Gucci Gucci Coo (9 page)

She headed down the corridor toward the lobby, still trying to work out why Jill had been so jumpy on the subject of celebs. She could only assume that the hospital management had put the fear of God into the staff about gossiping and that Jill was constantly on her guard, petrified of being caught and getting the sack. What a desperate strain that must be, Ruby thought.

As she passed through the prenatal department she noticed a wire rack stacked with pregnancy and childbirth pamphlets. One caught her eye:
Pregnancy and the Older Woman
. Putting Jill McNulty and her problems to the back of her mind, she picked it up and started reading as she walked.

Apparently, a pregnant woman of fifty who had previously given birth was classed as a geriatric multigravida. If that didn’t sound unpleasant enough, there was worse to follow. Words like
diabetes, hypertension
and
preeclampsia
leapt out at her. She was so engrossed that she wasn’t watching where she was going.

The next thing she knew she was colliding with another body.

“Oops, God, I’m so sorry,” she blurted, aware that she had made contact with a man’s back, pushing him forward and causing him to lose his balance. In the second or two it took him to right himself and straighten, she registered the blue scrubs and became aware that she had bumped into a doctor. He spun round, clearly wanting to see who had crashed into him. Her eyes began to focus on his face, which was registering surprise rather than anger. It was him—the cute American doctor who knew all about her vaginal stamp. As she felt her cheeks begin to flush with embarrassment, she prayed he wouldn’t recognize her. Some hopes.

“It is you, isn’t it?” His surprised expression had become a smile of recognition. “The woman from the coffee machine?”

“Oh, yes, of course…The coffee machine…Yesterday,” she said, doing her best to give the impression that the previous day’s encounter had made only the vaguest dent in her memory. “Look, I’m so sorry about bashing into you. I was miles away. Wasn’t watching where I was going. I hope I haven’t done any damage.”

“I’m fine. Please don’t worry.”

She couldn’t help noticing the way the corners of his eyes creased when he smiled and how sexy it made him look.

“Well,” she said, suddenly aware that she had been staring at him, “I won’t hold you up. You must have loads of patients waiting for you.”

“Actually, I’m on a break. I’ve been in surgery all morning—two hysterectomies and a cesarean.” It was then that he noticed the leaflet she was holding.
“Pregnancy and the Older Woman,”
he read. “Well, if you’re an older woman, you sure had me fooled. When’s your baby due?”

Ruby laughed. “I’m not pregnant. What my mother thought was menopause turned out to be a baby. I was doing a bit of research on her behalf.”

“Wow, that must have come as a bit of a shock to everybody. How do you feel about having a baby brother or sister?”

“A bit weird, really. I think it’s going to take me a while to get used to the idea.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’m also a bit worried that because of her age, something might go wrong,”

“That’s understandable. But obstetrics has moved on so much in the last few years. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t have a completely problem-free pregnancy and labor.”

“I hope so.” She couldn’t help thinking how kind it was of him to take the time to reassure her.

“So, you here with your mom?”

“No, actually I’m here on business.” She explained as briefly as she could about Les Sprogs and St. Luke’s having taken her on to give talks to expectant mothers.

“You’re going to be a regular visitor, then?” She was sure she noticed his face light up.

“Looks like it,” she said.

“I’m Sam Epstien, by the way.” He extended his hand.

Epstien. So, he wasn’t just a doctor, he was a Jewish doctor. She was being chatted up by a handsome Jewish doctor—albeit one who specialized in vaginas. She daren’t tell her mother—at least not about the Jewish part (she’d be fine with the vaginas). Much as her mother loathed the traditional Jewish mother stereotype, she wouldn’t be able to resist becoming giddy with excitement. There was no doubt in Ruby’s mind that she would be straight on the phone to Aunty Sylvia. Before you could say “wedding planner,” Aunty Sylvia would have broadcast the news all over North West London.

“Ruby Silverman,” she said, shaking his hand and registering its warm firmness and how it completely enveloped hers.

