FIVE
OK. THIS IS MY OUTFIT for my first-ever appointment with a celebrity must-have obstetrician:
Embroidered kaftan top like Jemima Khan
Maternity jeans (with the elastic hidden in the pockets, not with a great revolting panel of stretchy fabric)
My new Elle Macpherson maternity underwear (lilac)
Prada sandals
I look pretty good, I think. I hope. I tweak my kaftan and toss my hair back at my reflection.
“Hi,” I murmur. “Hi, Kate. Hi, Elle. God, fancy bumping into you. I’m wearing your underpants!”
No. Don’t mention the underpants.
I scrutinize myself one final time, add a dusting of powder, then pick up my bag.
“Luke, are you ready?” I call.
“Uh-huh.” Luke puts his head round the study door, his phone wedged under his chin. “Uh-huh. Hold on, Iain.” He puts his hand over the receiver. “Becky, do I really need to come?”
“What?” I stare at him in horror. “Of course you need to come!”
Luke runs his eyes over my face, as though assessing the full extent of my mood. “Iain,” he says at last, turning back to the phone. “This is complicated.” He disappears back into the office and his voice descends to a murmur.
Complicated? What does he mean, complicated? We’re going to the obstetrician, end of story. I start pacing furiously around the hall, rehearsing retorts in my mind. Can’t Iain wait for once? Does our whole life have to revolve around Arcodas? Isn’t our baby’s birth important to you? Have you ever cared about me at all?
Well, OK. Maybe not that last one.
At last Luke reappears at the study door. The phone’s gone and he’s putting on his suit jacket.
“Listen, Becky…” he begins.
I knew it. He’s not coming.
“You’ve never wanted to see Venetia Carter, have you?” My words tumble out. “ You’re prejudiced against her! Well, fine! You go and do your business things and I’ll go on my own!”
“Becky…” He lifts a hand. “I’m coming to the appointment.”
“Oh,” I say, mollified. “Well, we’d better go. It’s twenty minutes’ walk.”
“We’re going by car.” He heads back into the office and I follow him in. “Iain’s on his way down from the hotel group meeting. He can pick us up, we’ll have a very quick meeting in the car, then I’ll join you.”
“Right,” I say after a pause. “That sounds OK.”
Actually, it sounds awful. I can’t stand Iain Wheeler; the last thing I want to do is sit in a car with him. But I can’t say that to Luke. There’s already a slight situation over me and Arcodas.
Which was not my fault. It was Jess’s. A few months ago, she got me into leading this big environmental protest against them, when I had no idea they were Luke’s new, important client. Luke turned the whole thing round into a positive PR exercise and the Arcodas people pretended they had a sense of humor about it—but I’m not sure I’ve ever really been forgiven.
“And I’m not prejudiced,” Luke adds, straightening his tie. “But I’ll just tell you now, Becky. This obstetrician woman will have to be pretty damn good for us to cancel Dr. Braine.”
“Luke, you’re going to love her,” I say patiently. “I know you are.”
I reach into my bag to check that my phone’s charged, then halt as I spot something on Luke’s desk. It’s a clipping from the financial pages about some new unit trust, with “Baby fund?” scribbled in the margin.
Ooh!
“So, you’re thinking of putting the baby’s money in a tracker fund, are you, Luke?” I say carelessly. “Interesting decision.”
Luke looks taken aback for a moment, then follows my gaze.
“Maybe I am,” he says in equally nonchalant tones. “Or maybe it’s a double-bluff to fool the spying opposition.”
“The opposition doesn’t need to spy.” I give him a kind smile. “She has her own brilliant ideas. In fact, if you need any tips, I’d be happy to help. For a small fee.”
“That’s quite all right,” he says politely. “Going well, is it, then? Your own investment.”
“Brilliantly, thanks. Couldn’t be better.”
“Excellent. Glad to hear it.”
“Yes…that recent Japanese farming investment I made was fantastic….” I clap a hand over my mouth. “Oops! Said too much!”
“Yup, Becky. You really fool me.” Luke grins. “Shall we go?”
