I look at the words for a moment. The thing is, it’s never a good idea to follow a book too closely. It even said in the introduction, “You will not want to take every piece of advice. Every baby is different and you must be guided by your instincts.”
My instincts are telling me to get a cowhide jacket.
I hurry over to the display and look through the size labels. “Newborn baby.” “Small baby.” How do I know if I’m going to have a small baby or not? Experimentally I prod my bump. It feels quite small so far, but who can tell? Maybe I should buy both, to be on the safe side.
“It’s the Baby in Urbe snowsuit!” A manicured hand appears on the rack in front of me and grabs a white quilted suit on a chic black hanger. “I’ve been dying to find one of these.”
“Me too!” I say instinctively and grab the last remaining one.
“You know in Harrods the waiting list for these is six months?” The owner of the hand is a hugely pregnant blond girl in jeans and a stretchy turquoise-wrap top. “Oh my God, they have the whole Baby in Urbe range.” She starts piling baby clothes into her white wicker basket. “And look! They’ve got Piglet shoes. I must get some for my daughters.”
I’ve never even heard of Baby in Urbe. Or Piglet shoes.
How can I be so uncool? How can I not have heard of any of the labels? As I survey the tiny garments before me I feel a slight panic. I don’t know what’s in or what’s out. I have no idea about baby fashion. And I’ve only got about four months to get up to speed.
I could always ask Suze. She’s my oldest, best friend, and has three children, Ernest, Wilfrid, and Clementine. But it’s a bit different with her. Most of her baby clothes are hand-embroidered smocks handed down through the generations and darned by her mother’s old retainer, and the babies sleep in antique oak cots from the family stately home.
I grab a couple of pairs of Piglet shoes, several Baby in Urbe rompers, and a pair of Jelly Wellies, just to be on the safe side. Then I spot the sweetest little pink baby dress. It has rainbow buttons and matching knickers and little tiny socks. It’s absolutely gorgeous. But what if we’re having a boy?
This is impossible, not knowing the sex. There must be some way I can secretly find out.
“How many children do you have?” says the turquoise-wrap girl chattily as she squints inside shoes for sizes.
“This is my first.” I gesture to my bump.
“How lovely! Just like my friend Saskia.” She gestures at a dark-haired girl who’s standing a few feet away. She’s whippet thin with no sign of pregnancy and is talking intently into a mobile phone. “She’s only just found out. So exciting!”
At that moment, Saskia snaps her phone shut and comes toward us, her face glowing.
“I got in!” she says. “I’m having Venetia Carter!”
“Oh, Saskia! That’s fantastic!” The turquoise-wrap girl drops her basket of clothes right on my foot, and throws her arms around Saskia. “Sorry about that!” she gaily adds to me as I hand the basket back. “But isn’t that great news? Venetia Carter!”
“Are you with Venetia Carter too?” Saskia asks me with sudden interest.
I am so out of the baby loop, I have no idea who or what Venetia Carter is.
“I haven’t heard of her,” I admit.
“You know.” Turquoise-wrap girl opens her eyes wide. “The obstetrician! The must-have celebrity obstetrician!”
Must-have celebrity obstetrician?
My skin starts to prickle. There’s a must-have celebrity obstetrician and I don’t know about it?
“The one from Hollywood!” elaborates turquoise-wrap girl. “She delivers all the film stars’ babies. You must have heard of her. And now she’s moved to London. All the supermodels are going to her. She holds tea parties for her clients—isn’t that fab? They all bring their babies and get these fabulous goodie bags….”
My heart is thumping as I listen. Goodie bags? Parties with supermodels? I cannot believe I’m missing out on all this. Why haven’t I heard of Venetia Carter?
It’s all Luke’s fault. He made us go straight for stuffy old Dr. Braine. We never even considered anyone else.
“And is she good at, you know, delivering babies?” I ask, trying to keep calm.
“Oh, Venetia’s wonderful,” says Saskia, who seems far more intense than her friend. “She’s not like these old-fashioned doctors. She really connects with you. My boss, Amanda, had the most fabulous holistic water birth with lotus flowers and Thai massage.”
