“I think you should go on her TV show after all,” I say. “You could take that photo with you. Show the producer.”
“Bex!” Suze giggles. “You’re evil! I’m just going to keep it in a drawer and look at it when I need cheering up.”
The phone suddenly shrills through the kitchen and my smile tightens. What if this is the press again? What if it’s Luke with more news?
“Hey, Suze,” I say casually. “Why don’t you go and make sure everyone’s OK? I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Sure.” Suze nods, and picks up her juice, her eyes still fixed on the photo. “I’ll just put this somewhere safe….”
I wait until she’s gone and the door is firmly closed, then steel myself and pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Becky.” The familiar drifty voice comes down the line. “It’s Fabia.”
“Fabia!” I subside in relief. “How are you? Thanks so much for letting us use the house the other day. The Vogue people thought it was amazing! Did you get my flowers?”
“Oh, wonderful,” Fabia says vaguely. “Yeah, we got the flowers. Listen, Becky, we’ve just heard you can’t pay cash for the house.”
Luke must have called the agent and told him. News travels fast. “That’s right.” I nod, trying to stay upbeat. “There’s been a slight change in our circumstances, but it should only delay us by a couple of weeks….”
“Yeah…” Fabia sounds distracted. “The thing is, we’ve decided to exchange with the other buyers.”
For a moment I think I’ve hallucinated. “Other buyers?”
“Did we not mention the other buyers? The Americans. They made the same offer as you. Before you, in fact, so strictly speaking…” She trails off.
“But…but you took our offer! You said the house was ours.”
“Yeah, well. The other buyers can move faster, so…”
I’m light-headed with shock. We’ve been screwed.
“Were you just stringing us along the whole time ?” I’m trying to keep control of myself.
“It wasn’t my idea.” Fabia sounds regretful. “It was my husband. He likes to have a fallback position. Anyway, good luck with the house hunt….”
No. She can’t really be doing this. She can’t be leaving us in the lurch.
“Fabia, listen.” I wipe my clammy face. “Please. We’re having a baby any day. We don’t have anywhere to go. Our flat is sold—”
“Mmm…yeah. I hope it all goes well. Bye, Becky….”
“But what about the Archie Swann boots?” I’m almost crying in anger. “We did a deal! You owe me a boot!” I realize I’m talking into silence. She’s rung off. She doesn’t care.
I switch the phone off. Slowly I walk over to the fridge and lean my head against the cool steel, feeling dizzy. We don’t have our dream house anymore. We don’t have any house anymore.
I lift the phone to call Luke, then stop. He’s got enough on his plate as it is right now.
In a few weeks we have to move out of our flat. Where are we going to go?
“Becky?” Kelly bursts into the kitchen, giggling. “We’ve put candles on your cake. I know it’s not your birthday, but you should blow them out anyway.”
“Yes!” I jolt into life. “I’m coming!”
Somehow I manage to hold myself together as I follow Kelly back to the sitting room. Inside, Danny and Janice are playing guess the baby food and writing down their answers on sheets. Mum and Jess are perusing pictures of celebrity babies.
“It’s Lourdes!” Mum is saying. “Jess, love, you should be more aware of the world.”
“Pureed beet,” says Danny knowledgeably as he tastes a spoonful of purple goo. “All it needs is a shot of vodka.”
“Becky!” Mum looks up. “Everything all right, love? You keep running off to answer the phone!”
“Yes, Bex, what’s up?” Suze’s brow wrinkles.
“It’s…”
I wipe my damp upper lip, trying to keep steady. I don’t even know where I’d start.
Luke’s fighting to save his company. He’s hemorrhaging money. We’ve lost the house.
I can’t tell them. I can’t spoil the party—everyone’s having such a good time.
I’ll tell them later. Tomorrow.
“Everything’s fine!” I force my brightest, best, happiest smile. “Couldn’t be better!” And I blow out my candles.
