“Mr. and Mrs. Brandon?” The receptionist calls over and we both look up. “Dr. Carter will see you now, if you’d like to go through.”
I feel a flurry of nerves. OK, here I go. Stake my claim.
“Come on, darling!” I put my arm firmly round Luke’s shoulders and we head down the corridor, me staggering slightly because I’m thrown off-balance.
“Hello, you guys!” Venetia is coming out of her room to greet us. She’s dressed in black trousers and a sleeveless pink shirt cinched with the most fabulous shiny black crocodile belt. She kisses us both on each cheek and I catch a whiff of Chanel’s Allure. “Great to see you again!”
“It’s great to see you too, Venetia,” I say, raising my eyebrow in an ironic if-you-have-any-plans-to-steal-my-husband-you-can-forget-about-them way.
“Marvelous. Come on in….” She ushers us into the room.
I’m not sure she noticed my eyebrow maneuver. I might have to be more obvious.
Luke and I sit down, and Venetia perches on the front of her desk, dangling her Yves Saint Laurent heels. God, she’s got a good wardrobe for a doctor. Or even not for a doctor.
“So. Becky.” She opens her notes and studies them for a moment. “First of all, we have the blood test results back. All your levels are fine…although we might want to watch that hemoglobin. How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling great, thanks,” I say at once. “Very happy, very loving…Here I am, in a wonderful marriage, expecting a baby…and I’ve never felt closer to Luke in my life.” I reach out and grab Luke’s hand. “Wouldn’t you agree, darling? Aren’t we particularly close at the moment? Spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and…and…sexually!”
There. Take that.
“Well…yes,” says Luke, looking slightly stunned. “I suppose we are.”
“That’s lovely to hear, Becky,” Venetia says, giving me a strange look. “Although I was really meaning your own physical state. Any faintness, nausea, that kind of thing?”
Oh, right.
“Er…no, thanks,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Well, then. Let’s pop you up and we can have a look.” She gestures to the examination table and I obediently get up onto it. “Lie back, make sure you’re comfortable…. Is that a little stretch mark I see?” she adds gaily as I lift up my top.
“A stretch mark?” In horror I grab the metal side-grip and try to struggle up. “I can’t have! I use a special oil every night, and a lotion in the morning, and—”
“Oops, my mistake!” says Venetia. “Just a stray fiber from your T-shirt.”
“Oh.” I collapse in slight posttraumatic shock and Venetia starts feeling my abdomen.
“Although, of course, stretch marks normally appear at the last minute,” she adds conversationally. “So you may still get them. Those last few weeks of pregnancy can be cruel. I see my patients waddling in, desperate for their babies to be out….”
Waddling?
“I’m not going to waddle,” I say with a little laugh.
“I’m afraid you will.” She smiles back. “It’s nature’s way of slowing you down. I always think it’s only fair to give my first-time patients a heads-up on the realities to come in pregnancy. It isn’t all roses and sunshine, you know!”
“Absolutely,” puts in Luke. “We appreciate that, don’t we, Becky?”
“Yes,” I mutter as Venetia wraps a blood pressure cuff round my arm.
This is a lie. I don’t appreciate it. And just to make it crystal clear: I am never going to waddle.
“Blood pressure’s just a little high….” She frowns at the screen. “Make sure you take it easy, Becky. Try to take a rest every day, or at least get the weight off your feet. And try to stay nice and calm….”
Stay calm? How am I supposed to do that when she’s telling me I’ve got stretch marks and am going to waddle?
“Now, let’s have a listen….” She smears some gel on my stomach and gets out the Doppler, and I relax a little. This is my favorite bit of every appointment. Lying back, listening to the baby’s heartbeat going wow, wow, wow over the fuzzy background noise. Remembering that there’s a little person in there.
“That all sounds fine….” Venetia moves away to the desk and scribbles something on her notes. “Oh, Luke, that reminds me — I spoke to Matthew the other day and he’d love to meet up. And I found that article by Jeremy we were talking about….” She rifles in her desk drawer and holds out an old copy of the New Yorker. “He’s come such a long way since Cambridge. Have you read his book on Mao?”