Thai massage? Dr. Braine’s never even mentioned Thai massage.
“My husband won’t pay for her.” Turquoise-wrap girl pouts. “He’s a meanie. Saskia, you’re so lucky—”
“How do you get a place with her?” The words come spilling out before I can stop them. “Do you have the address? Or the phone number?”
“Ooh.” Turquoise-wrap girl exchanges doubtful glances with Saskia. “You’re probably too late now. She’ll be booked up.”
“I can give you this. You could try ringing.” Saskia reaches into her Mulberry bag and produces a brochure with Venetia Carter in elegant raised navy-blue script and a line drawing of a baby. I open it up and the first thing I see is a page of glowing testimonials, with names listed discreetly underneath. All famous! I turn to the back and there’s an address in Maida Vale.
I don’t believe it. Maida Vale is where we live. Oh, this is totally meant!
“Thanks,” I say breathlessly. “I will.”
As Saskia and her friend move away, I whip out my mobile phone and speed-dial Luke.
“Luke!” I exclaim as soon as he answers. “Thank God you answered! Guess what?”
“Becky, are you OK?” he asks in alarm. “What’s happened?”
“I’m fine! But listen, we have to change doctors! I’ve just found out about this brilliant celebrity obstetrician called Venetia Carter. Everyone goes to her and she’s amazing, apparently, and she practices near us! It couldn’t be more perfect! I’m about to call her!”
“Becky, what on earth are you talking about?” Luke sounds incredulous. “We’re not changing doctors! We have a doctor, remember. A very good one.”
Wasn’t he listening?
“I know we do,” I say. “But Venetia Carter delivers all the film stars’ babies! She’s holistic!”
“What do you mean, ‘holistic’?” Luke sounds unimpressed. God, he has such a closed mind.
“I mean everyone has a fabulous birth! She does Thai massage! I just met these two girls in Bambino, and they said—”
Luke cuts me off. “I really can’t see what advantages this woman could have over Dr. Braine. We know he’s experienced; we know he does a good job; he’s a friend of the family….”
“But…but…” I’m hopping with frustration.
“But what?”
I’m stumped. I can’t say, “But he doesn’t have tea parties with supermodels.”
“Maybe I want to be treated by a woman!” I exclaim with sudden inspiration. “Had you thought of that?”
“Then we’ll ask Dr. Braine to recommend a colleague,” Luke replies firmly. “Becky, Dr. Braine has been the family obstetrician for years. I really don’t think we should run off to some unknown trendy doctor on the say-so of a couple of girls.”
“But she’s not unknown! That’s the whole point! She treats celebrities!”
“Becky, just stop.” Luke suddenly sounds forceful. “This is a bad idea. You’re already halfway through your pregnancy. You’re not changing doctors, end of story. Iain’s here. I have to go. I’ll see you later.”
The phone goes dead and I stare at it, livid.
How dare he tell me which doctor I’m going to? And what’s so great about his precious Dr. Braine? I stuff my mobile and the brochure into my bag and start furiously filling my basket with Petit Lapin baby suits.
Luke doesn’t understand anything. If all the movie stars go to her, then she has to be good.
And it would be so cool. So co
ol.
I suddenly have a vision of myself lying in hospital, cradling my new baby, with Kate Winslet in the next bed. And Heidi Klum in the bed beyond that. We’d all become friends! We’d buy each other little presents, and all our babies would be bonded for life, and we’d go to the park together and be photographed by Hello! magazine. Kate Winslet pushes her pram, chatting with a friend.
Maybe with her best friend, Becky.
“Excuse me, do you need another basket?” A voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see a salesperson gesturing at my overflowing pile of baby clothes. I’ve just been stuffing them into the basket without really noticing.
“Oh, thanks,” I say in a daze. I take the second wicker basket from him and wander over to a display of tiny hats labeled LITTLE STAR and LITTLE TREASURE. But I can’t concentrate.
