“We’re off now,” I say hurriedly to the guards. “Thank you
so
much for all your help. You’ve got a great security system….”
“Wait a minute.” One of the guards is frowning in suspicion. “Why did the baby say ‘Mama’ to this lady?”
“Because…she’s called Mamie,” I say desperately. “Clever Tallulah-Phoebe, that’s your aunty Mamie! Aunty Mama! Let’s go home now….”
I can’t quite look at Suze as we head toward the exits. On the loudspeakers, the DJ is saying, “And baby Tallulah-Phoebe has been
found
, safe and well….”
“So, do you want to tell me what that was all about, Bex?” Suze says at last, without turning her head.
“Er…” I clear my throat. “Not really. Shall we go and have a cup of tea instead?”
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!”