Shopaholic & Baby (8 page)

“Bloody hell, Suze! Are you training for the makeup Olympics?”

“You wait,” says Suze, brushing sparkly shadow onto her eyelids. “You’ll be able to do your makeup in three seconds flat too.” She unscrews her lipstick and slashes it on. “Done!” She grabs her elegant green satin dress and steps into it, then takes a jeweled hair clasp from her bag and twists her blond hair into a knot.

“That’s nice!” I say, admiring the clasp.

“Thanks.” She hesitates. “Lulu gave it to me.”

“Oh, right.” Now that I look at it again, it isn’t that nice. “So…how is Lulu?” I force myself to say politely.

“She’s fine!” Suze’s face is lowered as she wrenches her hair into place. “She’s written a book, actually.”

“A
book
?” Lulu never struck me as the book type.

“On cooking for your children.”

“Really?” I say in surprise. “Well, maybe I should read that. Is it good?”

“I haven’t read it yet,” says Suze after a pause. “But obviously she’s the expert, with four of them….”

There’s a kind of tension in her voice that I can’t place. But then Suze looks up—and her hair is such a terrible mess, we both burst out laughing.

“Let me do it.” I grab the clasp, take it out of the knotted hair, brush it all out, and twist it up again, pulling little tendrils out at the front.

“Fab.” Suze gives me a hug. “Thanks, Bex. And now I’m
dying
for a cosmo. Come on!”

She practically gallops out of the room, and I follow her down the stairs with slightly less enthusiasm. I guess mine will be a Virgin Fruity Bland Something.

I mean, obviously I don’t mind. I’m creating a beautiful new human being and all that. But still. If I were God, I’d make it OK for pregnant women to have cocktails. In fact, I’d make it
healthy
to have cocktails. And your arms wouldn’t swell up. And there wouldn’t be any morning sickness. And labor wouldn’t exist….

Thinking about it, I’d pretty much have a whole different system altogether.

Even on virgin cocktails, it’s a fabulous party. By midnight the marquee is full, and we’ve all had a delicious dinner. Dad has made a speech about how wonderful Mum is, as a wife and as a mother and now as a prospective grandmother. And Martin, our next-door neighbor, has performed his magic show, which was really excellent! Apart from the bit when he tried to cut Janice in half and she freaked out when he turned on the chain saw and started crying “Don’t kill me, Martin!” while he kept revving it up like some horror film maniac.

It was all right in the end. Martin took off his mask and Janice was fine after she had some brandy.

And now the band is playing and we’re all on the dance floor. Mum and Dad are grooving away, all rosy-cheeked and beaming at each other, the lights sparkling on Mum’s sequins. Suze is dancing with one arm round Tarquin’s neck and the other round Clementine, who woke up and wouldn’t go back to sleep. Tom and Jess are standing at the edge of the dance floor, talking and occasionally doing a kind of awkward shuffle together. Tom looks pretty good in black tie, I noticed—and Jess’s black embroidered skirt is fantastic! (I was totally sure it was Dries van Noten. But apparently it was made by a women’s collective in Guatemala and cost about 30p. Typical.)

And I’m wearing my new pink dress with the handkerchief hem, and dancing (as best I can, given the bump) with Luke. Mum and Dad dance by and wave at us, and I smile back, trying not to cringe in horror. I know this is their party and everything. But my parents
really
don’t know how to dance. Mum’s wiggling her hips, completely out of time, and Dad’s kind of punching the air like he’s fighting three invisible men at once.

Why can’t parents dance? Is it some universal law of physics or something?

Suddenly a terrifying thought hits me. We’re going to be parents! In twenty years’ time,
our
child will be cringing at
us
.

No. I can’t let it happen.

“Luke!” I say urgently over the music. “We have to be able to do cool dancing so we don’t embarrass our child!”

“I’m a very cool dancer,” replies Luke. “Very cool indeed.”

“No, you’re not!”

“I had dance lessons in my teens, you know,” he retorts. “I can waltz like Fred Astaire.”

“
Waltz
?” I echo derisively. “That’s not cool! We need to know all the street moves. Watch me.”

I do a couple of funky head-wriggle body-pop maneuvers, like they do on rap videos. When I look up, Luke is gaping at me.

“Sweetheart,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“It’s hip-hop!” I say. “It’s street!”

