“We should get going.” Luke holds out his arm to me. “Are you able to walk?”
“I think so. Just about.”
We head out the front door and pause on the top step. The ambulance is blocking the whole road, its blue light flashing round and round. I can see a few people watching, on the other side of the street.
This is it. When I come out of hospital…I’ll have a baby!
“Good luck!” calls Martha. “Hope it all goes well!”
“Becky…I love you.” Luke squeezes my arm tight. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing amazingly! You’re so calm, so composed….”
“It just feels totally natural,” I say with a kind of humble awe, like Patrick Swayze telling Demi Moore what heaven is like at the end of Ghost. “It’s painful…but it’s beautiful too.”
Two paramedics have got out of the back of the ambulance and are coming toward me.
“Ready?” Luke glances down at me.
“Uh-huh.” I take a deep breath and start walking down the steps. “Let’s do it.”
EIGHTEEN
HUH. I DON’T BELIEVE IT, I wasn’t in labor after all. I don’t have a baby or anything.
It doesn’t make any sense, in fact I still think they might have been wrong. I had all the symptoms! The regular contractions, and the back pain (well, a slight achy feeling), just like in the book. But they sent me home and said I wasn’t in labor or prelabor or even approaching labor. They said they weren’t real labor pains.
It was all a bit embarrassing. Especially when I asked for the epidural and they laughed. They didn’t have to laugh. Or phone up their friends and tell them. I heard that midwife, even though she was whispering.
It’s also made me rethink this whole giving-birth thing. I mean, if that wasn’t the real thing…what on earth is the real thing like? So after we got back from the hospital I had a long, frank talk with Luke. I said I’d given it some careful thought and come to the conclusion that I couldn’t do labor, and we were going to have to find some other solution.
He was really sweet about it, and didn’t just say “Love, you’ll be fine” (like that stupid midwife phone advisory service). He said I should line up every form of pain relief I could, never mind about the cost. So I’ve hired a reflexologist, a hot-stone-massage person, an aromatherapist, an acupuncturist, a homeopath, and a doula. Plus I’ve taken to phoning the hospital every day, just to make sure their anesthetists haven’t all gone ill or been trapped in a cupboard or anything.
And I chucked out that stupid birthing stone. I always thought it was rubbish.
It’s now a week later, and nothing’s happened since, except I’m bigger and more lumbery than ever. We went to see Dr. Braine yesterday, and he said everything seemed just fine and the baby had turned into the right position, which was good news. Hmph. Good news for the baby, maybe. Not for me. I can hardly walk anymore, let alone sleep. Last night I woke up at three A.M. and felt so uncomfortable I couldn’t even lie in bed, so I went and watched this program on cable called True-Life Births—When Trauma Goes Bad.
Which was maybe a mistake, in hindsight. But luckily Luke was awake too, and he made me a cup of hot chocolate to calm me down and said it was really unlikely we’d ever be stuck in a snowdrift with twins about to be born and no doctors for two hundred miles. And at least now we knew what to do if we were.
Luke isn’t sleeping well either at the moment, and it’s all because of the Arcodas situation. He’s been talking to his lawyers every day, and having consultations with his staff, and has endlessly tried to set up a meeting with the Arcodas senior team to have it all out. But Iain has canceled twice with no notice—and then he disappeared off on some trip. So nothing’s resolved yet, and the longer it all goes on, the tenser Luke gets. It’s like we’re both on some ticking fuse, just…waiting.
I’ve never been good at waiting. For babies, or phone calls, or sample sales…or anything.
The only positive thing right now is that Luke and I are about a million times closer than we have been for months. We’ve talked about everything over the past week. His company, plans for the future…one night we even got out all the honeymoon photos and looked through them again.
We’ve talked about everything…except Venetia.
I tried. I tried to tell him what she was really like, over supper, after we got back from the hospital that day. But Luke was just incredulous. He said he still couldn’t believe that Venetia said she and he were having an affair. He said they were genuinely just old friends—and maybe I’d made a mistake or misinterpreted what she meant.
