Shopaholic and Baby s-5

by Sophie Kinsella

  What does that mean? Before he met me? So now it’s my fault he doesn’t read books, is that it?

  “And what else did you talk about?” I persist.

  “Becky, honestly. I can’t remember.”

  His phone beeps with a text and he checks it. He smiles, texts something back, then resumes getting undressed. I’m watching in growing disbelief and anger. How can he do that? In front of me?

  “Was that in Latin?” I say before I can stop myself.

  “What?” Luke wheels around, his hands still tugging at his shirtsleeves.

  “I just happened to see…” I falter. Then I stop. Sod it. I’m not going to pretend anymore. I take a deep breath and look at Luke straight-on. “She sends you texts in Latin, doesn’t she? Is that your secret code?”

  “What are you talking about?” Luke takes a step forward, his brow darkened. “Have you been reading my texts?”

  “I’m your wife! What does she text you about, Luke?” My voice is rising in hurt. “Latin books? Or…other things?”

  “I’m sorry?” He looks bemused.

  “You know she’s moving in on you, don’t you?”

  “What?” Luke gives a short laugh. “Becky, I know you have a vivid imagination, but really….” He pulls his shirt off and dumpsit in the laundry hamper.

  How can he be so dense? I thought he was supposed to be clever.

  “She’s after you!” I’m leaning forward in agitation. “Can’t you see it? She’s a home-wrecker! That’s what she does—”

  “She is not after me!” Luke says, cutting me off. “To be honest, Becky, I’m shocked. I never thought of you as being possessive. Surely I’m allowed to have a few friends, for Christ’s sake. Just because she happens to be female—”

  “It’s not that,” I cut him off scornfully.

  It’s that she used to be his ex-girlfriend and has long swishy red hair. But I’m not going to say that.

  “It’s that…” I flounder. “It’s that…we’re married, Luke. We should share everything. We shouldn’t have anything separate. I’m an open book! Look at my phone!” I gesture widely. “Look in my drawers! I don’t have a single secret! Go on, look!”

  “Becky, it’s getting late.” Luke rubs his face. “Could we do this tomorrow?”

  I stare at him indignantly. What does he mean, “do this tomorrow”? We’re not playing Monopoly — we’re having a crucial discussion about the state of our marriage.

  “Go on! Look!”

  “All right.” Luke lifts his hands in surrender, and heads toward my bureau.

  “I don’t have a single secret I’m keeping from you! You can look anywhere, poke about all you like—” I draw up sharply.

  Shit. The gender predictor test. It’s in the top left drawer.

  “Er…except that drawer,” I exclaim hastily. “Don’t touch the top left drawer.”

  Luke stops. “I can’t touch that drawer?”

  “No. It’s…a surprise. Or the Harrods bag on the chair,” I add hastily. I don’t want him seeing the receipt for my new hi-tech moisturizer. I nearly died myself when I saw the price.

  “Anything else?” Luke inquires.

  “Um…a couple of things in the wardrobe. Early birthday presents for you,” I add defiantly.

  There’s silence in the bedroom. I can’t quite tell what Luke is thinking. At last he turns, his face working oddly.

  “So, our marriage is a completely honest, open book except for that drawer, this Harrods bag, and the back of the wardrobe?”

  I sense my position on the moral high ground is not quite as strong as I thought it was.

  “The point is…” I cast around. “The point is, I wasn’t out all night with someone else, doing goodness knows what!”

  Oh God. I sound exactly like a whingy EastEnders wife.

  “Becky.” Luke sighs and sits down on the bed. “Venetia’s not ‘someone else.’ She’s a client. She’s a friend. She’d like to be your friend.”

  I turn away, pleating the duvet cover into a little fan.

  “I just can’t understand what your problem is. You were the one who wanted to go to Venetia in the first place!”

  “Yes, but—”

  I can’t exactly say, I didn’t know then that she was a husband stealer.

  “She’s going to be delivering our baby in a few weeks’ time! You should be getting to know her. Feeling relaxed with her!”

  I don’t want her to deliver the baby flashes through my mind.