We emerge from the building and Luke ushers me into Iain’s black Mercedes limo.
“Luke.” Iain nods from his seat by the window. “Rebecca.”
Iain is a thickset guy in his early forties, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He’s quite good-looking, actually, but has terrible skin which he covers up by having a Permatan. And he wears too much aftershave. Why do men do that?
“Thanks for the lift, Iain,” I say in my best charming-corporate-wife manner.
“No problem.” Iain’s gaze drops to my swelling stomach. “Been eating too many pies, Rebecca?”
Ha-ha.
“Something like that,” I say, as pleasantly as I can.
As the car pulls away, Iain takes a slurp of his take-out coffee. “How long to go before the big day?”
“Seventeen weeks.”
“So, how do you fill the time until then? Don’t tell me—yoga classes. My girlfriend’s become a yoga nut,” he adds to Luke, without giving me a chance to answer. “Load of bollocks if you ask me.”
Honestly. Number one, yoga is not bollocks, it’s a way to channel your spirit through the chakras of life, or whatever it is.
And number two, I don’t need ways to fill my time, thank you.
“Actually, Iain, I’m head personal shopper at a top London department store,” I inform him. “So I don’t have too much time for yoga.”
“A department store?” He swivels in his seat to regard me. “I didn’t know that. Which one?”
I really fell into this one.
“It’s…new,” I say, examining my nails.
“Called?”
“It’s called…The Look.”
“The Look?” Iain guffaws in disbelief and nearly drops his coffee. “Luke, you didn’t tell me your wife worked for The Look! Business slow enough for you, is it, Rebecca?”
“It’s not that bad,” I say politely.
“Not that bad? There’s never been a bigger retail flop in history! I hope you’ve got rid of your stock options!” He guffaws again. “Not counting on a Christmas bonus, are you?”
This guy is really starting to annoy me. It’s one thing for me to be rude about The Look; they’re my employer. But it’s quite another matter for other people to be rude.
“Actually, I think The Look is poised for a turnaround,” I say coolly. “We’ve had a shaky start, I’ll grant you, but all the basics are there.”
“Well, good luck.” Iain’s face is creased with amusement. “Word of advice? I’d be looking for another job.”
I force a smile, then turn to look out the window, seething. God, he’s patronizing. I’ll show him. The Look could be a success. It just needs…well. It needs customers, for a start.
The car draws up to the sidewalk and the uniformed driver gets out to open the door.
“Thanks again for the lift, Iain,” I say politely. “Luke, I’ll see you in there.”
“Uh-huh.” Luke nods, frowning as he clicks open his briefcase. “I shouldn’t be too long. So, Iain, what exactly was the problem with this outline?”
As the driver hands me out to the sidewalk, both men are already engrossed in paperwork.
“Will you be all right from here?” The driver gestures at the corner. “Fencastle Street’s just round there, only I can’t get right to it because of the bollards.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine walking from here. Oh, except I’ve forgotten my bag….” I reach back into the car, where Iain is talking.
“When I want that ki
nd of decision taken, Luke, I’ll fucking take it.” His harsh tone takes me by surprise and I see Luke flinch.
It’s just unbelievable. Just who does this guy think he is ? Just because he’s some business bigwig he thinks he can be rude to anyone he likes? I want to get straight back into the car and tell him exactly what I think of him.
But I’m not sure Luke would appreciate it.
“See you soon, darling.” I squeeze his hand and pick up my bag. “Don’t be long.”
I’m a bit early for the appointment, so I take the opportunity to reapply my lipstick and give my hair a quick comb. Then I head to the corner and turn into Fencastle Street. There’s a big impressive stucco building about twenty yards ahead, with Holistic Birth Center, Venetia Carter engraved on the glass. And on the opposite side of the street is a cluster of photographers, their lenses trained on the door.
I stop dead, my heart beating faster. It’s paparazzi. They’re all clicking away! Who are they—What are they—
Oh my God. It’s the new Bond girl! She’s walking toward the building in a pink Juicy strapless top over jeans, with a definite bump showing. I can hear the cries from the photographers: “This way, love!” and “When’s the baby due?”