“So, you’re American, then?” Dah. Could she have asked a more redundant question? It was nerves. She always got anxious when she found herself in conversation with men she fancied.

“You guessed,” he grinned. He explained that he was working at the hospital as part of an exchange program, which meant he swapped places with a British doctor. He had been here six months and had another six months to go.

She asked him how he was enjoying being in Britain. He said he was loving it. This was followed by one of those uneasy silences. Ruby hated silences and always felt the need to fill them. “My friend’s got her post office gig tonight,” she blurted. As the words left her mouth she wanted to stuff them back inside. What on earth had possessed her to say that? He was bound to ask her more questions, which meant she would end up compounding everything by telling more lies and getting herself into even deeper water.

“I would be so nervous having to get up in front of an audience and tell jokes,” he said, leaving Ruby wondering if he knew that the whole post office scenario was a lie and was humoring her to spare her blushes.

“Right, well anyway it’s been lovely, er, bumping into you again,” she said, “but I really should be getting—”

“I was just about to grab a bite in the canteen,” he said. “The food’s nothing fancy, but since I’ve been here I’ve become addicted to the Lancashire hot pot. I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”

Of course she wanted to join him. She wanted very much to join him. After all, he was desperately handsome and then some. He was tall and broad-shouldered. She could see he worked out. And he had the warmest brown eyes. She even found herself forgetting that he was a gynecologist. But what if he brought up the post office thing again?

He seemed to sense her hesitation. “Or there’s a great little Italian place across the street, if you’d prefer,” he said. “They make a mean lasagne.”

She was on the point of saying yes, having decided that she would have to tell him the truth about her vaginal stamp. It was cowardly and wimpy not to tell him. Plus lying wasn’t really in her nature. She was busy thinking that in the restaurant, with a couple of glasses of Chardy inside her, she just might be able to find the courage to come clean, when her mobile rang. It was Chanel to say Henry the bookkeeper had just arrived at the shop to start work on the tax returns and had a string of urgent queries, which she couldn’t answer. Ruby had been sure that Henry wasn’t due until later that afternoon, but she’d clearly got it wrong. “Look, tell him I got my times confused and that I’m really sorry. Make him a cuppa and I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Not being able to have lunch with Sam made her feel sad and relieved in equal measure. “I’m sorry, Sam, but there’s a problem at the shop. I really do have to get back.”

“That’s a shame,” he said, with what felt to Ruby like genuine disappointment. “Look, maybe I could give you a call sometime and we could meet up for a drink?”

“Sure,” she heard herself saying, “I’d like that.” She reached into her bag, took out a business card and handed it to him.

Ruby walked away, her entire body pricking with excitement and anticipation.

Chapter 6

“So, if ’e phones to ask you out, you gonna go?” Chanel carried on bagging up the day’s takings—not that their cash payments amounted to much, since most customers paid by credit card.

“I don’t know,” Ruby said. Being holed up with Henry the bookkeeper all afternoon, she had been bored witless and her mind had started to wander. By now she was having second thoughts about going out with Sam Epstien. “I know he is totally gorgeous, but let’s not forget that this is a man who spends his day looking up women’s vaginas. What kind of a man does that?”

“Are you saying he’s a pervert?” Chanel asked.

“What would you call a woman who spent all day examining men’s penises?”

“Lucky!” Chanel cackled. Then she thought for a moment. “On the other ’and, I s’pose yer penis isn’t much to look at, per se. I would need some extra incentive—like Brad Pitt or George Clooney on the other end of it.”

Once they’d stopped laughing, Chanel went back to filling the money bag. During the silence that followed, Ruby started to think about how she really ought to tell Chanel about Ronnie being pregnant. The truth was, she didn’t want to say anything. It seemed so unfair that Ronnie was expecting a baby at fifty while Chanel and Craig were trying so hard for one and nothing was happening. There was no getting out of it, though. Ronnie often turned up at the shop looking for a present to give a friend’s new grandchild. It was only fair that when she came next, Chanel wouldn’t be shocked and upset by the sight of Ronnie plus her bump.