  “And on that subject…” Luke stands up. “Venetia asked if we could make an appointment tomorrow. She hasn’t seen you for a while and she feels bad about it. I said we’d both be there. OK?” He heads into the bathroom.

  “Fine,” I say morosely, and sink back into the pillows with a great sigh. My head is swirling with confused thoughts. Maybe I am being unreasonable and paranoid. Maybe she’s not after Luke.

  And she is the best obstetrician in the world, practically. OK. I’m going to make a real, real effort and see if we can be friends.

  When we arrive at the Holistic Birth Center on Friday, the paparazzi are out in force and I can see why. The Bond girl and the new face of Lancôme are posing together on the steps, both in cool low-slung trousers and clingy tops which accentuate their teeny bumps.

  “Becky, slow down!” Luke calls after me as I hurry to join them. But by the time I arrive, they’ve already pushed their way in through the doors. I pause hopefully on the steps, but not a single lens points toward me. In fact, the photographers are all moving away, which is pretty insulting. You’d think they’d take a picture just to be polite.

  Inside, the Bond girl is ahead of me at the desk, and I can hear the receptionist saying, “And you got your invitation to tea at the Savoy? Do you need us to send a car?”

  “No, thanks,” says the Bond girl, nodding at the Lancôme model. “Zara and I are going together.”

  My heart skips a beat. Tea at the Savoy? I didn’t get an invitation to tea at the Savoy. Maybe they’re going to give it to me now! I approach the receptionist with an expectant smile, already reaching for my diary so I can check the date. But she doesn’t hand over any invitation.

  “Take a seat, Mrs. Brandon.” She smiles back. “Venetia will be with you shortly.”

  “Er…was there anything else?” I linger at the desk. “Anything I should…have?”

  “Did you bring a urine sample?” The receptionist smiles. “That’s all you need.”

  That is not what I was talking about. I wait another few seconds just in case, then stalk over to the seating area, trying to hide my disappointment. She hasn’t invited me. All the celebrities will be having tea together, exchanging pregnancy stories and asking each other where they buy their premiere dresses, and I’ll be sitting at home on my own.

  “Becky?” Luke is regarding me, puzzled. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I can feel my bottom lip quivering. “Only she didn’t invite me to the tea party. They’re all going to the Savoy. All of them! Without me.”

  “Becky, you don’t know there’s a tea party. I’m sure…I mean…” Luke breaks off, clearly at a loss. “Look, even if she didn’t, does it matter? You don’t go to a doctor because of the tea parties.”

  I open my mouth, then close it again.

  “Becky?” A melodious voice rings out. “Luke?”

  Oh my God. It’s her.

  I haven’t seen Venetia in weeks. To be honest, she’d kind of altered in my mind. I’d pictured her taller, with longer, witchier hair and flashing green eyes and kind of…fangs. But here she is, slim and pretty, dressed in a chic black turtleneck and smiling as though I’m her best friend.

  “Great to see you!” She kisses me. “I do apologize, I’ve been neglecting you shamefully.” As she says it, she glances at Luke as though they’re in on some private conversation.

  Or is that me being paranoid?

  “Come on through!” She ushers us into her room and we all sit down. �
�So, Becky.” Venetia opens her file. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Baby moving well?”

  “Yes, all the time.” I put a hand on my tummy, and, of course, the baby’s gone to sleep.

  “Well, let’s have a feel.” She gestures toward the examination table and I go and heave myself onto it while Venetia washes her hands.

  “Did I hear something about a tea party out there, Ven?” says Luke lightly. “Great publicity idea.” I stare at him in astonishment and he winks.

  Sometimes I really love Luke.

  “Oh.” Venetia sounds taken aback. “That’s right. It’s for patients at a slightly more advanced stage than you, Becky. But of course you’re on the list for the next one!”

  She’s so lying. I wasn’t on that list.

  As her hands move over my abdomen, I can’t relax. I’m staring at her hands: slim and white, with a massive diamond eternity band on the third finger of her right hand. I wonder who gave her that.

