by Sue Margolis
Ruby was tempted to say it was a shame her feelings about what she owed her child seemed to have changed so much, but she bit her tongue.
As Claudia put her glass down on the shop counter, her mobile went off again. “Marta,” she screeched, “just deal with it, OK? All kids run fevers and puke. I am not coming home because my child has a bit of stomach flu.”
By now Ruby was fighting back the tears. It was possible that Claudia was having an off day, but she suspected that as far as poor little Avocado was concerned, every one of Claudia’s days was an off day. “Look, maybe you should go,” she said after Claudia had finished barking at Marta. “I can bike some swimsuits round to you and you can try them on at home. I’m sure you’re right and there’s probably nothing serious the matter with Avocado, but you never know and I’m sure you’d feel better…”
Claudia let out a sigh. “I guess you’re right. I’d better go check on her, but I refuse to go until I’ve tried on some of these fabulous swimsuits.” With that she pulled three off the rack and headed toward the changing room.
“Shout if you need a different size,” Ruby called after her. She knew not to go into the changing room unless she was summoned. Women celebs in particular were very wary about being seen without their clothes. It was obvious why. They knew that in real life their bodies didn’t begin to compare with the computer-enhanced, Photoshopped images that appeared in the glossies. It would destroy the myth to let people see that they had orange-peel buttocks just like the rest of the world.
“Oh, the orange is fab-u-lous! So is the violet,” Claudia trilled from the changing room. “I’ll take two of each.” Ruby went into the stockroom to fetch another couple of swimsuits. As she came back, she had to pass the row of three curtained-off changing cubicles. Judging by the shouting coming from the one Claudia occupied, she was on the phone to poor Marta again and giving her hell. At one point Claudia must have gesticulated so hard that her hand caught the curtain, causing it to slide along the runner. She closed the curtain, apparently unaware that Ruby had seen into the cubicle. The entire curtain-moving incident was over in a flash, but it had lasted long enough for Ruby’s eyes to alight on Claudia’s abdomen and for her brain to register that, pregnancy-wise, things weren’t quite as they should be.
The woman was wearing a flesh-colored body suit with large breasts and a six-month-pregnant stomach. It reminded her of the getup Robin Williams wore in Mrs. Doubtfire. Ruby was so sure that she would have put money on it. But why on earth would Claudia pretend to be pregnant?
Disturbed and confused, Ruby made her way back to the counter and started wrapping the swimsuits she’d brought from the stockroom. When Claudia emerged from the cubicle she was all smiles. Nothing about her expression suggested that she realized she had been found out. She was holding the swimsuits she’d been trying on. Ruby took them from her and carried on wrapping in silence. Her lack of words belied the frantic activity going on in her mind. She’d definitely seen it. A prosthetic stomach, right? Yes. No doubt. Claudia handed her a platinum Amex card and then began looking through a basket of hand-knitted booties on the counter. As Ruby swiped the card, her thoughts carried on churning. But she’d only seen into the cubicle for a second. How could she be so certain about something she’d seen for such a short time? In her mind a fantasy was developing, in which she was giving evidence in court about what she had seen. A wigged barrister was saying: “So, Ms. Silverman, how long did you say you’d glanced at said prosthetic stomach?”
“Er, a second. Maybe less.”
“A second or less? I see. So, you are prepared to swear on oath that this woman was wearing a prosthetic stomach based on having glanced at her abdomen for a mere second, maybe less. I put it to you, members of the jury…”
And it didn’t make sense. Ruby had to be mistaken. She watched as Claudia signed the credit card slip. Then she handed her the swimsuits in a Les Sprogs carrier bag. “Bye,” Ruby said. “I hope we’ll see you again.”
“You have my word on it. I need so many things for this baby. I guarantee you haven’t seen the last of me.”
Stella would be ecstatic. “I hope Avocado is feeling better when you get home.”
But Claudia didn’t hear. Through the shop window, she had spied a taxi pulling up and was making a remarkably athletic dash for it.