Chanel was utterly gobsmacked by the news, but at the same time, genuinely pleased for Ronnie.

“Ah, I’ll send her a card. God, somebody must really want to be born, that’s all I can say.” Chanel was all smiles, but it was clear to Ruby that she couldn’t get away fast enough. She was making noises about having to get home because she was doing Craig a special roast beef dinner with all the trimmings.

“Chanel, please don’t run off. You know, it’s OK to be upset.”

“I’m not upset. I’m fine. Honest.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen to fetch her coat.

Ruby followed her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Chanel turned round. “Don’t be daft. Of course you should. It’s not your job to protect me.” She seemed to be fighting to hold on to her emotions. “Look, you might as well know, I got my period this morning. That’s the sixth lot of IVF that’s failed.”

“Oh, Chanel, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

Chanel shrugged. “Nothing
to
say. We just ’ave to keep going, that’s all. I’ve been pregnant once. I know we’ll get there in the end.” She was saying the words and putting on a brave face, but Ruby could tell this latest setback had come as a body blow.

“What does your doctor say?”

“I phoned ’im this morning. He wants us to knock the IVF on the ’ead. Pretty much said me and Craig woz flogging a dead horse. Still, what does ’e know, eh? Doctors are always getting stuff wrong, aren’t they?”

“Of course they are,” Ruby said tenderly. “Having said that, what about trying one of the fertility specialists at St. Luke’s?”

“I’ve tried. They’re all booked up for months. Plus Craig’s done all the research, and as far as IVF goes, St. Luke’s ’as about the same success rate as our bloke in Harley Street.”

Ruby nodded. “It was just a thought.…You know you didn’t have to come in today. I would have understood if you’d wanted to take time off.”

“Nah, I’m better at work. Keeps me occupied. And we’ll get pregnant eventually. I just know we will.”

Ruby put her arms round Chanel and gave her a hug. It was something she had never done before. She was worried that Chanel might see being comforted as a sign of weakness and push her away, but she didn’t. As they stood, locked in their embrace, Ruby tried to think of something positive to say. She realized, of course, that there were no words of comfort. There was nothing she could offer to make the pain go away.

When the phone rang, Ruby’s inclination—since they were closed—was to let it ring. Chanel insisted one of them answer it. “OK, I’ll get it,” Ruby said, taking a tissue from her pocket and handing it to Chanel.

It was Stella phoning from New York to say she’d just heard that Claudia Planchette was pregnant.

“I know,” Ruby said. “I read about it yesterday in
Hello!
”

“Fine. Whatever.” God, Ruby thought, would it hurt the woman to at least feign interest in what other people had to say? “The point is,” Stella continued, “I’ve just had the most wonderful idea. Why don’t you drop her a line—I have her address in London—and offer to close down the shop for her one afternoon so that she can pick out a layette and all her baby equipment.”

Ruby wanted to make the point that this was brown-nosing in the extreme and that if she was going to suck up to this extent, she might as well throw away the Hoover, but she wasn’t so blunt. She simply suggested that offering to close the shop might be seen as a bit over the top and put Claudia Planchette off coming to the shop at all. She also made the point that when it got round that they had closed the shop for a celeb, it would antagonize their other customers. “It would also upset the other VIPs who come in here. They’d want to know why we don’t offer to close down the shop for them, too.”

“The reason we don’t close down for anybody else is that none of them gets $20 million a picture. The woman is obscenely rich, for crying out loud. We can’t afford not to do this.”

As usual Stella got her way and Ruby agreed she would write a letter.

By the time Ruby had finished speaking to Stella, Chanel had her coat on and she seemed to have perked up. “My ’oroscope said Taurus would be affected by Mercury opposing their natal moon. Apparently everything gets better toward the end of the month when Venus, planet of ’armony, returns to the midheaven angle of my chart.” Ruby could see that behind the bravado she was still deeply troubled, but her emotional drawbridge had been pulled up. Chanel wasn’t going to talk about IVF or babies anymore. It was clear to Ruby that it was the only way she could cope.