  “It’s a good-size baby. Breech at the moment, which means the head is up near your ribs….” Venetia’s frowning in concentration as she feels the baby. “If it remains in that position we’ll have to discuss your options for the birth, but it’s early days yet.” She glances at her notes. “You’re only thirty-two weeks. Plenty of time for the baby to turn. Now, let’s listen to the heartbeat….” She squirts gel on my stomach, and does the ultrasound. A moment later the heartbeat is going wow-wow-wow through the room.

  “Nice, strong heartbeat.” Venetia nods at me, and I nod back as best I can while lying down. For a few moments the three of us just listen to the regular, fuzzy beat. It’s so weird. Here we are, all transfixed by the sound — and the baby has no idea we’re listening to it.

  “That’s your child.” Venetia meets Luke’s eyes. “Pretty amazing, huh?” She leans over and straightens his tie — and I feel a spike of resentment. How dare she do that? This is our moment. And everyone knows that the wife straightens the tie.

  “So, Venetia,” I say politely as at last she turns off the ultrasound machine. “I was sorry to hear about you splitting up with your boyfriend. What a shame.”

  “Ah well.” Venetia spreads her hands. “Some things aren’t meant to be.” She smiles sweetly. “How’s your general health, Becky? Any aches and pains? Heartburn? Hemorrhoids?”

  I don’t believe it. She’s deliberately choosing all the least sexy ailments.

  “No,” I say firmly. “I feel really great.”

  “Then you’re lucky.” Venetia gestures to us to sit down again. “Toward the end of pregnancy, you’ll find your body will really start feeling the strain. You may suffer from acne…varicose veins…. Sex will obviously be difficult, if not impossible….”

  Ooh. She is an absolute cow.

  “We don’t have any problems in that area.” I take Luke’s hand and clasp it. “Do we, darling?”

  “It’s early days yet.” Venetia’s pleasant smile is unmoved. “Many of my patients lose their libido for good after childbirth. And of course, unfortunately, some men find their partner’s new shape somewhat…unattractive.”

  Unattractive? Did she just say I was unattractive?

  She’s wrapped a blood pressure cuff round my arm and now frowns as it deflates. “Your blood pressure’s creeping higher, Becky.”

  I’m not bloody surprised! I glance at Luke, but he seems totally unsuspicious.

  “Darling, you should mention that pain in your leg,” he says. “Remember, the other evening?”

  “Pain in the leg?” Venetia looks up, alert.

  “It was nothing,” I say quickly. “Just a twinge.”

  I wore my new five-inch Manolos all day at work last week. Which was maybe a mistake, as by the time I got home I could barely walk and had to get Luke to massage my calf muscle.

  “You should get it checked out, even so.” Luke squeezes my hand. “There’s no harm being careful.”

  “Absolutely!” Venetia pushes back her chair. “Let’s examine it, shall we, Becky? Up on the table again.”

  I do not like that glint in her eye. Reluctantly, I take off my new Wolford Stay-Ups and get on the table.

  “Hmm.” She takes my leg, peers at it, then rubs a hand over it. “I think I can feel the beginnings of a varicose vein!”

  I stare at my smooth skin in horror. She’s lying. There’s not a hint of a varicose vein.

  “I can’t see anything there,” I say, trying to stay calm.

  “To you it might seem invisible, but I can detect these things very early on.” Venetia pats my shoulder. “What I recommend, Becky, is you wear these surgical support stockings from now on.” She takes a packet from her desk and pulls out a pair of what look like long white-mesh socks. “Put them on.”

  “I’m not putting those on!” I recoil in horror. I can barely bring myself to touch them, let alone wear them. They are the most revolting things I’ve ever seen.

  “Becky, darling.” Luke leans forward. “If Venetia says you should wear them—”

  “I’m sure I haven’t got varicose veins!” My voice is growing shriller. “Luke, it was my shoes, remember?”

  “Ah,” Venetia chips in. “You may have a point. Let me see what you’re wearing.”

  She surveys my new platform wedges and shakes her head sadly.

  “Those really aren’t suitable for late pregnancy. Here, try these.” She roots in her bottom desk drawer and produces a pair of ugly brown rubber flip-flops. “They’re an orthopedic sample. I’d be glad to know what you think of them.”

  I stare at them in dismay. “Instead of the support stockings?”