Chapter 8
Ruby spent the next hour fretting and puzzling over what she had seen in the changing cubicle. She was so engrossed that a couple of times when customers approached her with a query, they had to repeat themselves before she acknowledged them.
Then, while she was flicking through a catalogue that had arrived that morning from a Parisian maternity lingerie manufacturer, she had a realization. “Of course! That’s it,” Ruby muttered to herself, stabbing a picture of a pregnant model in her underwear. How had she taken so long to work it out? It wasn’t a prosthetic stomach that Claudia had been wearing. It was a maternity girdle. It was identical to the one she was staring at now. Back in the sixties and seventies, nearly all pregnant women wore them. They contained a stretchy webbed pouch, which gave extra support to the underside of a pregnancy bump. Forty years later they were just starting to make a comeback in Europe—particularly in France and Italy. Claudia’s last movie had been filmed in Paris. She must have bought hers there. The garments had yet to catch on again in Britain, but bearing in mind the business she was in, Ruby couldn’t believe she’d failed to recognize a maternity girdle when she saw one.
She couldn’t wait to share her tale with Chanel. She’d have hysterics when she found out Ruby had actually been daft enough to think Claudia might be faking her pregnancy.
In the meantime she phoned Stella in New York to give her the news that Claudia had been in to buy swimsuits. “What? She only bought swimsuits? What use is that? I take it you then offered to close the shop so that she could choose the rest of her layette in complete privacy?”
“Actually, no. I didn’t. She said she’d be back and I didn’t want to put more pressure on her. In my experience celebrities don’t react well to pushy salespeople.”
“Offering to close the shop isn’t remotely pushy,” Stella snapped. “You would simply be flattering Claudia’s ego. How can you not see that? It seems that I have to explain the simplest things to you. Sometimes, Ruby, I really do doubt your ability to run an exclusive establishment like Les Sprogs. You really must buck your ideas up. Now then, I have to go. I have a breakfast meeting.” With that she hung up.
Ruby stared at the receiver. “Thanks, Stella. Always good to know I have your support.”
Chanel turned up at the shop just after two. Ruby, who was in the middle of serving a heavily pregnant customer, took one look at Chanel and in an instant all thoughts of having a giggle with her over the maternity girdle she had mistaken for a prosthetic stomach vanished from her mind. It was obvious from Chanel’s red face and puffy swollen eyes that the news from their new doctor hadn’t been good, and this time, Chanel had let the tears come.
Craig was with her, his arm firmly round her shoulder. His height and rugby player’s build always managed to dwarf even Chanel’s chunky frame, but today it was even more apparent. As he smiled down at her from under his short ginger thatch, which always looked as if his barber had set about it with a machete, he looked like a friendly giant protecting a frail, unhappy child.
“Be with you in a tick,” Ruby said, looking at them anxiously. As fast as she could, she maneuvered a boxed sterilizer unit into a large Les Sprogs carrier bag and slid it across the counter to the customer. “There you go, and I’ll pop our new catalogue in the post the moment it comes in.”
The woman said her thank-yous and headed toward the door. Ruby turned to Chanel and Craig. “What happened?” she said, her voice practically a whisper. She realized it was a stupid question, since she pretty much knew the answer, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Oh, you know,” Chanel said, swallowing hard, but at t
he same time doing her best to sound bright. “The doctor, ’e…er…’e broke it to us as gently as ’e could….” Hervoice gave out on the last word and she began biting her top lip. Craig gave her a squeeze and a reassuring smile. They were two of a kind. Like Chanel, he was determined to stay positive, but Ruby could tell he was as distraught as she was.
“New bloke pretty much agreed with the last one,” Craig said, taking up the story. “’E’d managed to get our notes faxed over to ’im. Once ’e’d read them ’e said there didn’t seem to be much point carrying on with the IVF. Suggested we should think about adoption, didn’t ’e, babe?”
“But surely there are other fertility specialists,” Ruby said, feeling the overwhelming need to offer them the hope the doctor had snatched from them. “I mean, have you thought about trying St. Luke’s again, or maybe you should consider going to America?”
