I glance at Luke, who mouths Rhapsody ? with such an expression of horror, I want to laugh.
“Hey, I have an idea,” chimes in Suze. “Fruit’s been done to death, but not herbs. You could call her Tarragon!”
“Tarragon?” Mum looks appalled. “You might as well call her Chili Powder! Now, I’ve got some champagne to wet her little head…. It’s not too early, is it?” She pulls out a bottle, along with a piece of paper. “Oh yes, and I took a message from your real estate agent. He phoned while I was at your flat, and I gave him a piece of my mind, I can tell you! I said, ‘A newborn baby is homeless at Christmas because of you, young man.’ That stopped him in his tracks! He said he wanted to apologize. Then he started talking some nonsense about villas in Barbados! I ask you.” She shakes her head. “Now, who wants champagne? Where are the champagne glasses?” She puts the bottle down and starts searching in the cupboards under the telly.
“I’m not sure they’ve got any champagne glasses,” I say.
“Well, for goodness’ sake!” Mum clicks her tongue and stands up again. “I’ll speak to the concierge.”
“Mum, there isn’t a concierge.”
Just because they have posh menus and tellies, Mum seems to think this place is some kind of Ritz-Carlton.
“I’ll find something,” Mum says firmly, and heads to the door.
“D’you want some help?” Suze gets to her feet. “I’ve got to phone Tarkie anyway.”
“Thank you!” Mum beams at her. “And Graham, you fetch the camera from the car. I forgot to bring it up.”
The door closes behind Dad, and Luke and I are alone in the room again. With our daughter.
God, that’s a weird thought. I still can’t quite believe we have a daughter.
Meet our daughter, Tarragon Parsley Sage and Onion.
No.
“So.” Luke pushes a hand back through his rumpled hair. “In two weeks’ time we’re homeless.”
“Out on the streets!” I say lightly. “Never mind.”
“I guess you expected to marry someone who could put a roof over your head, didn’t you?”
He’s joking, but there’s a wryness in his voice.
“Oh well.” I shrug, watching the baby’s hand unfurl like a little starfish. “Better luck next time…”
There’s silence and I glance up. Luke seems genuinely stricken.
“Luke, I’m joking!” I say hastily. “It doesn’t matter!”
“You’ve just had a baby. You should have a home. We shouldn’t be in this position. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s not your fault!” I grab his hand. “Luke, we’ll be fine. We’ll make a home wherever we are.”
“I’ll get us a home,” he says, almost fiercely. “Becky, we’ll have a wonderful house, I promise you.”
“I know we will.” I squeeze his hand tight. “But honestly…it doesn’t matter.”
I’m not just saying that to be supportive.(Even though I am a very supportive wife.) It really, truly doesn’t seem to matter. Right now, I feel like I’m in a kind of bubble. Real life is on the other side, miles away. All that matters is the baby.
“Look!” I say, as she suddenly yawns. “She’s only eight hours old and she can yawn! That’s so clever!”
For a while we both gaze into the crib, awestruck, hoping she might do something else.
“Hey, maybe she’ll be prime minister one day!” I say softly. “Wouldn’t that be cool? We could get her to do all the things we wanted!”
“She won’t, though.” Luke shakes his head. “If we tell her to do them, she’ll do exactly the opposite.”
“She’s such a rebel!” I run a finger down her teeny forehead.
“She has her own mind.” Luke corrects me. “Look at the way she’s ignoring us now.” He sits back on the bed. “So what are we going to call her? Not Grisabella.”
“Not Rhapsody.”
“Not Parsley.” He picks up 1,000 Girls’ Names and starts flicking through it.
Meanwhile I’m just gazing at her sleeping face. This one name keeps popping into my head every time I look at her. It’s almost as if she’s telling it to me.
“Minnie,” I say aloud.
“Minnie,” Luke echoes, experimentally. “Minnie Brandon. You know, I like that.” He looks up with a smile. “I really like it.”
“Minnie Brandon.” I can’t help beaming back. “It sounds good, doesn’t it? Miss Minnie Brandon.”
“Named after…your aunt Ermintrude, obviously?” Luke raises his eyebrows.