At last the tea and champagne are all drunk and all the guests gradually leave. It was such a great baby shower. And everyone got on so well! Janice and Jess made up in the end, and Jess promised she’d look after Tom in Chile and not let any guerrilla bandits get him. Suze and Kelly had a long conversation while they played guess the baby food, ending up with Suze offering Kelly a job as au pair during her year off. But the really amazing thing is, Jess and Danny have hit it off! Danny started talking to her about some new collection he wants to do using shards of rocks—and she’s going to take him to a museum to see some specimens.
The bike arrived while everyone was eating cake, and the package went off OK. I haven’t heard back from Luke, though. I guess he’s in talks with his lawyers or whoever it is. So he doesn’t know about the house yet, either.
“Are you all right, Becky?” says Mum, giving me a hug at the front door. “Would you like me to stay with you till Luke arrives home?”
“No, it’s OK. Don’t worry.”
“Well, have a nice afternoon rest. Save your energy, love.”
“I will.” I nod. “Bye, Mum.”
The place feels silent and flat with everyone gone. It’s just me and all the stuff. I wander into the nursery, gently touching the handcrafted crib and the little white rocking cradle. And the Moses basket with its gorgeous linen canopy. (I wanted to give the baby a choice of sleeping accommodations.)
It’s like a stage set. We’re just waiting for the lead character to appear.
I prod my tummy, wondering if it’s awake. Maybe I’ll play it a tune and it can be a musical genius when it’s born! I wind up the mobile I ordered from the Intelligent Baby catalog and press it against my tummy.
Baby, listen to that! That’s Mozart.
I think…. Or Beethoven or someone.
God, now I’ve confused it. I’m just looking on the box to see if the tune is by Mozart, when there’s a small crash from the hall.
Christmas cards. That’ll make me feel better. Abandoning the Intelligent Baby mobile, I head to the front door, pick up the huge pile of post lying on the doormat, and waddle back to the sofa, leafing through the envelopes.
And then I stop. There’s a small package, labeled in distinctive, flowing writing.
Venetia’s.
It’s addressed to Luke, but I don’t care. With trembling hands I rip it open, to find a tiny leather Duchamp box. I wrench it open, and there’s a pair of silver and enamel cuff links. What is she doing sending him cuff links?
A small cream card falls out, with a message written in the same script.
L
Long time no see. “Nunc est bibendum?”
V
I stare at the note, the blood rushing through my head. All the stresses of the day seem to be focusing in a laser of fury. I’ve had it. I’ve just had it. I’m going to send this package straight back, return of post—
No. I’m going to give it back to her myself.
In a daze, I find myself getting to my feet and reaching for my coat. I’m going to find Venetia and I’m going to finish this. Once and for all.
TWENTY
I’VE NEVER BEEN more itching for a showdown in my life.
It didn’t take long to track down Venetia. I phoned the Holistic Birth Center, pretending to be really desperate to talk to her and asking where she was. After saying she was “unavailable,” the receptionist let slip that she was at the Cavendish Hospital, in a meeting. They offered to page her, as I’m still on the system as a patient, but I hastily said don’t bother, actually I was feeling better all of a sudden. Which they
totally swallowed. They’re obviously used to flaky pregnant women phoning up and dithering.
So now I’m standing outside the Cavendish Hospital’s private maternity wing, my heart racing, clutching a carrier bag from The Look. It contains not only the cuff links but also the support stockings, the fanny pack, every single little note she ever sent Luke, the brochures and medical notes from her stupid holistic center…even the freebies from the goodie bag. (It was a bit of a wrench putting in the Crème de la Mer. In fact I scooped out most of it and put it in an old Lancôme pot. But Venetia needn’t know that.)
It’s like a breakup box. I’m going to hand it to her and say, very calmly, “Leave us alone, Venetia. Luke and I and the baby don’t want anything to do with you ever again.” She has to realize she’s lost, after that.
Plus I phoned up my lovely professor on the way here, and he gave me a brilliant Latin insult, which I’ve learned by heart. It goes Utinam barbari provinciam tuam invadant! and it means “May barbarians invade your province.”
Ha. That’ll teach her.
“Hello?” A tinny voice comes through the intercom system.