“These doctors we’ve seen ’ave been two of the top men in the world,” Craig said. “If they’re saying it’s time to call it a day, then we ’ave to go with that.”
Just then the phone started ringing. It occurred to Ruby that this was the second time recently that Chanel had been in the middle of delivering bad news and the phone had rung. Like last time, Ruby was more than prepared to let it ring, but again Chanel insisted she take it.
Annoyed at having to abandon her conversation with Chanel and Craig, Ruby went back behind the counter and picked up the phone next to the till.
“Hello, Les Sprogs,” she announced, aware that her manner sounded a bit flat and lacked its usual upbeat charm.
“Hi, is that Ruby?”
“Speaking.”
“Hey, Ruby, it’s me, Sam Epstien. Sorry to disturb you at work. I tried you on your cell, but it seemed to be switched off.”
“Oh, hi, Sam. How are you?” Despite all her doubts about him, she was pleased he’d called, but at the same time, she was desperately aware of how offhand she sounded. “Actually, my cell’s not off. The battery keeps running down. I really need to get a new phone.”
“Listen, I was just wondering if you were free one night this week. I thought we could go see a movie, maybe. Or just have a drink if you’d prefer.”
She glanced across at Chanel and Craig. The pair of them looked so utterly miserable. Her heart ached for them. “Sam, I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve caught me at a really bad time. Some friends of mine are here. They’ve just received some really bad news…”
“I totally understand. No problem. I’ll call back some other time.”
“That’d be great. Speak soon, yeah?”
“For sure.”
Ruby put down the phone and went back to Chanel and Craig. “Sorry,” she said, deciding not to mention it had been Sam on the phone. It wasn’t remotely the right time. “So, you were saying how the doctor had suggested adoption.”
Chanel nodded. “Yeah,” she said, with a breeziness that was clearly meant to comfort all three of them, but didn’t. “And we’re definitely going to think about it. I mean, an adopted child is a stranger at first, but after a while you bond and in the end it’s just the same as ’aving your own child. And there are so many unwanted children desperate for a mum and dad to love them. Craig agrees, don’t you, Craig?”
“We’ll see,” he said gently. He turned to Ruby. “Look, it’s all been a bit much today. Would you mind if I took the missus ’ome? I think she could do with putting ’er feet up.”
Ruby did her level best to convince Chanel to take the rest of the week off, but as usual she said coming to work made her feel sane and normal and she wouldn’t hear of it. “A rest—just until tomorrow—is all I need. Honest.”
“OK, if you’re sure.”
“I’m positive.”
Ruby shot Craig a look of mild despair, as if to say: “What do you do with her?” He replied with a shrug. It was clear that, like Ruby, he believed there would be no more arguing with her.
OVER THE NEXT few days, Chanel appeared to struggle to keep her emotions in check. Whenever she had a particularly sad or faraway look on her face, Ruby would ask her gently if she wanted to talk, but Chanel always brushed her off with a chirpy: “Look, stop worrying. I’m fine.” Ruby knew she was anything but fine. She also knew that if she put pressure on her to talk when she didn’t want to, she would get cross.
Had it not been for Ronnie coming to the rescue, Chanel might have descended into a full-scale depression. She popped into the shop one afternoon on her way back from lunch with one of her girlfriends. Ruby wasn’t there because she’d gone to St. Luke’s to drop off a couple of passport photographs so that the hospital could process her ID card. She’d forgotten to tell her mother about Chanel and Craig giving up IVF. Had she remembered, she would have suggested to Ronnie—whose bump was just beginning to show—that in order to protect Chanel’s feelings, it might be best to stay away from the shop for a couple of weeks.
When Ruby got back from St. Luke’s it was after closing time. Ronnie and Chanel were standing in the shop’s tiny kitchen area. The second she saw the two women together, she started to panic. As she greeted them, she looked for signs of additional strain and upset on Chanel’s face, but there were none. In fact, her face looked genuinely sunny for a change. What’s more, as Ronnie was leaving, Chanel gave her a kiss and an enormous hug. “Thank you so much,” she said to Ronnie. “Talking ’as made such a difference. I’m already starting to feel better.”