Oh my God! That hadn’t even occurred to me.
“Of course!” I can’t help giggling. “Except no one will know that except us.”
The Right Honourable Minnie Brandon QC OBE.
Miss Minnie Brandon looked radiant as she danced with the Prince in a floor-length ball gown by Valentino….
Minnie Brandon has taken the world by storm….
“Yes.” I nod. “That’s her name.” I lean over the cot and watch her chest rising and falling with each breath. Then I smooth back her tuft of hair and kiss her tiny cheek. “Welcome to the world, Minnie Brandon.”
TWENTY-TWO
SO IT’S HAPPENED. The Karlssons have moved in to our flat. All our furniture has been packed up and moved out. We’re officially homeless.
Except not really, because Mum and Dad are having us stay for a while. Like Mum said, they’ve got heaps of room, and Luke can commute from Oxshott station, and Mum can help out with Minnie, and we can play bridge every night after supper. Which is all true, except the playing bridge bit. No way. Uh-uh. Never. Not even with the Tiffany bridge cards Mum bought me as a bribe. She keeps saying it’s “such fun,” and “All the young people are playing bridge these days.” Yeah, right.
Anyway, I’m too busy looking after Minnie to sit around playing bridge. I’m too busy being a mother.
Minnie’s four weeks old already, and is a total party girl. I knew she would be. Her favorite time is one in the morning, when she starts saying “ra ra ra” and you struggle out of bed, feeling like you only fell asleep three seconds ago.
Plus she quite likes three in the morning. And five. And quite a few times in between. To be honest, I feel totally hungover and knackered every morning.
But on the plus side, cable telly is on all night. And Luke often gets up to keep me company. He does his e-mails and I watch Friends with the sound turned low, and Minnie breast-feeds like she’s some starving, deprived baby who wasn’t fed just an hour ago.
The thing about babies is, they really know what they want. Which I do quite respect. Like, it turns out Minnie doesn’t like the hand-crafted crib after all. It makes her all cross and squirmy, which is a bit crap considering it cost five hundred quid. Nor is she impressed by the rocking cradle, nor the Moses basket, even with Hollis Franklin four-hundred-thread-count linen sheets. What she likes best is to be cuddled in someone’s arms all day and all night. And second best is my old carry-cot, which Mum got down from the attic. It’s all soft and worn looking but pretty comfy. So I returned all the others and got a refund.
I returned the Circus Tent Changing Station too. And the Bugaboo and the Warrior—in fact, loads of stuff. We don’t need them. We don’t even have a house to put them in. And I gave all the money to Luke, because…well, I wanted to help. Even a little bit.
The good news is, things are looking up a tad for Luke. And the best bit of all is that Iain Wheeler lost his job! Luke didn’t hang around—the day after we had Minnie, he paid a visit to Iain’s bosses, along with his lawyer, and they had a “short conversation,” as Luke put it. The next thing we heard was that Iain Wheeler was announcing his decision to move from Arcodas. It’s nearly a month later and Gary, who knows these things, says he hasn’t had any job offers yet. Which is apparently because everyone has heard the rumor of some incriminating dossier on him. Ha.
Luke won’t work with Arcodas, though, even with Iain gone. He says their attitude is just as obnoxious a
s ever. And he still hasn’t got any money out of them. He’s just closed down another three European offices and things are still pretty tense. But he’s OK. He’s thinking positive, already planning new pitches, new strategies. We sometimes talk about them at night, and I tell him everything I think. And then somehow the conversation always drifts to Minnie and how amazing and beautiful and gorgeous she is.
And now I’m standing in Mum’s driveway, joggling her in my arms, watching the delivery men unload all our things. Most of our stuff has gone into storage, but obviously there were a few essentials we had to bring with us.
“Becky…” Mum approaches me from across the drive, holding a teetering pile of old magazines. “Where shall I put these, love? In the rubbish?”
“They’re not rubbish!” I protest. “I might want to read them! Can’t they go in our bedroom?”
“It’s getting a little full….” Mum looks at the magazines and seems to make a snap decision. “I think we’ll have to give you the blue bedroom as well.”
