“Oh, come back to England and have a baby!” says Suze wheedlingly. “Then we can be mummies together!”
“Honestly, Suze!” I take a sip of chocolate, rolling my eyes. “Like I’m really ready to have a baby!” I get up to go to the ladies’ room before she can say anything else.
On the other hand . . . she has got a point. Why shouldn’t I have a baby? Other people do—so why not me? I mean, if I could somehow bypass the actual having it bit. Maybe I could have one of those operations where you go to sleep and don’t feel anything. And then when I woke up I’d have a baby!
I have a sudden pleasant vision of Suze and me walking up the road together, pushing prams. That might be quite fun, actually. I mean, you can buy loads of gorgeous baby things these days. Like cute little hats, and tiny denim jackets . . . And—yes—doesn’t Gucci do a really cool baby sling?
We could have cappuccinos together, and walk round the shops, and . . . I mean, that’s basically all mothers do, isn’t it? Now that I think about it, I’d be perfect at it!
I must definitely have a chat with Luke.
It’s not until we’re leaving Oriel that Suze says, “So, Bex, you haven’t told me anything about the wedding!”
My stomach gives a little swoop, and I turn my head away, under the pretense of putting on my coat.
I’d kind of managed to forget about the whole wedding issue.
“Yes,” I say at last. “Well, it’s all . . . um . . . fine!”
I’m not going to bother Suze with my problems. I’m not.
“Was Luke all right about you getting married in England?” She looks anxiously at me. “I mean, it didn’t cause a rift between you or anything?”
“No,” I say after a pause. “I can honestly say that it didn’t.”
I hold the door open for her and we walk out into Sloane Square. A column of schoolchildren in corduroy knickerbockers is crowding the pavement, and we stand aside, waiting for them to pass.
“You know, you made the right decision.” Suze squeezes my arm. “I was so worried you were going to choose New York. What made you finally decide?”
“Er . . . this and that. You know. So, erm . . . did you read about these new proposals to privatize the water system?”
But Suze ignores me. Honestly, isn’t she interested in current affairs?
“So what did Elinor say when you called off the Plaza?”
“She said . . . erm . . . well, she wasn’t pleased, of course. She said she was very cross, and . . . er . . .”
“Very cross?” Suze raises her eyebrows. “Is that all? I thought she’d be furious!”
“She was furious!” I amend hurriedly. “She was so furious, she . . . burst a blood vessel!”
“She burst a blood vessel?” Suze stares at me. “Where?”
“On her . . . chin.”
There’s silence. Suze is standing still in the street, her expression slowly changing. “Bex—”
“Let’s go and look at baby clothes!” I say hurriedly. “There’s that really sweet shop on the King’s Road . . .”
“Bex, what’s going on?”
“Nothing!”
“There is! I can tell. You’re hiding something.”
“No, I’m not!”
“You did call the American wedding off, didn’t you?”
“I . . .”
“Bex?” Her voice is as stern as I’ve ever heard it. “Tell me the truth.”
Oh God. I can’t lie any more.
“I . . . I’m going to,” I say weakly.
“You’re going to?” Suze’s voice rises in dismay. “You’re going to?”
“Suze—”
“I should have known! I should have guessed! But I just assumed you must have called it off, because your mother kept on organizing her wedding, and no one said anything about New York, and I thought, oh, Bex must have decided to get married at home after all . . .”
“Suze, please. Don’t worry about it,” I say quickly. “Just stay calm . . . breathe deeply . . .”
“How can I not worry about it!” cries Suze. “How can I not worry? Bex, you promised me you were going to sort this out weeks ago! You promised!”
“I know! And I’m going to. It’s just . . . it’s been so difficult. Deciding between them. They both seemed so perfect, in completely different ways—”
“Bex, a wedding isn’t a handbag!” says Suze incredulously. “You can’t decide you’ll treat yourself to two!”
“I know! I know! Look, I’m going to sort it out—”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because you’re all lovely and serene and happy!” I wail. “And I didn’t want to spoil it with my stupid problems.”
