Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (167 page)

Anyway. There’s a £50 version in Topshop. I’ll get those instead.

“Maybe not right now.” I lift my chin defiantly. “But we will be when you pull off your next big deal. And in the meantime”—I look around the fabulous designer kitchen—“we’re doing pretty well. We can buy an island some other year.” I think for a moment. “Actually, islands are totally over. We didn’t want one.”

Luke stares at me for a moment, then gives a sudden snort of laughter.

“You know something, Becky Bloomwood? You are going to be one hell of a mother.”

“Oh!” I color, totally taken by surprise. “Really? In a good way?”

Luke comes across the kitchen and rests his hands gently on my bump. “This little person is very lucky,” he murmurs.

“Except I don’t know any nursery rhymes,” I say, a bit gloomy. “I won’t be able to get it off to sleep.”

“Nursery rhymes are overrated,” says Luke confidently. “I’ll read it pieces from the
FT.
That’ll send it off.”

We both gaze down at my swollen tummy for a while. I still can’t quite get my head round the fact that there’s a baby inside my body. Which has got to come out…somehow.

OK, let’s not go there. There’s still time for them to invent something.

After a while Luke raises his head. He has a strange, unreadable expression on his face.

“So…tell me, Becky,” he says lightly. “Is it Armageddon or Pomegranate?”

“What?” I look at him, confused.

“This morning, when I got home, I was trying to work out where you’d gone. I rooted around in your drawers for clues….” He hesitates. “And I came across that gender predictor test. You’ve found out, haven’t you?”

My heart gives an almighty thud. Shit. I should have thrown the test away. I’m so
stupid.

Luke’s smiling, but I can see a trace of hurt in his eyes. And suddenly I feel really terrible. I don’t know how I could have been planning to leave Luke out of such an important moment. I don’t even quite know anymore why I was so desperate to find out the sex. Who cares?

I put one of my hands on his and squeeze it. “Actually, Luke…I didn’t do the test. I don’t know.”

Luke’s rueful expression doesn’t change.

“Come on, Becky. Just tell me. If only one of us is going to be surprised, there doesn’t seem much point in waiting anymore.”

“I didn’t do the test!” I insist. “Honestly! It was going to take too long and you had to have an injection….”

He doesn’t believe me. I can see it from his face. We’ll be in the delivery room and they’ll say “It’s a boy!” or whatever, and all he’ll think is “Becky already knew.”

A lump suddenly rises in my throat. I don’t want it to be like that. I want us to find out together.

“Luke, I
didn’t
find out,” I say desperately, tears stinging my eyes. “I really, honestly didn’t! I wouldn’t lie to you. You have to believe me. It’s going to be an amazing…wonderful…surprise. For
both
of us.”

I’m gazing up at him, my whole body tense, my hands clutching my skirt. Luke’s eyes are scanning my face.

“OK.” His brow finally relaxes. “OK. I believe you.”

“And I believe you too.” The words fall out of my mouth with no warning.

But now I’ve said them, I realize they’re true. I could demand more proof that Luke’s not seeing Venetia. I could get him followed again. I could be totally paranoid and miserable forever.

In the end, you have to choose whether or not to trust someone. And I do choose to trust him. I do.

“Come here.” Luke draws me in for a hug. “It’s OK, sweetheart. It’s all going to be fine.”

After a while I pull away from Luke. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, and get down a couple of mugs. Then I turn to him.

“Luke, why did Venetia say you were having an affair if you weren’t?”

“I have no idea.” Luke looks mystified. “Are you absolutely
sure
that’s what she meant? You couldn’t have misinterpreted what she was saying?”

“No!” I retort crossly. “I’m not that stupid! It was totally obvious what she meant.” I rip off a piece of Fabia’s paper towels and blow my nose on it. “And just so you know, I’m
not
having our baby delivered by her. Or going to any of her stupid tea parties.”

“Fine.” Luke nods. “I’m sure we can go back to Dr. Braine. You know, he’s e-mailed me a couple of times, just to see how you are.”

“Really? That’s so sweet of him….”

The doorbell rings and I start. It’s them. I’d almost half kind-of forgotten.

“Who’s that?” says Luke.

“It’s
Vogue
!” I say in agitation. “The whole reason I’m here! For the photo shoot!”

I hurry into the hall, and as I see my reflection in the mirror I feel a jerk of dismay. My face is blotchy; my eyes are all bloodshot and puffy; my smile is strained. I can’t remember my way round the house. I’ve totally forgotten all my yummy quotes. I can’t even remember who my
underpants
are by. I can’t do it.

The doorbell rings again, twice.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Luke has followed me into the hall.

“I’ll have to cancel!” Woefully, I turn to face him. “Look at me. I’m a mess! I can’t be in
Vogue
like this!”

“You’ll be wonderful,” he replies firmly, and strides to the front door.

“They think it’s our house!” I hiss after him in panic. “I told them we live here.”

Luke shoots me a what-do-you-take-me-for? glance over his shoulder, and swings open the door.

“Hello!” he says, in his most confident, head-of-a-huge-important-company voice. “Welcome to our home.”

Makeup artists should hereby get the Nobel Prize for adding to human happiness. And so should hairdressers.

And so should Luke.

It’s three hours later and the shoot is going brilliantly. Luke totally charmed all the
Vogue
people as soon as they arrived, and was completely convincing as we showed them around the house. They totally think we live here!

I feel like a different person. I certainly
look
like a different person. My blotchiness has been totally covered up, and the makeup artist was really sweet about it. She said she’d seen far worse and at least I wasn’t off my head on coke. Or six hours late. And at least I hadn’t brought some stupid yappy dog. (I get the feeling she’s not that keen on models.)