“OK.” I nod. “Thanks, Mum.”
We didn’t give up the house without a fight. Luke phoned Fabia to plead with her, and so did I and so did the real estate agent. But they exchanged contracts with the other couple two days after Minnie was born. The only tiny silver lining was that I got my Archie Swann boot back, after I sent Fabia about five threatening e-mails. Otherwise there really would have been trouble.
“More shoes.” A delivery guy comes by, carrying a cardboard packing box. “That fitted wardrobe’s full, you know.”
“It’s all right!” says Mum briskly. “Start filling up the blue bedroom. I’ll show you….”
“How are you doing?” Luke comes by in his shirtsleeves, carrying my Pilates ball and two hatboxes.
“Fine.” I nod, watching a delivery guy carry in my vanity case. “This is weird, isn’t it?”
“It’s pretty weird.” He puts his arm round me and I nestle into his shoulder. Last night was even weirder, with all the furniture packed up in the van and just a big empty flat filled with boxes. At about four A.M., Minnie just wouldn’t sleep, so I wound up her mobile with the Brahms Lullaby and put her in the baby sling. Luke wrapped his arms round us both and we kind of danced around the room in the moonlight.
I never realized that song was a waltz before.
“Luke!” Dad approaches us, holding a pile of post. “You’ve got a letter.”
“Someone’s very efficient,” says Luke in surprise. “I haven’t given this address to many people….” He glances at the logo on the back. “Ah. It’s from Kenneth.”
“Great!” I feign enthusiasm and make a face at Minnie.
Luke rips open the envelope and scans the text. After a second he peers harder. “I don’t believe it,” he says slowly. At last he raises his head and stares at me in disbelief. “It’s about you.”
“Me?”
“There’s a duplicate letter in the post for you too. As Kenneth says, it’s quite a big matter, so he wanted to contact both of us.”
Oh, this is all I need. Letters of complaint from Kenneth.
“He hates me!” I say defensively. “It’s not my fault. All I said was that he was narrow-minded—”
“It’s not that.” Luke’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Becky…it looks like you beat me.”
“What?” I say in astonishment.
“One of your investments has done exceedingly well. I’m not sure Kenneth can quite cope with the news, to be honest.”
I knew it. I knew I’d win.
“What is it?” I demand in excitement. “What did well? It’s the Barbies, isn’t it? No, the Dior coat.”
“The Web site fabbesthandbags.com is going to be floated. You’ll make a stack.”
I seize the letter and run my eyes down it, taking in words here and there. Three thousand percent profit…extraordinary…unforeseen…
Ha-di-ha! I beat Luke!
“So, am I the most financially astute and clever person in this family?” I look up in triumph.
“Your Antiques of the Future are still a worthless pile of crap,” Luke says, but he’s grinning.
“So what? I still beat you! You’ve got lots of lovely money, darling!” I kiss Minnie on the forehead.
“When she’s twenty-one,” Luke puts in.
Honestly. Luke’s so boring. Who wants to wait till they’re twenty-one?
“We’ll see about that,” I murmur into her ear, pulling the blanket over her head so Luke doesn’t hear.
“Right!” Mum appears in the front door, holding a cup of tea. “That’s your bedroom pretty much full. But it’ll take an awful lot of sorting out and tidying, I’m afraid. It’s quite a mess.”
“No problem,” calls Luke. “Thanks, Jane!” Mum disappears inside again and he picks up the Pilates ball. “So, shall we make a start?”
I loathe sorting out. And tidying. How can I get out of this?
“Actually, you know, I thought I might take Minnie for a walk,” I say casually. “I think she needs some fresh air. She’s been stuck inside all day….”
“Good idea.” Luke nods. “I’ll see you later then.”
“See you later! Bye-bye, Daddy!” I wave Minnie’s tiny hand as Luke vanishes into the house.
I never realized it before, but having a baby is just the best excuse. For anything!
I put Minnie in her pram, all wrapped up cozily, and tuck Knotty next to her for company. I think Minnie’s quite fond of Knotty, actually. And Double-Knotty, which Jess gave her.