This is so cool!
Trying to look nonchalant, I hurry along the pavement and arrive at the door at the same time as her. The cameras are all still clicking away behind us. I’ll be in all the gossip magazines with a Bond girl!
“Hi,” I murmur casually as she presses the buzzer. “Hi, I’m Becky. I’m pregnant, too. I like your top!”
She looks at me as if I’m a moron, then without replying pushes the door open.
Well. She wasn’t very friendly. But never mind, I’m sure the others will be. I follow her through an elegant tiled hallway and then into a large room with lilac velvet seats and a reception desk, and a huge Jo Malone candle burning on the central table.
As I head to the desk behind the Bond girl, I do a quick sweep of the room. Two girls in jeans who might easily be supermodels are reading OK! and pointing out pictures to each other. There’s a heavily pregnant girl in Missoni sitting opposite in floods of tears, with a husband who’s holding her hand and saying anxiously, “Sweetheart, we can call the baby Aspen if you like, I just didn’t realize you were serious!”
Aspen.
Aspen Brandon.
Lord Aspen Brandon, Earl of London.
Hmm. Not sure.
The Bond girl finishes talking to the receptionist, then moves away and sits down in a corner.
“Can I help?” The receptionist is looking at me.
“Yes, please.” I beam. “I’m here to see Venetia Carter. Mrs. Rebecca Brandon.”
“Take a seat, Mrs. Brandon. Dr. Carter will see you presently.” The receptionist smiles and hands me a brochure. “Some introductory literature. Help yourself to herbal tea.”
“Thanks!” I take the brochure and sit down opposite the supermodels. Gentle panpipe music is playing over the speakers, and there are photographs of mothers and new babies pinned up on the satin-covered pinboards. The whole atmosphere is serene and beautiful. It’s a million miles away from Dr. Braine’s boring old waiting room, with its plastic chairs and horrible carpet and posters about folic acid.
Luke will be so impressed when he arrives. I knew this was the right decision! Happily I start flicking through the brochure, taking in headings here and there. Water Birth…Reflexology Birth…Hypno Birth…
Maybe I’ll have a hypno birth. Whatever that is.
I’m just lingering over a picture of a girl holding a baby in what looks like a giant Jacuzzi when the receptionist summons me.
“Mrs. Brandon? Dr. Carter will see you now.”
“Oh!” I put down the brochure and glance at my watch anxiously. “I’m afraid my husband isn’t here yet. He should only be a few minutes….”
“Don’t worry.” She smiles. “I’ll send him in when he arrives. Please, come this way.”
I follow the receptionist down the carpeted passage. The walls are covered with signed pictures of glamorous celebrity mothers sitting up in bed with newborn babies, and my head swivels as I walk. I really need to think about what I’m going to wear for the birth. Maybe I’ll ask Venetia Carter for some tips.
We reach a cream-painted door and the receptionist knocks twice before opening it and ushering me in. “Venetia, this is Mrs. Brandon.”
“Mrs. Brandon!” A stunningly beautiful woman with long, vivid red hair comes forward, her hand outstretched. “Welcome to the Holistic Birth Center.”
“Hi!” I beam at her. “Call me Becky.”
Wow. Venetia Carter looks like a movie star! She’s far younger than I expected, and slighter. She’s wearing a fitted Armani trouser suit and a crisp white shirt and her hair is drawn off her face with a chic tortoiseshell band.
“I’m so glad to meet you, Becky.” Her voice is all silvery and melodious, like the Good Witch of the North. “Sit down, and we can have a nice talk.”
She’s wearing vintage Chanel pumps, I notice as I sit down. And look at that gorgeous yellow topaz strung round her neck on a silver wire.
“I want to thank you for fitting me in at such a late stage,” I say in a rush as I hand over my medical file. “I really appreciate it. And I love your shoes!”
“Thank you!” She smiles. “So, let’s have a look. You’re twenty-three weeks pregnant…first baby…” Her manicured finger is running down Dr. Braine’s notes. “Any problems with your pregnancy? Is there a reason you’ve left your previous medical care?”