Which made me want to hurl my plate at the wall and shout, “How stupid do you think I am ?” But I didn’t. It would have turned into a big row, and I really didn’t want to ruin the evening.
And I haven’t pushed the subject since then. Luke’s so hassled, I can’t bring myself to. As he says, we never have to see Venetia again if we don’t want to. He’s given her notice as a PR client, Dr. Braine will deliver the baby, and Luke’s promised he won’t make any plans to meet up with her. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a brief chapter of our life which has closed.
Only…I can’t close it. Deep down, I’m still obsessed. I didn’t make a mistake. She did say that she and Luke were having an affair. She nearly ruined our marriage—and now she’s just getting away with it.
If I could just see her…if I could tell her what I think of her….
“Bex, you’re grinding your teeth again,” says Suze patiently. “Stop it.” She arrived half an hour ago, laden with homemade Christmas presents from Ernie’s school fair. Now she brings over a cup of raspberry leaf tea and an iced Santa Claus cookie and puts them down on the counter. “You have to stop stressing about Venetia. It’s not good for the baby.”
“It’s all right for you! You don’t know what it’s like. No one made you wear hideous stockings and said you don’t have a marriage anymore and your husband was leaving you….”
“Look, Bex.” Suze sighs. “Whatever Venetia said…Whether she did say that or not…”
“She did!” I look up, indignant. “That’s what she said, word for word! Don’t you believe me either?”
“Of course I do!” says Suze, backtracking. “Of course. But you know, when you’re pregnant, things can seem worse than they really are…. You can overreact….”
“I am not overreacting! She tried to steal my husband! What, you think I’m deluded? You think I made it all up?”
“No!” says Suze hastily. “Look, I’m sorry. Maybe she did go after him. But…she didn’t get him, did she?”
“Well…no.”
“So. Just let it go. You’re having a baby, Bex. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”
She looks so anxious, I can’t tell her my secret fantasy of bursting into the Holistic Birth Center unannounced and telling everyone exactly what a deceitful home-wrecker Venetia Carter really is.
Then how holistic would she look?
“All right,” I say at last. “I’m letting it go.”
“Good.” Suze pats my arm. “So, what time do we have to leave?”
I’m going back to The Look today, even though I’m officially now on maternity leave, because they’re opening the waiting list for the new Danny Kovitz line. Danny is going to be there from twelve noon, signing T-shirts for people who register, and the store has already had hundreds of inquiries!
The whole thing has suddenly become huge news—helped by Danny being photographed the other night in a clinch with the new guy in Coronation Street. All the papers have suddenly taken up the story and we’ve had loads of publicity. Danny was even on Morning Coffee this morning, assessing spring fashions on the sofa (he said all the outfits were hideous, which they loved) and telling everyone to come to The Look.
Ha! And it was all my idea to get him involved.
“Let’s go in a few minutes,” I say, glancing at my watch. “There’s no rush. They can’t exactly fire me for being late, can they?
”
“I guess not….” Suze edges back to the sink, past our brand-new Warrior pushchair, which is in the corner, still in its packaging. There wasn’t room for it in the nursery, and the hall is cluttered with a Bugaboo (they were on special offer) and this cool three-wheeler which has an integrated car seat. “Bex, how many prams did you order?”
“A few,” I say vaguely.
“But where are you going to keep them all?”
“It’s OK,” I assure her. “I’m having a special room for them in the new house. I’ll call it the Pram Room.”
“A Pram Room?” Suze stares at me. “You’re having a Shoe Room and a Pram Room?”
“Why not? People don’t have enough different rooms. I might have a Handbag Room too. Just a small one…” I take a sip of raspberry leaf tea, which according to Suze helps speed up labor, and wince at the revolting taste.
“Ooh, what was that?” says Suze, alert. “Did you feel a twinge?”
Honestly. This is the third time she’s asked about twinges since she arrived this morning.
“Suze, it’s not due for another two weeks,” I remind her.