I want to go to Venetia Carter. I don’t care what Luke thinks.
In sudden defiance I pull out my mobile again and reach for the brochure. I move to a quiet corner of the shop and carefully punch in the number.
“Good afternoon, Venetia Carter’s office,” a woman’s very posh voice answers.
“Oh, hello!” I say, trying to sound as charming as I can. “I’m having a baby in December, and I’ve heard how wonderful Venetia Carter is, and I just wondered if there was any possible chance of me arranging an appointment with her, possibly?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman says in a firm but polite tone. “Dr. Carter is fully booked for the present.”
“But I’m really desperate! And I really think I need a holistic water birth. And I live in Maida Vale, and I’d be willing to pay over the odds.”
“Dr. Carter is absolutely—”
“I’d just like to add that I’m a personal shopper, and I’d be pleased to offer Dr. Carter my complimentary services.” The words come tumbling out. “And my husband has a PR company and he could do some free PR for her! Not that she probably needs it, of course,” I add hastily. “But if you could just ask her? Please?”
There’s silence.
“Your name is?” says the woman at last.
“Rebecca Brandon,” I say eagerly. “And my husband is Luke Brandon of Brandon Communications, and—”
“Hold on, please, Mrs. Brandon. Venetia—” Their conversation is cut off by a brisk rendition of The Four Seasons.
Please let her say yes. Please let her say yes….
I can hardly breathe as I wait. I’m standing next to a display of white knitted rabbits, crossing my fingers as hard as I can, clutching all my pendants for good measure, and sending silent prayers to the goddess Vishnu, who has been very helpful to me in the past. “Mrs. Brandon?”
“Hello!” I drop all my pendants. “I’m here!”
“It’s likely that Dr. Carter will have an unexpected vacancy on her books. We’ll be able to let you know within the next few days.”
“OK,” I gasp. “Thanks very much!”
* * *
HEAD OFFICE • PRESTON HOUSE • 354 KINGSWAY • LONDON WC2 4TH
Mrs. Rebecca Brandon
37 Maida Vale Mansions
Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
14 August 2003
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
Thank you for your letter, and the enclosed flight itineraries, doctor’s note, and scan pictures.
I agree that your unborn child has taken many flights with Regal Airlines. Unfortunately it does not qualify for air miles, since it did not buy a ticket for any of these flights.
I am sorry to disappoint and hope you choose Regal Airlines again soon.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret McNair
Customer Service Manager
* * *
THREE
I HAVEN’T MENTIONED ANYTHING more about Venetia Carter to Luke.
For a start, it’s not definite yet. And for another start, if marriage has taught me one thing, it’s to not bring up tricky subjects when your husband is stressed out launching offices simultaneously in Amsterdam and Munich. He’s been away all week, and only arrived back last night, exhausted.
Besides which, changing doctors isn’t the only tricky subject I need to broach. There’s also the very slight scratch on the Mercedes (which was not my fault—it was that stupid bollard) and the two pairs of shoes I want him to get from Miu Miu when he goes to Milan.
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m sitting in the office, checking my bank statement on my laptop. I only discovered online banking a couple of months ago—and it has so many advantages. You can do it any time of day! Plus, they don’t send bank statements out by post, so no one (e.g., your husband) can see them lying around the house.
“Becky, I’ve had a letter from my mother.” Luke comes in, holding the post and a mug of coffee. “She sends her regards.”
“Your mother?” I try to hide my horror. “You mean Elinor ? What does she want?”
Luke has two mothers. His lovely, warm stepmother, Annabel, who lives in Devon with his dad and who we visited last month. And his ice-queen of a real mother, Elinor, who lives in America and abandoned him when he was little and in my opinion should be excommunicated.
“She’s touring Europe with her art collection.”
“Why?” I ask blankly. I have a vision of Elinor in a coach, a bundle of paintings under her arm. It doesn’t seem very her, somehow.
“The collection is currently on loan to the Uffizi, then a gallery in Paris—” Luke breaks off. “Becky, you didn’t think I meant she was taking her pictures on holiday.”