“I just wanted a more holistic approach,” I say, leaning forward earnestly. “I’ve been reading your brochure and I think all your treatments sound amazing.”
“Treatments?” Her pale brow wrinkles.
“Births, I mean,” I amend quickly.
“Well, now.” Venetia Carter takes a cream file from a drawer, picks up a silver fountain pen, and writes Rebecca Brandon on the front in a flowing italic script. “There’s plenty of time to decide which approach to the birth you want. But first, let me find out more about you. You’re married, I understand?”
“Yes.” I nod.
“And is your husband coming today? Mr. Brandon, would it be?”
“He should be here.” I click my tongue apologetically. “He’s just having a quick business meeting outside in the car. But he’ll be here soon.”
“That’s fine.” She lifts her head and smiles, her teeth all perfect and shiny white. “I’m sure your husband’s very excited about having a baby.”
“Oh, he is!” I’m just about to tell her all about having our first scan, when the door opens.
“Mr. Brandon is here,” says the receptionist, and Luke strides in, saying, “Sorry, sorry, I know I’m late—”
“There you are, Luke!” I say. “Come and meet Dr. Carter.”
“Please!” She laughs again. “Call me Venetia—everyone does.”
“Venetia?” Luke has stopped dead and is staring at Venetia Carter as though he can’t believe his eyes. “Venetia? Is that you?”
Venetia Carter’s mouth drops open.
“Luke?” she says. “Luke Brandon?”
“Do you two know each other?” I say in astonishment.
For an instant, neither speaks.
“We were at Cambridge,” Luke says at last. “Years ago. But…” He rubs his forehead. “Venetia Carter. Did you get married or something?”
“I changed my surname by deed poll,” Venetia says with a rueful smile. “Wouldn’t you?”
“What was your name before you changed it?” I ask politely, but neither of them seems to hear me.
“How many years is it?” Luke still looks thunderstruck.
“Too long. Far too long.” She runs a hand through her hair and it falls back into place in a perfect red waterfall. “Do you still see any of the old Browns gang? Like Jonathan? Or Matthew?”
“Lost touch.” Luke shrugs. “You?”
&nb
sp; “I kept up with very few of them while I was in the States. But now that I’m back in London, some of us meet up whenever we can.” She’s interrupted by a bleeping sound from her pocket. She reaches for a pager and switches it off. “Excuse me, I just need to make a call. I’ll pop next door.”
As she disappears I look at Luke. His face is all lit up as though it’s Christmas Day.
“You know Venetia?” I say. “That’s amazing!”
“Isn’t it?” He shakes his head incredulously. “She was part of a crowd I used to know at Cambridge. Of course, she was Venetia Grime back then.”
“Grime?” I can’t help a giggle.
“Hardly the best name for a doctor.” He grins back. “I’m not surprised she changed it.”
“And did you know her well?”
“We were at the same college.” Luke nods. “She was always incredibly bright, Venetia. Incredibly talented. I always knew she’d do well in life.” He breaks off as the door opens and Venetia returns.
“I’m so sorry about that!” She comes round and sits on the front of her desk, one long Armani-clad leg crossed casually over the other. “Where were we?”
“I was just saying to Luke what a coincidence it was!” I say. “You and he already knowing each other.”
“Isn’t it extraordinary?” She gives her silvery laugh. “Out of all the hundreds of patients I’ve had, I’ve never before had one married to an ex-boyfriend!”
My smile freezes slightly on my face.
Ex-boyfriend?
“I was just trying to remember how long we dated for, Luke,” she adds. “Was it a year?”
They dated for a year ?
“I don’t remember,” says Luke easily. “Long time ago.”
Hang on. Just hang on a minute. Rewind. I seem to have missed a step here.
Venetia Carter used to be Luke’s girlfriend at Cambridge? But…he’s never referred to her. I’ve never even heard of a Venetia before.
I mean…not that it matters or anything. Why would it matter? I’m not the kind of person who gets hung up on old girlfriends from the past. I’m naturally a very nonjealous person. In fact, I probably won’t even mention it.
Or maybe I will, just casually.
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