“That doesn’t mean anything!” says Suze. “Those dates are all a conspiracy by doctors.” She studies me closely. “Do you feel like sweeping the floor or cleaning out the fridge?”
“The fridge is clean!” I say, a bit offended.
“No, you dope!” says Suze. “It’s the nesting instinct. When the twins were due I suddenly got this mania for ironing Tarkie’s shirts. And Lulu always starts vacuuming the whole house.”
“Vacuuming?” I look at her dubiously. I can’t imagine having an urge to vacuum.
“Totally! Loads of women scrub the floor—” She breaks off as the buzzer sounds, and picks up the entry phone. “Hello, the Brandon residence!” She listens for a moment, then presses the entry button. “It’s a delivery. Are you expecting something?”
“Ooh, yes!” I put my cup down. “It’ll be my Christmas things!”
“Presents?” Suze brightens. “Is there one for me?”
“Not presents,” I explain. “Gorgeous decorations. It was so weird—I had this sudden urge yesterday, like I had to get Christmas all sorted before I had the baby. So I’ve ordered new angels for the tree, and an Advent candle, and this gorgeous nativity scene….” I take a bite of cookie and munch it. “I’ve got it all planned for the new house. We’ll have a huge Christmas tree in the hall, and garlands everywhere, and gingerbread men which we can put on red ribbons….”
The doorbell sounds and I head to the door. I open it to see two men holding massive cardboard boxes, plus a huge bulky parcel which must be the life-size models of Mary and Joseph.
“Blimey!” says Suze, staring at them. “You’ll need a Christmas Decoration Room too.”
Hey. That’s not a bad idea!
“Hi!” I beam at the men. “Just put them anywhere, thank you so much….” I scribble a signature and turn to Suze as the guys head out again. “I must show you the baby’s Christmas stocking—” I stop. Suze is looking from me to the boxes and back again with a strange, animated expression. “What?”
“Bex, this is it,” she says. “You’re nesting.”
I stare at her. “But…I haven’t cleaned anything.”
“Every woman’s different! Maybe you don’t clean—you order things from catalogs! Was it like…this sudden really strong desire which you couldn’t fight?”
“Yes!” I can’t help a gasp of recognition. “Exactly! The catalog came through the door…and I just had to order from it. I couldn’t stop myself!”
“There you go!” Suze says, satisfied. “It’s all part of nature’s grand plan.”
“Wow,” I breathe, totally awestruck by my own body. I wasn’t shopping, I was nesting! I must tell Luke.
“And you really don’t feel like cleaning anything?” Suze adds curiously. “Or tidying up?”
I prod my feelings experimentally. “I don’t think so….”
“You don’t feel like washing up those plates?” Suze gestures to the breakfast things in the sink.
“No,” I say definitely. “No urge at all.”
“It just shows.” Suze shakes her head in wonderment. “Every pregnancy is different.”
A new thought has suddenly struck me. “Hey, Suze, if I’m nesting, maybe I’ll have the baby soon! Like this afternoon!”
“You can’t!” says Suze in dismay. “Not before your shower!” Immediately she claps her hand over her mouth.
Shower? Does she mean…baby shower?
“Are you throwing me a baby shower!” I can’t help beaming with excitement.
“No!” says Suze at once. “I…that’s not…it wasn’t…I’m not…”
Her face has turned bright pink and she’s twisting one leg around the other. Suze is such a hopeless liar.
“Yes, you are!”
“Well, OK,” she says in a rush. “But it’s a surprise. I’m not going to tell you when it is.”
“Is it today?” I say at once. “I bet it’s today!”
“I’m not telling you!” she says, all flustered. “Stop talking about it. Pretend I never said anything. Come on, let’s go.”
We take a taxi to The Look, and as we draw near I cannot believe my eyes. This is better than I could have hoped for, in a million years.
There are queues of people snaking round the block as far as I can see. There must be hundreds of them, mostly girls in cool-looking outfits, chattering in groups or on mobile phones. Everyone’s holding a helium balloon with THE LOOK—DANNY KOVITZ printed on it, and music is playing from speakers, and one of the girls from PR is giving out bottles of Diet Coke and “Danny Kovitz” lollies.