We’re using the old-fashioned gray pram I got at the baby fair, first of all because I got a bit carried away sending back all the other prams, and secondly because Mum reckons it’s the best one for supporting Minnie’s back, “not like these newfangled buggies.” I’m planning to get it sprayed hot pink as soon as I can—only it’s not that easy to find a custom pram paint-sprayer over the festive season.
I tuck her up in the gorgeous pink-and-white blanket that Luke’s parents gave her when they visited over Christmas. They were so sweet—they brought me a basket of muffins and invited us to stay (only, Devon’s a bit far) and said Minnie was the most beautiful baby they’d ever seen. Which shows what good taste they have. Unlike Elinor, who hasn’t even visited and just sent Minnie this hideous antique china doll with ringlets and spooky eyes, like something out of a horror film. I’m going to auction it on eBay and put the money in Minnie’s account.
I put on my new Marc Jacobs coat which Luke got me for Christmas and tie my Denny and George scarf round my neck. I’ve been wearing it all the time since I got out of hospital. Somehow I don’t feel like wearing any other scarf at the moment.
I always knew it would be a good investment.
There’s a little parade of shops quite near to Mum and Dad, and without quite meaning to, I head that way. Not because I’m planning to go shopping or anything. Just because it’s a nice walk.
As I reach the newsagents it’s all warm and bright and welcoming, and I find myself pushing the pram in. Minnie is fast asleep and I head toward the magazine rack. I could get a magazine for Mum—she’d like that. I’m just reaching for Good Housekeeping when my hand freezes. There’s Vogue.
A brand-new issue of Vogue. With a bright blue cover line shouting, London’s Yummiest Mummies-to-Be.
My hands fumbling in excitement, I pull it down, tear off the free travel supplement, and flick through the pages….
Oh my God! It’s a huge picture of me! I’m standing on the sweeping staircase in the Missoni dress, and the caption reads: “Rebecca Brandon, shopping guru and wife of the PR entrepreneur Luke Brandon, is expecting her first baby.”
Based in Maida Vale, the text below reads, former TV presenter Becky Brandon’s elegant style is obvious throughout her palatial six-bedroom house. She designed the stunning “his” and “hers” nurseries herself, with no expense spared. “Only the best will do for my baby,” she says. “We hand-sourced the furniture from a tribe of artisans livi
ng in Mongolia.”
I turn the page—and there’s another picture of me, beaming as I stand in the fairy-princess nursery, my hands resting on my bump. A big pull-out quote reads: “I have five prams. I don’t think that’s too many.”
Becky is planning a natural water birth with lotus flowers, and is under the care of It-obstetrician Venetia Carter. “Venetia and I are good friends,” enthuses Becky. “We have such a great bond. I might ask her to be a godmother.”
It all feels like an age away. Like a different world.
As I gaze down at the beautiful designer nursery, I can’t help feeling a pang. Minnie would have loved it. I know she would.
Anyway, she’ll have a lovely nursery one day. Even better than that one.
I take the Vogue to the counter and put it down, and the assistant looks up from her magazine.
“Hi!” I say. “I’d like to get this, please.”
There’s a new display in the corner with a sign reading GIFTS—and while the assistant is unlocking the till, I wander over to have a look. It’s mostly photo frames and small vases and a rack of thirties-style brooches.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” says the assistant as she scans my magazine. “Over Christmas you were in all the time.”
All the time. Honestly. People do exaggerate.
“I’ve just moved back into the area.” I give her a friendly smile. “My name’s Becky.”
“We noticed you.” She puts the Vogue into a plastic bag. “We call you the Girl—” She breaks off and I stiffen. What was she going to say?
“Shh!” says the other assistant, going pink and nudging the first one.
“Don’t worry, I don’t mind!” Nonchalantly I flick my hair back. “Do you call me…the Girl in the Denny and George Scarf?”
“No.” The assistant looks blank. “We call you the Girl with the Crappy Pram.”
Oh.
Huh. It’s not that crappy. And just wait till it’s sprayed pink. It’ll be totally fab.
“That’ll be three pounds, please,” she says, and holds out her hand. And I’m just about to get out my purse, when I spot a display of rose quartz necklaces nestled among the other gifts.
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