“Not yet,” says Luke, heading toward the desk and taking it from her. “I’ll read this when I have time. Thanks.”
“You must be busy,” Venetia says sympathetically. She pours a glass of water from the cooler and offers one to Luke. “How are all the new offices working out?”
“Good.” Luke nods. “The odd hiccup, of course…”
“But it’s fabulous that you’ve got Arcodas as a client.” She leans on the desk, frowning intelligently. “It must be the way forward, to diversify out of finance. And Arcodas’s rate of expansion is phenomenal — I was reading a piece about it in the FT. Iain Wheeler sounds very impressive.”
Er…hello?
They’ve completely abandoned me on my back, like an upturned beetle. I clear my throat loudly and Luke turns round.
“Sorry, sweetheart! Are you all right?” He hurries over and offers me a hand.
“Sorry, Becky!” says Venetia. “Just getting you some water. You seem a little dehydrated. It’s vital to keep your fluids up. You should really be drinking at least eight glasses of water a day. Here you are.”
“Thanks!” I smile at her as I take the glass, but as I sit down, suspicions are circulating darkly round my mind. Venetia’s very chatty with Luke. Too chatty. And trying to make out I had a stretch mark. And the way she keeps flicking her hair about like a hair model in a TV ad. It’s not exactly doctorly, is it?
“So!” Venetia is behind her desk again, writing on my notes. “Did you have any questions? Issues you’d like to raise?”
I glance at Luke, but he’s pulled his phone out of his pocket. I can just hear the faint bzzz as it vibrates.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I’ll pop outside. Carry on without me.” He gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
So it’s just the two of us. Woman-to-woman. I can feel the room prickling with tension.
At least…it’s prickling on my side.
“Becky?” Venetia shows her perfect white teeth in a smile. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
“Not really,” I reply pleasantly. “As I said, everything’s fine. I’m fine…. Luke’s fine…. Our relationship couldn’t be better…. You know this is a honeymoon baby?” I can’t resist adding.
“Yes, I heard all about your wonderful honeymoon!” Venetia exclaims. “Luke said you went to Ferrara while you were in Italy?”
“That’s right.” I give a reminiscent smile. “It was so romantic. We’ll always share it as a wonderful memory.”
“When Luke and I visited Ferrara, we couldn’t tear ourselves away from those fabulous frescoes. I’m sure he told you?” Her eyes are all wide and innocent.
Luke and I never went to any frescoes in Ferrara. We sat at the same outdoor restaurant all afternoon, drinking Prosecco and eating the yummiest food I’ve ever had. And he never mentioned he’d been there before with Venetia. But no way am I admitting that to her.
“Actually, we didn’t go to the frescoes,” I say at last, examining my nails. “Luke told me all about them, of course. But he said he thought they were overrated.”
“Overrated?” Venetia seems taken aback.
“Uh-huh.” I fix my gaze dead on hers. “Overrated.”
“But…he took masses of pictures of them.” She gives an incredulous laugh. “We talked about them for hours!”
“Yes, well, we talked about them all night!” I shoot back. “About how
overrated they are.”
I casually fiddle with my wedding ring, making sure my engagement diamond glints under the lights.
I’m his wife. I know what he thinks about frescoes.
Venetia opens her mouth, then closes it again, looking flummoxed.
“Sorry about that!” Luke enters the room, putting his phone away, and Venetia immediately turns to him.
“Luke, d’you remember those frescoes in—”
“Ow!” I clutch my stomach. “Ouch.”
“Becky! Darling!” Luke hurries to my side in alarm. “Are you all right?”
“Just a little twinge.” I give him a brave smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” I glance in triumph at Venetia, who is frowning as though she can’t quite work me out.
“Have you had these pains before?” she says. “Can you describe them?”
“They’ve gone now,” I say blithely. “I think it was just a stitch.”