“Hi!” I say into the grille. “It’s Becky Brandon, a patient.” I won’t say any more. I’ll just get into the place and take it from there.
The door buzzes and I push it open. Normally this place is pretty tranquil, but today it’s full of activity. The seats are filled with women in various stages of pregnancy, chatting with their partners and holding leaflets entitled “Why Choose the Cavendish?” Two midwives are walking quickly down the corridor, saying words like operating and stuck, which I really don’t like the sound of, and I can hear a woman’s screams emanating from a distant room. My stomach curdles at the sound, and I fight the urge to put my hands over my ears.
Anyway. It wasn’t necessarily a scream of agony. She was probably just shouting because she couldn’t see the telly or something.
I approach the reception desk, breathing hard.
“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Rebecca Brandon, and I need to see Venetia Carter straightaway, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist demands. I haven’t seen her on duty before. She has graying curly hair, and glasses on silver chains, and a pretty abrupt manner for someone who’s dealing with pregnant women all day long.
“Well…no. But it’s really important.”
“I’m afraid Venetia is busy.”
“I don’t mind waiting. If you could just tell her I’m here…”
“You’ll have to phone for an appointment.” The receptionist taps at her keyboard as though I’m not even there.
This woman is really winding me up the wrong way. Venetia’s only in some stupid meeting. And here I am, practically nine months pregnant….
“Can’t you page her?” I try to stay calm.
“I can only page her if you’re in labor.” The woman shrugs, like it really isn’t her problem.
I stare at her through a fine mist of anger. I’ve come here to have it out with Venetia, and I’m not letting some woman in a mauve cardigan stop me.
“Well…I am in labor!” I hear myself saying.
“You’re in labor?” She eyes me skeptically.
She doesn’t believe me, does she? What a nerve. Why would I lie about a thing like that?
“Yes.” I plant my hands on my hips. “I am.”
“Are you having regular contractions?” she says, challenging me.
“Since yesterday, every three minutes,” I shoot back. “And I’ve got back pain, and I’ve been vacuuming nonstop…and…and my water broke yesterday.”
So there. Now tell me I’m not in labor.
“I see.” The woman looks a little taken aback. “Well…”
“And I want to see only Venetia, no one else,” I add, pressing home my advantage. “So, can you page her immediately, please?”
The woman is regarding me with a narrowed gaze.
“Your contractions are coming every three minutes?”
“Uh-huh.” Suddenly I realize I must have been standing in this reception area for at least three minutes.
“I’m coping with them silently,” I inform her with dignity. “I’m a Scientologist.”
“A Scientologist ?” she echoes, putting her pen down and staring at me.
“Yes.” I meet her gaze, unflinching. “And I need to see Venetia urgently. But if you won’t let in a woman whose water broke yesterday and is silently suffering in great pain…” I raise my voice a little so that it carries to all the waiting pregnant women.
“All right!” The receptionist clearly realizes she’s defeated. “You can wait….” She surveys the packed seating area. “Wait in that room,” she says at last, and gestures to a room called Labor Room 3.
“Thank you!” I turn on my heel and head into Labor Room3. It’s a big room, with a scary-looking metal bed and a shower room and even a DVD player. No minibar, though.
I sit on the bed and swiftly get out my makeup case. Everyone knows the first rule of business is “Look good during confrontations.” Or if it isn’t, it should be. I put on some blusher and apply some fresh lipstick—and am practicing my steeliest expression in the mirror, when there’s a knock at the door.
That’s her. With the most enormous lurch of nerves I grab the breakup bag and stand up.
“Come in,” I say as calmly as possible, and a moment later, the door swings open.
“Hello, love!” A jolly-looking Afro-Caribbean midwife comes bustling in. “I’m Esther. How are you getting on? Contractions still coming thick and strong?”
“What?” I stare at her. “Er…no. I mean, yes….” I break off in confusion. “Listen, I really need to see Venetia Carter.”
“She’s on her way,” says the midwife soothingly. “I’ll get you sorted out in the meantime.”
I feel a tweak of suspicion. They haven’t paged Venetia at all, have they? They’re trying to palm me off.