“Becky! Love!” Mum has pushed her way through her dancing guests to reach me. “What’s wrong? Has labor started?”

Honestly. My family has
no
idea about contemporary urban street dance trends.

“I’m fine!” I say. “Just dancing.”

Ow. Actually, I may have pulled a muscle or three.

“Come here, J-Lo.” Luke puts his arms round me. Mum dances off to talk to Janice and I look up at Luke’s glowing face. He’s been in a good mood ever since that business call he took during coffee.

“What was your call about?” I ask. “Good news?”

“We’ve just had the go-ahead in Barcelona.” His nose twitches, like it always does when he’s delighted with life but wants to look deadpan. “That takes us up to eight offices, Europe-wide. All down to the Arcodas contract.”

He never told me Barcelona was on the cards! That’s so Luke, keeping it quiet until the deal’s done. If it hadn’t come off, he probably never would have said a word about it.

Eight offices.
And
London and New York. That’s pretty stupendous.

The music changes to a slow track and Luke pulls me closer. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Jess and Tom have sidled farther onto the dance floor together.
Go on
, I will Tom silently.
Kiss her
.

“So, things are going pretty well?” I say.

“Things, my darling, could not be going more fantastically.” Luke meets my eyes, the teasing gone. “Seriously. We’re going to treble our size.”

“Wow.” I digest this for a few moments. “Are we going to be squillionaires?

“Could be.” He nods.

This is so cool. I have
always
wanted to be a squillionaire. We can have a building called Brandon Tower! And Luke can have his own
Apprentice
-type reality show!

“Can we buy an island?” Suze has got her own Scottish island and I’ve always felt a bit left out.

“Maybe.” Luke laughs.

I’m about to say we need a private jet too, when the baby starts squirming around inside me. I take hold of Luke’s hands and put them on my abdomen.

“It’s saying hello.”

“Hello, baby,” he murmurs back in his deep voice. He pulls me even tighter and I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of his aftershave, feeling the music thud through me like a heartbeat.

I can’t remember ever being so happy. We’re dancing cheek-to-cheek, our baby is kicking between us, we’ve got a fabulous new house, and we’re going to be squillionaires! Everything’s just perfect.

MARY, MARY QUITE CONTRARY…
Had a little lamb.
And
TOM, TOM, THE PIPER’S SON…
Went to London to look at the
Fell off the wall.
And he called for his pipe.
And all the king’s horses and his fiddlers three.
Couldn’t put
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
LITTLE JACK HORNER…
He had ten thousand men
Met a pieman
LITTLE BOY BLUE…
Lost his sheep
Oh, fuck knows.

OK. THIS IS MY OUTFIT for my first-ever appointment with a celebrity must-have obstetrician:

Embroidered kaftan top like Jemima Khan
Maternity jeans (with the elastic hidden in the pockets,
not
with a great revolting panel of stretchy fabric)
My new Elle Macpherson maternity underwear (lilac)
Prada sandals

I look pretty good, I think. I hope. I tweak my kaftan and toss my hair back at my reflection.

“Hi,” I murmur. “Hi, Kate. Hi, Elle. God, fancy bumping into you. I’m wearing your underpants!”

No. Don’t mention the underpants.

I scrutinize myself one final time, add a dusting of powder, then pick up my bag.

“Luke, are you ready?” I call.

“Uh-huh.” Luke puts his head round the study door, his phone wedged under his chin. “Uh-huh. Hold on, Iain.” He puts his hand over the receiver. “Becky, do I really need to come?”

“
What
?” I stare at him in horror. “Of course you need to come!”

Luke runs his eyes over my face, as though assessing the full extent of my mood. “Iain,” he says at last, turning back to the phone. “This is complicated.” He disappears back into the office and his voice descends to a murmur.

Complicated? What does he mean, complicated? We’re going to the obstetrician, end of story. I start pacing furiously around the hall, rehearsing retorts in my mind.
Can’t Iain wait for once? Does our whole life have to revolve around Arcodas? Isn’t our baby’s birth important to you? Have you ever cared about me at all
?

Well, OK. Maybe not that last one.

At last Luke reappears at the study door. The phone’s gone and he’s putting on his suit jacket.

“Listen, Becky…” he begins.

I knew it. He’s not coming.