“Oh, Bex.” Suze gazes at me silently—then puts an arm round me. “So . . . what are you going to do?”
I take a deep breath.
“I’m going to tell Elinor the New York wedding is all off. And I’m going to get married here in England.”
“Really? You’re completely sure about that?”
“Yes. I’m sure. After seeing Mum and Dad . . . and Mum was so sweet . . . and she has no idea what I’ve been planning behind her back . . .” I swallow hard. “I mean, this wedding is everything to her. Oh God, Suze, I feel so stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t want to get married at the Plaza. I don’t want to get married anywhere else except at home.”
“You won’t change your mind again?”
“No. Not this time. Honestly, Suze, this is it.”
“What about Luke?”
“He doesn’t care. He’s said all along, it’s up to me.”
Suze is silent for a moment. Then she reaches in her bag for her mobile phone and thrusts it at me.
“OK. If you’re going to do it, do it now. Dial the number.”
“I can’t. Elinor’s in a Swiss clinic. I was planning to write her a letter—”
“No.” Suze shakes her head firmly. “Do it now. There must be someone you can call. Call that wedding planner, Robyn, and tell her it’s off. Bex, you can’t afford to leave it any longer.”
“OK,” I say, ignoring the leap of apprehension inside me. “OK, I’ll do it. I’ll . . . I’ll call her.”
I lift up the phone—then put it down again. Making the decision in my head was one thing. Actually making the call is another.
What’s Robyn going to say? What’s everybody going to say? I wouldn’t mind a little time, just to think through exactly what I’m going to tell them . . .
“Go on!” says Suze. “Do it!”
“All right!”
With trembling hands I lift the phone and dial 001 for America—but the display remains blank.
“Oh . . . dear!” I exclaim, trying to sound upset. “I can’t get a signal! Oh well, I’ll just have to phone later—”
“No you won’t! We’ll keep walking till you get one. Come on!” Suze starts marching toward the King’s Road and I scuttle nervously along behind her.
“Try again,” she says as we reach the first pedestrian crossing.
“Nothing,” I quaver. God, Suze looks incredible, like the prow of a ship. Her blond hair is streaming out behind her, and her face is flushed with determination. How come she’s got so much energy, anyway? I thought pregnant women were supposed to take it easy.
“Try again!” she repeats after every three hundred feet. “Try again! I’m not stopping till you’ve made that call!”
“There’s nothing!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!” Frantically I punch at the buttons, trying to trigger a signal. “Look!”
“Well, keep trying! Come on!”
“I am! I am!”
“Oh my God!” Suze gives a sudden shriek and I jump in terror.
“I’m trying! Honestly, Suze, I’m trying as hard as I—”
“No! Look!”
I stop still, and turn round. She’s stopped still on the pavement, ten yards behind me, and there’s a
puddle of water at her feet.
“Suze . . . don’t worry,” I say awkwardly. “I won’t tell anybody.”
“No! You don’t understand! It’s not . . .” She stares at me wildly. “I think my waters have broken!”
“Your what?” I feel a thud of pure fright. “Does that mean . . . Are you going to—”
This can’t be happening.
“I don’t know.” I can see panic rising on Suze’s face. “I mean, it’s possible . . . But it’s four weeks early! It’s too soon! Tarkie isn’t here, nothing’s ready . . . Oh God . . .”
I’ve never seen Suze look so scared before. A choking dismay creeps over me, and I fight the temptation to burst into tears. What have I done now? As well as everything else, I’ve sent my best friend into premature labor.
“Suze, I’m so sorry,” I gulp.
“It’s not your fault! Don’t be stupid!”
“It is! You were so happy and serene, and then you saw me. I should just stay away from pregnant people—”
“I’ll have to go to the hospital.” Suze’s face is pale. “They said to come in if this happened.”
“Well, let’s go! Come on!”