“Let me know if you have any other pains,” she says. “And remember to take things easy. That blood pressure shouldn’t be a problem, but we don’t want it to edge any higher. Did your previous doctor explain to you about preeclampsia?”
“Absolutely,” Luke says, glancing at me, and I nod.
“Good. Well, you take care. You can call me anytime. And before you go…” Venetia opens her desk diary. “We must arrange an evening for us all to meet up. The twenty-fourth…or the twenty-sixth? Assuming I’m not delivering a baby, of course!”
“The twenty-sixth?” Luke nods, consulting his BlackBerry. “OK with you, Becky?”
“Fine!” I say sweetly. “We’ll be there.”
“Marvelous. I’ll call some of the others. It’s so great to have made contact again, after so many years.” Venetia sighs and puts her pen down. “To be honest, it’s been pretty hard, starting again in London. My old friends have their lives; they’ve moved on. Besides which, I don’t always keep sociable hours, and Justin travels abroad a lot, of course.” Her bright smile slips a little.
“Justin is Venetia’s boyfriend,” Luke explains to me.
The boyfriend. I’d almost forgotten he existed.
“Oh, right,” I say politely. “What does he do?”
“He’s a financier.” Venetia reaches for a framed picture of a dull-looking man in a suit, and as she surveys it her whole face lights up. “He’s incredibly driven and motivated, a bit like Luke. I sometimes feel left behind when he’s pursuing a deal. But what can I do? I love him.”
“Really?” I say in surprise. Then I realize how that sounded. “I mean…er…great!”
“He’s the reason I came to London.” Her eyes are still fixed on the picture. “I met him at a party in L.A. and just fell hook, line, and sinker.”
“You moved all this way?” I say, incredulous. “Just for him?”
“That’s what love’s about, surely? You do crazy things for no rhyme or reason.” Venetia looks up, her green eyes shining. “If my job has taught me one thing, Becky, it’s that love is the only thing. Human love. I see it every time I deliver a baby right into its mother’s arms…every time I see a fresh, eight-week-old heart beating on the screen and watch the faces of its parents…every time my patients come back, second or third time around. It’s love that makes the babies. And you know what? Nothing else matters.”
Wow. I am totally blown away.
She’s not after Luke, after all. She’s in love with the boring guy! And to be honest, that little speech has practically got me in tears.
“You’re so right,” I say huskily, clutching Luke’s arm. “Love is all that counts in this crazy, mixed-up world we call…the world.”
I’m not sure that came out right, but who cares? I have completely misjudged Venetia. She’s not a man-eater; she’s a warm, beautiful, loving human being.
“I really hope Justin will be able to make the twenty-sixth.” She finally puts the picture back in its place with a fond pat. “I’d love for you to meet him.”
“Me too!” I say with genuine enthusiasm. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“See you soon, Ven.” Luke kisses Venetia. “Thanks very much.”
“Bye, Becky.” Venetia gives me a warm, friendly smile. “Oh, and I nearly forgot. I don’t know if you’d be at all interested, but a journalist from Vogue called me up yesterday. They’re doing a big feature on London’s yummiest mummies-to-be and wanted me to put forward some names. I thought of you.”
“Vogue?” I stare at her, frozen.
“You may not be interested, of course. It would involve a photo shoot of you in the baby’s nursery, an interview, hair and makeup…. They’ll provide designer maternity clothes….” She gives a vague shrug. “I don’t know — is that your kind of thing?”
I’m practically hyperventilating. Is it my kind of thing? Is having my makeup done and wearing designer clothes and being in Vogue…my kind of thing?
“I think that’s a yes,” says Luke, looking at me in amusement.
“Great!” Venetia touches him on the hand. “Leave it to me. I’ll fix it up.”
Rebecca Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions
Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
18 August 2003
Dear Fabia,
I just wanted to say how much we love your gorgeous, beautiful house. It’s the Kate Moss of houses!!In fact, it’s so stunning, I think it deserves to appear in Vogue, don’t you?
That reminds me of a teeny favor I wanted to ask. Coincidentally, I am being interviewed by Vogue — and I wondered if I could use the house for the photo shoot?