“I don’t need sorting out,” I say politely. “Thanks all the same.”
“Darlin’, you’re having a baby!” The midwife peals with laughter. “You need to get into a gown. Or did you bring a T-shirt? And I’ll need to examine you, see how you’re progressing.”
I need to get rid of this woman, quick. She presses a hand on my abdomen and I shrink away.
“Actually, I’ve already been examined!” I say brightly. “By another midwife. So I’m all set….”
“Another midwife? Who? Sarah?”
“Er…maybe. I don’t remember. She suddenly rushed off, said she had to go to theater or something?” I blink innocently.
“I’ll start you a new chart.” Esther shakes her head, sighing. “I’ll have to examine you again….”
“No!” I squeak before I can stop myself. “I mean…I have a phobia about being examined. They said I could have minimal examination. Venetia understands. I really need to see Venetia, no one else. In fact, could you leave me alone till she comes? I want to focus on my…my inner womanhood.”
Esther rolls her eyes, then heads to the door and leans her head out.
“Pam. We’ve got another one of Venetia’s wacky patients here. Can you page her? All right.” She draws her head back in. “We’re paging Venetia for you. I’ll just fill this in. So, your water broke at home?”
“Uh-huh.” I nod.
“Did the other midwife say how far you’d got?”
“Um…four centimeters,” I say at random.
“And you’re coping with the pain?”
“Fine, so far,” I say bravely.
“Well, now.” The midwife finishes writing. “I really must examine you, so if you pop up on the bed for me….”
“No!” I back away. “Don’t touch me! I only want Venetia!”
There’s a knock at the door and a woman pops her head round it. “Esther? Can you come?”
“We’re busy today.” Esther sighs and hangs the chart on the end of the bed. “I’ll be back. And Venetia sho
uld be here soon. Sorry about this.”
“That’s all right,” I say, trying to hide my relief. “Thanks!”
The door closes behind her and I sink back on the bed. For a few minutes nothing happens, and I start to flick through the TV channels. I’m just wondering whether they have any DVDs for hire, when there’s another knock at the door.
It has to be Venetia this time. I grab the breakup bag, struggle to my feet, and take a deep breath to prepare myself.
“Come in!”
The door opens and a girl of about twenty, in a midwife uniform, looks in. She’s got blond wispy hair tied back and looks very apprehensive.
“Um, hi,” she says. “My name’s Paula and I’m a student midwife. Would you mind if I come and observe you in the early stages of labor for a while? I’d be really, really grateful.”
Oh, for God’s sake. I’m about to say “No, go away.” But she looks so shy and nervous, I can’t bring myself to. After all, I can always get rid of her when Venetia arrives.
“Sure.” I wave an arm. “Come on in. My name’s Becky.”
“Hi there.” She smiles shyly as she tiptoes in and sits down on a chair in the corner.
For a minute or two neither of us says anything. I’ve flopped back on the pillows and am staring at the ceiling, trying to hide my frustration. Here I am, all ready for a confrontation, and there’s no one to confront. If Venetia doesn’t show in the next five minutes, I’ll just go.
“You seem very…serene.” Paula looks up from scribbling on her notepad. “Do you have any particular coping mechanisms for the pain?”
Oh, right. I’m supposed to be in labor. I’d better put on a show or she’ll have nothing to write down.
“Absolutely.” I nod. “I’ll just move around a bit, actually. I find that really helps.” I get up and walk around the bed, swinging my arms back and forth in a businesslike way. Then I rock my hips around a few times, and do a stretch I once learned in Yoga-lates.
“Wow,” says Paula, impressed. “You’re very mobile.”
“I’ve done yoga,” I say with a modest little glow. “I think I’ll have a Kit Kat now. Just to keep my energy levels up.”
“Good idea.” Paula nods. As I reach for my bag I can see her writing down “Eats Kit Kat,” on her notes, and underneath, “Using yoga for pain relief.” She riffles back in her file, then looks up sympathetically. “During contractions, where’s most of the pain focused?”
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