“But I haven’t got my bag, or anything. There’s loads of stuff I need to take . . .” She bites her lip worriedly. “Shall I go home first?”
“You haven’t got time for that!” I say in a panic. “What do you need?”
“Baby clothes . . . nappies . . . stuff like that . . .”
“Well, where do you . . .” I look around helplessly, then, with a sudden surge of relief, spot the sign for Peter Jones.
“OK,” I say, and grab her arm. “Come on.”
As soon as we get into Peter Jones, I look around for an assistant. And thank goodness, here comes one, a nice middle-aged lady with red lipstick and gold spectacles on a chain.
“My friend needs an ambulance,” I gasp.
“A taxi will be fine, honestly,” says Suze. “It’s just that my waters have broken. So I should probably get to the hospital.”
“Goodness!” says the lady. “Come and sit down, dear, and I’ll call a taxi for you . . .”
We sit Suze down on a chair by a checkout desk, and a junior assistant brings her a glass of water.
“Right,” I say. “Tell me what you need.”
“I can’t remember exactly.” Suze looks anxious. “We were given a list . . . Maybe they’ll know in the baby department.”
“Will you be OK if I leave you?”
“I’ll be fine! Contractions haven’t even started.”
“You’re sure?” I glance nervously at her stomach.
“Bex, just go!”
Honestly. Why on earth do they put baby departments so far away from the main entrances of shops? I mean, what’s the point of all these stupid floors of clothes and makeup and bags, which no one’s interested in? After sprinting up and down about six escalators, at last I find it, and come to a standstill, panting slightly.
For a moment I look around, dazed by all the names of things I’ve never heard of.
Reception blanket?
Anticolic teats?
Oh, sod it. I’ll just buy everything. I quickly head for the nearest display and start grabbing things indiscriminately. Sleeping suits, tiny socks, a hat . . . a teddy, a cot blanket . . . what else? A Moses basket . . . nappies . . . little glove puppets in case the baby gets bored . . . a really cute little Christian Dior jacket . . . gosh, I wonder if they do that in grown-up sizes too . . .
I shove the lot onto the checkout desk and whip out my Visa card.
“It’s for my friend,” I explain breathlessly. “She’s just gone into labor. Is this everything she needs?”
“I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid, dear,” says the assistant, scanning a baby bath thermometer.
“I’ve got a list here,” says a nearby woman in maternity dungarees and Birkenstocks. “This is what the National Childbirth Trust recommends you take in.”
“Oh, thanks!”
She hands a piece of paper to me and I scan the endless typed list with growing dismay. I thought I’d done so well—but I haven’t got half the stuff they say here. And if I miss anything, it’ll turn out to be completely vital, and Suze’s whole birth experience will be ruined and I’ll never forgive myself.
Loose T-shirt . . . Scented candles . . . Plant sprayer . . .
Is this the right list?
“Plant sprayer?” I say bewilderedly.
“To spray the laboring woman’s face,” explains the woman in dungarees. “Hospital rooms get very hot.”
“You’ll want the home department for that,” puts in the assistant.
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
Tape recorder . . . soothing tapes . . . inflatable ball . . .
“Inflatable ball? Won’t the baby be a bit young to play with a ball?”
“It’s for the mother to lean on,” says the woman kindly. “To alleviate the waves of pain. Alternatively she could use a large bean bag.”
Waves of pain? Oh God. The thought of Suze in pain makes me feel all wobbly inside.
“I’ll get a ball and a bean bag,” I say hurriedly. “And maybe some aspirin. Extra-strong.”
At last I stagger back to the ground floor, red in the face and panting. I just hope I’ve got all this right. I couldn’t find an inflatable ball in the whole of the stupid shop—so in the end I grabbed an inflatable canoe instead, and made the man pump it up for me. I’ve got it wedged under one arm now, with a Teletubbies bean bag and a Moses basket stuffed under the other, and about six full carrier bags dangling from my wrists.
I glance at my watch—and to my utter horror I see that I’ve already been twenty-five minutes. I’m half expecting to see Suze sitting on the chair holding a baby in her arms.