My hair looks totally fab and shiny, and they brought the most amazing clothes for me to wear, all in a trailer which they’ve parked outside. And now I’m standing on the sweeping staircase in a Missoni dress, beaming as the camera clicks, feeling just like Claudia Schiffer or someone.

And Luke is standing at the bottom of the staircase, smiling encouragingly up at me. He’s been here all along. He canceled all the rest of his morning meetings, and took part in the interview and everything. He said having a baby put other things into perspective and he thought fatherhood would change him as a person. He said he thought I was more beautiful right now than he’d ever seen me (which is a total lie, but still). He said…

Anyway. He said loads of nice things.
And
he knew who painted the picture above the fireplace in the sitting room when they asked. He’s brilliant!

“Shall we move outside now?” The photographer looks questioningly at Martha.

“That’s a nice idea.” She nods, and I walk down the stairs, carefully holding up my dress.

“Maybe I could wear the Oscar de la Renta dress?”

The stylist brought the most amazing purple evening dress and cloak, which was apparently made for some pregnant movie star to wear to a premiere but she never did. I just
have
to try it on.

“Yes, that’ll look spectacular against the grass.” Martha heads to the back of the hall and squints through the glass doors. “What an amazing garden! Did you landscape it yourselves?”

“Absolutely!” I glance at Luke.

“We hired a gardening company, obviously,” he says, “but the concept was all ours.”

“That’s right.” I nod. “Our inspiration was a kind of Zen…meets…urban structure….”

“The positioning of the trees was crucial to the project,” Luke adds. “We had them moved at least three times.”

“Wow.” Martha nods intelligently and scribbles in her notebook. “You’re real perfectionists!”

“We just care about design,” Luke says seriously. He shoots me a quick wink and I try not to giggle.

“So, you must be looking forward to seeing your little child out there on the lawn.” She looks up with a smile. “Learning to crawl…and walk…”

“Yes.” Luke takes my hand. “We certainly are.”

I’m about to add something, but my stomach suddenly tightens, like someone squeezed it with both hands. It’s been doing it for a while, now that I think about it—but that time was kind of stronger. “Ooh,” I say, before I can stop myself.

“What?” Luke looks alert.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “So, shall I put on the cloak?”

“Let’s get your makeup touched up,” says Martha. “And shall we do a sandwich run?”

I head across the hall, reach the front door, and stop. My stomach just tightened up again. It’s unmistakable.

“What is it?” Luke is watching me. “Becky, what’s going on?”

OK. Don’t panic.

“Luke,” I say as calmly as I can, “I think I’m in labor. It’s been going on for a while now.”

My stomach tightens again, and I start shallow panting, just like Noura said in that lesson. God, it’s amazing how I’m coping instinctively.

“A
while
?” Luke strides over to me, looking alarmed. “How long, exactly?”

I think back to when I first became aware of the sensations. “About five hours? Which means I’m probably…five centimeters dilated, maybe?”

“Five centimeters dilated?” Luke stares at me. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m halfway there.” My voice suddenly trembles with excitement. “It means we’re going to have a baby!”

“Jesus Christ.” Luke whips out his mobile phone and jabs at it. “Hello? Ambulance service, please. Quick!”

As he gives the address I feel suddenly shaky around the knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen until the nineteenth. I thought I had three more weeks to go.

And maybe I should have gone to more than one prenatal class.

“What’s going on?” Martha says, looking up from her notes. “Shall we do the garden shots now?”

“Becky’s in labor,” Luke says, putting his phone away. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go.”

“In
labor
?” Martha drops her notebook and pen and scrabbles to pick them up. “Oh my God! But it’s not due yet, is it?”

“Not for three weeks,” says Luke. “It must be early.”

“Are you all right, Becky?” Martha peers at me. “Do you need drugs?”

“I’m using natural methods,” I gasp, gripping my necklace. “This is an ancient Maori birthing stone.”

“Wow!” says Martha, scribbling. “Can you spell
Maori
?”

My stomach tightens again and I clutch the stone harder. Even with the pain, I can’t help feeling exhilarated. They’re right, birth
is
an amazing experience. I feel as if my whole body is working in harmony, as if this is what it was designed to do all along.

“Have you got a bag packed?” says Martha, watching me in alarm. “Aren’t you supposed to have a bag?”

“I’ve got a suitcase,” I say breathlessly.

“Right,” says Luke, snapping his phone shut. “Let’s get it. Quick. Where is it? And your hospital notes.”

“It’s…” I break off. It’s all at home. Our real home.

“Um…it’s in the bedroom. By the dressing table.” I look at him in slight desperation. Luke’s eyes snap with sudden understanding.

“Of course,” he says. “Well…I’m sure we can make a stop-off if we need to.”

“I’ll nip up and get it for you,” says Martha helpfully. “Which side of the dressing table is it?”

“No! I mean…um…actually, there it is!” I point at a Mulberry hold-all that I’ve suddenly spotted in the hall cupboard. “I forgot, I put it there so as to be ready.”

“Right.” Luke drags it out of the cupboard, with some effort, and a tennis ball falls out of it.

“Why are you taking tennis balls to hospital?” asks Martha, looking puzzled.

“For…er…massage. Oh God…” I grip the Maori stone tightly and breathe deeply.

“Are you OK, Becky?” says Luke, looking anxious. “It seems to be getting worse.” He looks at his watch. “Where’s this bloody ambulance?”

“They’re getting stronger.” I manage to nod through the pain. “I should think I’m probably about six or seven centimeters dilated by now.”

“Hey, the ambulance is here.” The photographer pokes his head through the front door. “It’s just pulling up.”

“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.