“You’ve never wanted to see Venetia Carter, have you?” My words tumble out. “ You’re prejudiced against her! Well, fine! You go and do your business things and I’ll go on my own!”

“Becky…” He lifts a hand. “I’m coming to the appointment.”

“Oh,” I say, mollified. “Well, we’d better go. It’s twenty minutes’ walk.”

“We’re going by car.” He heads back into the office and I follow him in. “Iain’s on his way down from the hotel group meeting. He can pick us up, we’ll have a very quick meeting in the car, then I’ll join you.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “That sounds OK.”

Actually, it sounds awful. I can’t stand Iain Wheeler; the last thing I want to do is sit in a car with him. But I can’t say that to Luke. There’s already a slight situation over me and Arcodas.

Which was
not
my fault. It was Jess’s. A few months ago, she got me into leading this big environmental protest against them, when I had no idea they were Luke’s new, important client. Luke turned the whole thing round into a positive PR exercise and the Arcodas people pretended they had a sense of humor about it—but I’m not sure I’ve ever really been forgiven.

“And I’m not prejudiced,” Luke adds, straightening his tie. “But I’ll just tell you now, Becky. This obstetrician woman will have to be pretty damn good for us to cancel Dr. Braine.”

“Luke, you’re going to love her,” I say patiently. “I know you are.”

I reach into my bag to check that my phone’s charged, then halt as I spot something on Luke’s desk. It’s a clipping from the financial pages about some new unit trust, with “Baby fund?” scribbled in the margin.

Ooh!

“So, you’re thinking of putting the baby’s money in a tracker fund, are you, Luke?” I say carelessly. “Interesting decision.”

Luke looks taken aback for a moment, then follows my gaze.

“Maybe I am,” he says in equally nonchalant tones. “Or maybe it’s a double-bluff to fool the spying opposition.”

“The opposition doesn’t need to
spy
.” I give him a kind smile. “She has her own brilliant ideas. In fact, if you need any tips, I’d be happy to help. For a small fee.”

“That’s quite all right,” he says politely. “Going well, is it, then? Your own investment.”

“Brilliantly, thanks. Couldn’t be better.”

“Excellent. Glad to hear it.”

“Yes…that recent Japanese farming investment I made was fantastic….” I clap a hand over my mouth. “Oops! Said too much!”

“Yup, Becky. You really fool me.” Luke grins. “Shall we go?”

We emerge from the building and Luke ushers me into Iain’s black Mercedes limo.

“Luke.” Iain nods from his seat by the window. “Rebecca.”

Iain is a thickset guy in his early forties, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He’s quite good-looking, actually, but has terrible skin which he covers up by having a Permatan. And he wears too much aftershave.
Why
do men do that?

“Thanks for the lift, Iain,” I say in my best charming-corporate-wife manner.

“No problem.” Iain’s gaze drops to my swelling stomach. “Been eating too many pies, Rebecca?”

Ha-ha.

“Something like that,” I say, as pleasantly as I can.

As the car pulls away, Iain takes a slurp of his take-out coffee. “How long to go before the big day?”

“Seventeen weeks.”

“So, how do you fill the time until then? Don’t tell me—yoga classes. My girlfriend’s become a yoga nut,” he adds to Luke, without giving me a chance to answer. “Load of bollocks if you ask me.”

Honestly. Number one, yoga is
not
bollocks, it’s a way to channel your spirit through the chakras of life, or whatever it is.

And number two, I don’t need ways to fill my time, thank you.

“Actually, Iain, I’m head personal shopper at a top London department store,” I inform him. “So I don’t have too much time for yoga.”

“A department store?” He swivels in his seat to regard me. “I didn’t know that. Which one?”

I really fell into this one.

“It’s…new,” I say, examining my nails.

“Called?”

“It’s called…The Look.”

“The Look?” Iain guffaws in disbelief and nearly drops his coffee. “Luke, you didn’t tell me your wife worked for The Look! Business slow enough for you, is it, Rebecca?”

“It’s not that bad,” I say politely.

“Not that bad? There’s never been a bigger retail flop in history! I hope you’ve got rid of your stock options!” He guffaws again. “Not counting on a Christmas bonus, are you?”

This guy is really starting to annoy me. It’s one thing for me to be rude about The Look; they’re my employer. But it’s quite another matter for other people to be rude.