  “Oh no!” She smiles. “I think you should wear the support stockings as well. Just to be on the safe side.”

  Bitch. Bitch.

  “Put them on, darling,” says Luke with an encouraging nod. “Venetia’s just thinking of your health.”

  No, she’s not! I want to yell. Can’t you see what she’s doing?

  But I can’t. There’s no way out. They’re both watching me. I’m going to have to do this.

  Feeling sick, I slowly pull on first one surgical stocking, then the other.

  “Tug them right up!” says Venetia. “That’s it, over your thighs.” I slip on the horrible flip-flops. Then I pick up my new oversize Marc Jacobs (pale yellow, totally gorgeous) bag to stuff my wedges in.

  “Is that your bag?” Venetia’s beady eyes alight on it and I feel a clutch of dread. Not the bag. Please, not the bag.

  “This is far too heavy for a pregnant woman!” she says, taking it from me and hefting it with a frown. “Do you know the damage you might do to your spine?” To Luke she adds, “You know, I did a year working very closely with a physical therapist. The injuries she saw, from people lugging around ridiculous-size bags!”

  “Big bags are in fashion,” I say tightly.

  “Fashion!” Venetia gives her silvery laugh. “Fashion is bad for your health. Try this, Becky. My physical therapist supplies them.” She opens a cupboard and produces a fanny pack made of khaki webbing. “Far more ergonomic for the back. You can even hide it under your T-shirt for security….”

  “That’s great!” says Luke, taking my Marc Jacobs from Venetia and putting it on the floor where I can’t reach it. “Venetia, this is so kind of you.”

  Kind? He has no idea what’s going on here. None.

  “Go on, Becky!” Venetia is like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse, relishing its suffering. “See if it fits.”

  With trembling hands I pull up my T-shirt, fit the khaki belt around my belly, fasten the clasp, and allow my T-shirt to fall back down. As I turn I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror fitted to the back of the door.

  I want to cry. I look like a grotesque monster. My legs are two white, bulbous tree trunks. My feet resemble a granny’s. I have bumps in front and behind.

  “You look great, Becky!” Venetia has hopped onto the desk and is doing a
n agile, yoga-type stretch which shows off her long, lithe arms. “So, Luke, that was a marvelous meeting we had. I was really interested in what you had to say about Web links….”

  Miserably, I shuffle to my seat and wait for them to finish talking about Venetia’s business profile. But now they’ve moved on to her brochure and whether it could be improved.

  “Oh, sorry, Becky!” Venetia suddenly appears to notice me. “This must be really boring. You know, the checkup’s done, so if you don’t want to hang around….”

  “Aren’t you meeting Suze and Jess for lunch?” Luke looks at me. “Why don’t you shoot off? I just want to recap a few things with Venetia.”

  I’m rooted to the ground. I don’t want to leave him here alone with her. Every instinct is telling me not to. But if I say that, he’ll think I’m just being all possessive and suspicious and we’ll have another huge row.

  “Well, OK,” I say at last. “I’ll go.”

  “Make sure you take what you need,” says Venetia, gesturing at my Marc Jacobs. “And I don’t want to hear that you’ve been using that bag!” She wags her finger at me.

  I want to shoot her. But there’s no point arguing; Luke will only take her side. In silence I take out my purse, phone, keys, and a few essential items of makeup. I put them in the khaki bag and zip it shut.

  “Bye, darling.” Luke kisses me. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Bye. Bye, Venetia.” I can barely look her in the eye. I leave the room and head out to the foyer.

  At the reception desk I can see an excited blond girl with the tiniest of bumps, saying, “I’m so thrilled to have a place with Venetia!”

  Yes, you are now, I think savagely. Until she makes you look like a freak in front of your husband.

  I’m nearly at the door, when a sudden recollection stops me. Luke’s mobile rang this morning while he was in the shower, and I answered it. Which was not because I am possessive and suspicious, but because…

  Well, OK. I thought it might be Venetia. But it wasn’t; it was John from Brandon Communications and I never told Luke to ring him. I’d better let him know.

  I retrace my steps through the waiting room, trying to ignore the curious stares of the blond girl and her husband. These bloody stockings are coming off as soon as I get outside.