I also wondered if I could put up some personal props and say that Luke and I live there already? After all, we will by the time the magazine comes out…so it makes sense, really!
In return, if there is anything I can do for you or any fashion item you would like me to track down, I will be only too glad!
With very best wishes,
Becky Brandon
Not in size, obviously.
FABIA PASCHALI
DATE: 19/8/03
TO: Rebecca Brandon
Becky,
1. Chloe Silverado bag, tan
2. Matthew Williamson purple beaded kaftan top, size 6
3. Olly Bricknell Princess shoes, green, size 39.
Fabia
33 Delamain Road, Maida Vale, London NW6 1TY
Oxshott School for Girls
Marlin Road
Oxshott
Surrey
KT22 0JG
From the School Librarian
Mrs L Hargreaves
23 August 2003
Dear Becky,
How nice to hear from you after all these years, and I do indeed remember you as a pupil here. Who could forget the girl who started the “friendship handbags” craze of 1989?
I am delighted you are to appear in Vogue — and it is, as you say, a surprise. Though I must assure you, the teachers did not sit in the staff room, saying “I bet Becky Bloomwood never makes it into Vogue.”
I will be sure to buy an issue, although I think it unlikely the headmistress will sanction buying an official commemorative copy for each pupil, as you suggest.
With very best wishes,
Lorna Hargreaves
Librarian
P.S. Do you still have a copy of In the Fifth at Malory Towers? There is a rather large fine on it.
NINE
I’M GOING to be in Vogue! Last week Martha, who is the girl writing the Yummiest Mummies-to-Be feature, rang up and we had the most brilliant long chat.
Maybe I did make up a few teeny things. Like my daily exercise regime. And having freshly crushed raspberries for breakfast every morning, and how I write poetry to my unborn child. (I can always get some out of a book.) Plus I’ve said we already live in the house on Delamain Road, because it sounds better than living in a flat.
But the point is, we will be living in it very soon. It’s practically ours already. And the girl was really interested to h
ear about the his and hers nurseries. She said she thought they’d be a highlight of the shoot. A highlight!
“Becky?”
A voice cuts into my thoughts and I look up to see Eric heading across the floor toward me. Quickly I hide my lists under a MaxMara catalog and scan the shop floor to make sure there isn’t some lurking customer I’ve missed. But there’s no one. Trade hasn’t exactly picked up in the last few days.
Truth be told, we’ve had yet another disaster. Someone in marketing decided to start a “word on the street” campaign, hiring students to talk about The Look and hand out leaflets in cafés. Which would have been great if they hadn’t handed them to a gang of shoplifters, who proceeded to come in and pinch the entire range of Benefit cosmetics. They were caught — but even so. The Daily World had a total field day, about how “The Look is so desperate, it’s now inviting in convicted criminals.”
The place feels emptier than ever, and to cap it all, five members of the staff resigned this week. No wonder Eric looks so grumpy.
“Where’s Jasmine?” He glances around the personal shopping reception area.
“She’s…in the stock room,” I lie.
Actually, Jasmine is asleep on the floor in one of the dressing rooms. Her new theory is, since there’s nothing to do at work, she might as well use the time to sleep and go clubbing at night. So far, it’s working out pretty well.
“Well, it was you I wanted to see, anyway.” He frowns. “I’ve just had the contract through for the Danny Kovitz deal. Very demanding, this friend of yours. He’s specified first-class travel, a suite at Claridge’s, a limo for his personal use, unlimited San Pellegrino ‘stirred, to take the bubbles out’…”
I stifle a giggle. That is so typical of Danny.
“He’s a big, important designer,” I remind Eric. “Talented people all have their little quirks.”
“‘For the duration of the creative process,’” Eric reads aloud, “‘Mr. Kovitz will require a bowl of at least ten inches in diameter, filled with jelly beans. No green ones.’ I mean, what is this nonsense?” He flicks the paper in exasperation. “What’s he expecting, that someone’s just going to sit for hours, removing green jelly beans and disposing of them?”
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