After Ronnie left—with an organic paint chart full of nursery colors—Chanel told Ruby what they had been talking about. Apparently Ronnie had persuaded her to get some counseling to help her come to terms with her infertility. “Your mum’s amazing. I wish I could talk to mine the way I can talk to ’er. You are so lucky to ’ave ’er. She totally got ’ow I’m feeling because she remembers being told ’er tubes were blocked and she couldn’t ’ave any more babies. She reckons I’m in mourning for my lost fertility and she’s recommended this woman therapist she knows.”
Ruby asked if she was going to ring her.
“I did it while your mum was here. I’ve got an appointment next week.”
That evening Ruby phoned Ronnie to thank her for helping Chanel.
“No problem. I was just glad to help. She was telling me about these talks you’re going to be giving at St. Luke’s. Sounds like they could be really good for the business.”
Ruby explained. “I’m really nervous, though. I’ve never done anything like it before.”
“You’ll be brilliant, just you see. You know, the more I think about it, the more I think I should be having this baby at St. Luke’s. It sounds like such a great place and your dad’s all for it. I just wish it wasn’t so damned expensive.”
A FEW DAYS later, Ruby gave her first talk. She was so worried about being late that she set off far too early and reached the hospital at ten—half an hour before the talk was due to start. When she arrived at the room she’d been allocated, Jill McNulty was already there, arranging chairs into a perfect circle and fussing over the refreshment table. “There’s coffee, tea, orange juice and water. You should have enough.”
Ruby thanked her for going to so much trouble and said she was sure she would be fine.
“You know what I’ve forgotten? Sparkling water.”
“Please don’t worry. I’m sure people can make do with still.”
“It’s no trouble to pop to the cafeteria and get some.”
“Tell you what, if there’s somebody who can’t manage with still water, I’ll go and fetch some sparkling.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“And you will shout if you need me? I’m only down the corridor.”
“I promise,” Ruby said with a smile. She liked Jill, but she couldn’t help wondering if her colleagues found her constant fretting a bit wearing.
Jill disappeared back to her office, but not before she had rearranged some teaspoons that were facing the wrong way.
WITH THE EXCEPTION
of a couple of women wearing business suits and a househusband-to-be with bicycle clips round his trouser bottoms, who had come on behalf of his newspaper-executive wife, the fifteen or so women who turned up for Ruby’s talk were exactly as she’d expected. They were the lean, Pilates and yogacized members of the rich boho set—their neat bumps perfectly accessorized by their Fulham highlights, Fendi handbags and Ugg boots.
They were a chatty, friendly enough bunch, though, and to give them their due, Ruby thought, no less anxious than other first-time mothers. They couldn’t get enough of Ruby’s advice on maternity bras, video baby monitors and car seats for infants.
The only time things went a bit flat was when she tried to get a discussion going on the issue of cloth diapers versus disposables. To a woman they had already opted for cloth, on the grounds that landfill sites were already brimming over with nonbiodegradable disposables. Ruby couldn’t help thinking that they might have been less anxious to claim the moral high ground had they not been about to hire nannies to scrape the baby dung off the oh-so-nonpolluting, environmentally friendly cloth diapers.
When her talk was over, Ruby invited the mothers-to-be to look along the racks of maternity and baby wear. The clothes—along with the racks—had been delivered by courier the day before. She explained that larger items such as cribs and prams could be ordered from the Les Sprogs catalogue.
As everybody oohed and aahed—particularly over the Guatemalan baby outfits, cashmere christening shawls and massively expensive organic cotton crib linen—Ruby found herself thinking how cosseted these women were and how removed their lives were from those of ordinary women.
As she listened to a woman called Plum take a call from her fitness trainer, Ruby was more certain that she wanted to move her business away from Kensington and Chelsea and into the high street.
There were already mass-market fashion companies that recognized that the markup on cashmere and organic cotton was hugely excessive and were prepared to take a cut in profits by selling them cheaper. She could do the same. Ruby remained adamant that what Body Shop had done for cosmetics, she could do for mother and baby wear.