But there she is, still on the chair, wincing slightly.
“Bex. There you are! I think my contractions have started.”
“Sorry I took so long,” I gasp. “I just wanted to get everything you might need.” A box of Scrabble falls out of one of the bags onto the ground, and I bend to pick it up. “That’s for when you have an epidural,” I explain.
“The taxi’s here,” interrupts the lady with gold spectacles. “Do you need some help with all that?”
As we make our way out to the chugging taxi, Suze is staring at my load in utter bewilderment.
“Bex . . . why did you buy an inflatable canoe?”
“It’s for you to lie on. Or something.”
“And a watering can?”
“I couldn’t find a plant sprayer.” Breathlessly I start shoving bags into the taxi.
“But why do I need a plant sprayer?”
“Look, it wasn’t my idea, OK?” I say defensively. “Come on, let’s go!”
Somehow we cram everything into the taxi. A canoe paddle falls out as we close the door, but I don’t bother trying to get it. I mean, it’s not like Suze is having a water birth.
“Tarkie’s business manager is trying to reach him,” says Suze as we zoom along the King’s Road. “But even if he gets on a plane straight away, he’s going to miss it.”
“He might not!” I say encouragingly. “You never know!”
“He will.” To my dismay I can hear her voice starting to wobble. “He’ll miss the birth of his first child. After waiting all this time. And doing the classes, and everything. He was really good at panting. The teacher made him do it in front of everyone else, he was so good.”
“Oh, Suze.” I feel like crying. “Maybe you’ll take hours and hours, and he’ll still make it.”
“You’ll stay with me, won’t you?” She suddenly turns in her seat. “You won’t leave me there?”
“Of course not!” I say, appalled. “I’ll stay with you all the time, Suze.” I hold both her hands tight. “We’ll do it together.”
“Do you know anything at all about giving birth?”
“Erm . . . yes,” I lie. “Loads!”
“Like what?�
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“Like . . . um . . . you need hot towels . . . and . . .” Suddenly I spot a baby milk carton poking out of one of the bags. “. . . and many babies require a vitamin K injection after the birth.”
Suze stares at me, impressed. “Wow. How did you know that?”
“I just know stuff,” I say, pushing the carton out of sight with my foot. “You see? It’ll be fine!”
OK, I can do this. I can help Suze. I just have to stay cool and calm and not panic.
I mean, millions of people give birth every day, don’t they? It’s probably one of those things that sounds really scary but is quite easy when it comes to it. Like a driving test.
“Oh God.” Suze’s face suddenly contorts. “Here it comes again.”
“OK! Hang on!” In a flurry of alarm I scrabble inside one of the plastic bags. “Here you are!”
Suze opens her eyes dazedly as I produce a smart cellophaned box. “Bex—why are you giving me perfume?”
“They said get jasmine oil to help ease the pain,” I say breathlessly. “But I couldn’t find any, so I got Romance by Ralph Lauren instead. It’s got jasmine overtones.” I rip off the packaging and squirt it at her hopefully. “Does that help?”
“Not really,” says Suze. “But it’s a nice smell.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I say, pleased. “And because I spent over thirty quid, I got a free beauty bag with exfoliating body mitt and—”
“St. Christopher’s Hospital,” says the driver suddenly, drawing up in front of a large redbrick building. We both stiffen in alarm and look at each other.
“OK,” I say. “Keep calm, Suze. Don’t panic. Just . . . wait there.”
I open the taxi door, sprint through an entrance marked “Maternity,” and find myself in a reception area with blue upholstered chairs. A couple of women in dressing gowns look up from the magazines they’re reading, but other than that, there are no signs of life.
For God’s sake. Where is everybody?
“My friend’s having a baby!” I yell. “Quick, everyone! Get a stretcher! Get a midwife!”
“Are you all right?” says a woman in white uniform, appearing out of nowhere. “I’m a midwife. What’s the problem?”
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