The whole atmosphere is like a party. A TV crew from London Tonight is filming the scene and a radio presenter is interviewing the girl at the head of the queue, and as we get out I can see a woman introducing herself to a young, rangy girl as a scout from Models One.
“This is amazing,” Suze breathes beside me.
“I know!” I’m trying to look cool, but a huge grin is spreading across my face. “Come on, let’s go inside!”
We fight our way to the head of the queue, and I show my pass to the security guard. As he opens the door to let us in, I can feel the swell of girls pushing forward behind me.
“Did you see that girl?” I can hear furious voices behind me demanding. “She just shoved her way in! Why does she get to queue-barge just because she’s pregnant?”
Oops. Maybe we should have gone in a side door.
Inside, there’s another queue of excited, chattering girls. It winds through accessories, past huge screens showing Danny’s latest catwalk collection, up to a mirrored, art deco table behind which Danny is sitting on a huge throne-like chair. Above him a banner reads EXCLUSIVE—MEET DANNY KOVITZ! and in front of him three teenage girls in indentikit military jackets and ponytails are gawking at him in total awe as he signs plain white T-shirts for them. He meets my eye and winks.
“Thanks,” I mouth back, and blow him a kiss. He is a total, one hundred percent star.
Plus, I know he will be loving all this.
A small distance from the table, Eric is being interviewed by another TV crew, and as I approach I can hear him speaking.
“I did always feel strongly that The Look should be considering joint design initiatives…” he’s saying importantly. Then suddenly he notices me watching. He breaks off, flushing slightly. “Ahem. Let me introduce Rebecca Brandon, our head of Personal Shopping, who originated the idea….”
“Hi there!” I head over to the camera with a big, confident smile. “Eric and I worked as a team on this project and I think it heralds a new day for The Look. And all those people who laughed at us can eat their words.”
I give a few more sound bites to the interviewer, then make an excuse and leave Eric to it. To my astonishment, I’ve just spotted Jess standing uncomfortably by the sunglasses, all on her own in jeans and a parka
. I told her about the launch today, but I really wasn’t sure she’d come along.
“Jess!” I call out as I near her. “You made it!”
“This is incredible, Becky.” Jess is looking around at the milling crowds. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks!” I beam at her. “Isn’t it great? Have you seen all the TV crews?”
“There was a guy from the Times outside,” says Jess, nodding. “And the Standard. The media coverage is going to be huge.” She gives a little smile. “Becky Brandon does it again.”
“Well…” I shrug, flushing. “So, how are things? How are preparations going for Chile?”
“Oh, fine.” Jess heaves a sigh.
The thing with Jess is, it can be a bit hard to tell what mood she’s in. She has a slightly gloomy air about her even when she’s happy. (Which is just the way she is—I’m not being mean or anything.) But as I look at her now, I think she’s genuinely miserable.
“Jess…what’s up?” I put a hand on her arm. “Things aren’t fine.”
“No,” says Jess. “They’re not.” She looks up, and to my horror I see her eyes are shimmering. “Tom’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” I say, aghast.
“I wasn’t going to say anything. I didn’t want to get you worried. But no one’s seen him for three days. I think he’s sulking.”
“About you leaving?”
She nods and I feel a pang of anger at Tom. Why does he have to be such a self-obsessed flake?
“He sent one text to his parents to say he’s safe. That’s it. He could be anywhere. And Janice blames me, of course….”
“This isn’t your fault! He’s just a—” I stop myself.
“Do you have any ideas where he might be, Becky?” Her brow is all crinkled up. “You’ve known him all your life.”
I shrug, at a loss. Knowing Tom, he could have done anything. He could have gone to the tattoo parlor and asked them to tattoo Jess, Don’t Go on his genitals.
“Look…he’ll turn up,” I say at last. “He’s not completely stupid. He’s probably just gone off on a bender somewhere.”
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