“Of course not,” I say with dignity. “I knew exactly what you meant.”
“Anyway, she’ll be in London later on in the year and wants to meet up.”
“Luke…I thought you hated your mother. I thought you never wanted to see her again, remember?”
“Come on, Becky.” Luke frowns slightly. “She’s going to be the grandmother of our child. We can’t shut her out completely.”
Yes we can! I want to retort. But instead, I give an unwilling kind of half shrug. I suppose he’s right. The baby will be her only grandchild. It’ll have her blood in it.
Oh God, what if it takes after Elinor? I’m stricken by a terrible vision of a baby lying in a pram in a cream Chanel suit, glaring up at me and saying, “Your outfit is shoddy, Mother.”
“So, what are you up to?” Luke breaks into my thoughts, and too late I realize he’s heading across the room toward me. Right toward my laptop.
“Nothing!” I say quickly. “It’s just my bank statement….” I try to close the window I’m on, but it’s frozen. Damn.
“Something wrong?” says Luke.
“No!” I say, panicking slightly. “I mean…I’ll just shut the whole thing down!” I casually rip the power cord out of the back—but the screen is still powered up. The statement is there, in black and white.
And Luke’s getting nearer. I’m really not sure I want him seeing this.
“Let me have a go.” Luke reaches my chair. “Are you on the bank’s Web site?”
“Er…kind of! Honestly, I wouldn’t bother….” I position my bump in front of the screen, but Luke is peering round me. He stares at the statement for a few disbelieving moments.
“Becky,” he says at last. “Does that say ‘First Cooperative Bank of Namibia’?”
“Er…yes.” I try to sound matter-of-fact. “I have a small online account there.”
“In Namibia ?”
“They sent me an e-mail offering me very competitive rates,” I say a little defiantly. “It was a great opportunity.”
“Do you respond to every e-mail you get, Becky?” Luke turns, incredulous. “Do you have a fine selection of Viagra substitutes too?”
I knew he wouldn’t understand my brilliant new banking strategy.
“Don’t get so stressy!” I say. “Why is it such a big deal where I bank? Commerce has gone global, you know, Luke. The old boundaries are gone. If you can get a good rate in Bangladesh, then—”
/> “Bangladesh?”
“Oh. Well…er…I’ve got a bank account there too. Just a tiny one,” I add quickly, looking at his expression.
“Becky…” Luke seems to be having trouble taking all this in. “How many of these online bank accounts have you opened?”
“Three,” I say after a pause. “About three.”
He gives me a hard look. The trouble with husbands is, they get to know you too well.
“OK then, fifteen,” I say in a rush.
“And how many overdrafts?”
“Fifteen. What?” I add defensively. “What’s the point of having a bank account if you don’t have an overdraft?”
“Fifteen overdrafts?” Luke clutches his head in disbelief. “Becky…you are third world debt.”
“I’m playing the global economy to my advantage!” I retort. “The Bank of Chad gave me a fifty-dollar bonus just for joining!”
Luke’s so blinkered. So what if I have fifteen bank accounts? Everyone knows you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket.
“You seem to forget, Luke,” I add in lofty tones, “I am a former financial journalist. I know all about money and investment. The bigger the risk, the bigger the profit, I think you’ll find.”
Luke doesn’t look too impressed. “I’m aware of the principles of investment, thank you, Becky,” he says politely.
“Well, then.” I suddenly have a thought. “We should invest the baby’s trust fund in Bangladesh too. We’d probably make a fortune!”
“Are you crazy ?” He stares at me.
“Why not? It’s an emerging market!”
“I don’t think so.” Luke rolls his eyes. “In fact, I’ve already spoken to Kenneth about the baby’s fund, and we’ve agreed to invest it in a range of secure unit trusts—”
“Wait a minute!” I raise a hand. “What do you mean, you’ve spoken to Kenneth? What about my opinion?”
I can’t believe they haven’t even consulted me! Like I don’t count. Like I didn’t used to be a financial expert on television and get hundreds of letters a week asking for advice.
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