens her mouth, then closes it again, looking flummoxed.

“Sorry about that!” Luke enters the room, putting his phone away, and Venetia immediately turns to him.

“Luke, d’you remember those frescoes in—”

“Ow!” I clutch my stomach. “Ouch.”

“Becky! Darling!” Luke hurries to my side in alarm. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little twinge.” I give him a brave smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” I glance in triumph at Venetia, who is frowning as though she can’t quite work me out.

“Have you had these pains before?” she says. “Can you describe them?”

“They’ve gone now,” I say blithely. “I think it was just a stitch.”

“Let me know if you have any other pains,” she says. “And remember to take things easy. That blood pressure shouldn’t be a problem, but we don’t want it to edge any higher. Did your previous doctor explain to you about preeclampsia?”

“Absolutely,” Luke says, glancing at me, and I nod.

“Good. Well, you take care. You can call me anytime. And before you go…” Venetia opens her desk diary. “We must arrange an evening for us all to meet up. The twenty-fourth…or the twenty-sixth? Assuming I’m not delivering a baby, of course!”

“The twenty-sixth?” Luke nods, consulting his BlackBerry. “OK with you, Becky?”

“Fine!” I say sweetly. “We’ll be there.”

“Marvelous. I’ll call some of the others. It’s so great to have made contact again, after so many years.” Venetia sighs and puts her pen down. “To be honest, it’s been pretty hard, starting again in London. My old friends have their lives; they’ve moved on. Besides which, I don’t always keep sociable hours, and Justin travels abroad a lot, of course.” Her bright smile slips a little.

“Justin is Venetia’s boyfriend,” Luke explains to me.

The boyfriend. I’d almost forgotten he existed.

“Oh, right,” I say politely. “What does he do?”

“He’s a financier.” Venetia reaches for a framed picture of a dull-looking man in a suit, and as she surveys it her whole face lights up. “He’s incredibly driven and motivated, a bit like Luke. I sometimes feel left behind when he’s pursuing a deal. But what can I do? I love him.”

“Really?” I say in surprise. Then I realize how that sounded. “I mean…er…great!”

“He’s the reason I came to London.” Her eyes are still fixed on the picture. “I met him at a party in L.A. and just fell hook, line, and sinker.”

“You moved all this way?” I say, incredulous. “Just for him?”

“That’s what love’s about, surely? You do crazy things for no rhyme or reason.” Venetia looks up, her green eyes shining. “If my job has taught me one thing, Becky, it’s that love is the only thing. Human love. I see it every time I deliver a baby right into its mother’s arms…every time I see a fresh, eight-week-old heart beating on the screen and watch the faces of its parents…every time my patients come back, second or third time around. It’s love that makes the babies. And you know what? Nothing else matters.”

Wow. I am totally blown away.

She’s not after Luke, after all. She’s in love with the boring guy! And to be honest, that little speech has practically got me in tears.

“You’re so right,” I say huskily, clutching Luke’s arm. “Love is all that counts in this crazy, mixed-up world we call…the world.”

I’m not sure that came out right, but who cares? I have completely misjudged Venetia. She’s not a man-eater; she’s a warm, beautiful, loving human being.

“I really hope Justin will be able to make the twenty-sixth.” She finally puts the picture back in its place with a fond pat. “I’d love for you to meet him.”

“Me too!” I say with genuine enthusiasm. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“See you soon, Ven.” Luke kisses Venetia. “Thanks very much.”

“Bye, Becky.” Venetia gives me a warm, friendly smile. “Oh, and I nearly forgot. I don’t know if you’d be at all interested, but a journalist from Vogue called me up yesterday. They’re doing a big feature on London’s yummiest mummies-to-be and wanted me to put forward some names. I thought of you.”

“Vogue?” I stare at her, frozen.

“You may not be interested, of course. It would involve a photo shoot of you in the baby’s nursery, an interview, hair and makeup…. They’ll provide designer maternity clothes….” She gives a vague shrug. “I don’t know — is that your kind of thing?”

I’m practically hyperventilating. Is it my kind of thing? Is having my makeup done and wearing designer clothes and being in Vogue…my kind of thing?

“I think that’s a yes,” says Luke, looking at me in amusement.

“Great!” Venetia touches him on the hand. “Leave it to me. I’ll fix it up.”

Rebecca Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions

Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

18 August 2003

Dear Fabia,

I just wanted to say how much we love your gorgeous, beautiful house. It’s the Kate Moss of houses!!In fact, it’s so stunning, I think it deserves to appear in Vogue, don’t you?

That reminds me of a teeny favor I wanted to ask. Coincidentally, I am being interviewed by Vogue — and I wondered if I could use the house for the photo shoot?

I also wondered if I could put up some personal props and say that Luke and I live there already? After all, we will by the time the magazine comes out…so it makes sense, really!

In return, if there is anything I can do for you or any fashion item you would like me to track down, I will be only too glad!

With very best wishes,

Becky Brandon

Not in size, obviously.

FABIA PASCHALI

DATE: 19/8/03

TO: Rebecca Brandon

Becky,

1. Chloe Silverado bag, tan

2. Matthew Williamson purple beaded kaftan top, size 6

3. Olly Bricknell Princess shoes, green, size 39.

Fabia

33 Delamain Road, Maida Vale, London NW6 1TY

Oxshott School for Girls

Marlin Road

Oxshott

Surrey

KT22 0JG

From the School Librarian

Mrs L Hargreaves

23 August 2003

Dear Becky,

How nice to hear from you after all these years, and I do indeed remember you as a pupil here. Who could forget the girl who started the “friendship handbags” craze of 1989?

I am delighted you are to appear in Vogue — and it is, as you say, a surprise. Though I must assure you, the teachers did not sit in the staff room, saying “I bet Becky Bloomwood never makes it into Vogue.”

I will be sure to buy an issue, although I think it unlikely the headmistress will sanction buying an official commemorative copy for each pupil, as you suggest.

With very best wishes,

Lorna Hargreaves

Librarian

P.S. Do you still have a copy of In the Fifth at Malory Towers? There is a rather large fine on it.