S
HE GOT HOME
to find Ivan the Terrible on his knees in the loo. He was busy packing up his tools. The floor was covered with bits of copper piping, as it had been for days, and the basin was still hanging off the wall.

“Hi, Ivan. How’s it all going?”

“No good,” he said with a grave shake of his head. “We hef problee-yem.”

“Oh, dear, not another one.”

One hand on the loo seat, Ivan heaved himself to his feet. He was in his fifties, well over six feet, with a barrel chest and cropped fair hair that was starting to go gray. He reminded Ruby of an aging Russian cosmonaut. Of course, Ivan was not and never had been a cosmonaut. He was a plumber-cum-general-handyman who had recently emigrated from the Ukraine with his wife and teenage children.

Ruby had been in her flat in Shepherd’s Bush just over a year. When she decided it was time to start remodeling the bathroom and kitchen, she’d asked Chanel’s Craig if he could do the work. Much as he’d wanted to help out, he couldn’t. He was so busy that he simply couldn’t find the time.

One of Ronnie’s neighbors had recommended Ivan. She was full of praise for his work and said he was friendly, honest and reliable. He was also cheap. It was only when Ivan started work that Ruby realized why he was cheap. He was slow. And not just a bit slow. Ivan was breathtakingly, mind-numbingly, gobsmackingly slow. He was so slow he could have plodded for the Ukraine. It seemed that Ronnie’s neighbor hadn’t been bothered by this because she was an elderly widow and grateful for the company.

Remodeling the bathroom should have taken ten days, tops. It had already taken nearly three weeks and there was still the tiling to do when the plumbing was done. Heaven only knew how long the kitchen was going to take. Ruby had thought about looking for somebody else to do the work, but she’d decided against it. Ivan might be slow, but he was good at what he did. Before taking him on, she’d been to look at Ronnie’s neighbor’s new kitchen and been hugely impressed.

There was another upside, though. Once the kitchen and bathroom were finished, there was no more work to be done. Everything else was finished. The rewiring had been done. Ditto the painting and decorating. Last week, new wooden floors had gone down and a few days ago her brown leather sofas had been delivered along with new blinds. All she needed to think about now were cushions, rugs and lamps. The fun part.

She loved her flat—especially now that the renovations were coming to an end—because it was cozy and womblike. It was her refuge, her safe haven when the going got rough. Of course, she knew that it was too small. She badly needed a study so that she could move her computer and all her papers off the dining room table. She also hankered after a garden—somewhere to sit with a glass of wine on a warm summer’s evening. She wanted to smell lily of the valley, honeysuckle and sweet peas. Since it was a top-floor flat, she had thought about converting the loft and maybe seeing if she could get permission from the council to build a roof terrace. But she’d been so busy doing the place up and running the shop that her plans hadn’t extended beyond her head.

Ivan was standing in front of Ruby now, red faced and breathless from the effort of getting to his feet.

“You sure you’re feeling all right?” Ruby said gently. She suspected that Ivan had a heart problem. She’d broached the subject of his breathlessness once or twice, but Ivan always insisted it was caused by nothing more than the mild asthma he’d had since childhood.

He inhaled deeply and straightened. “No worry. I em good now.”

“Sure?’

He nodded.

“So, how’s the loo coming along?” It was a redundant question, since she’d just passed the toilet sitting in the hall, still in its wrapping. If she hadn’t had a guest loo she wasn’t sure what she would have done.

“Bollocks,” Ivan announced.

“Blimey, things that bad, eh?”

“I do not understand,” he said, arms outsretched, palms turned heavenward, “the English bollocks.”

“I’m not sure they’re much different from Ukranian ones,” Ruby replied, wondering precisely where the conversation was going.

“But I just buy new ceestern yesterday and already the bollock it ees kaput. The overflow keep on overflowing and I cannot feex eet. I think bollock is too small.”

A light went on. “Oh, you mean ball cock. My ball cock is kaput.”

“Da, that is what I say…bollock.” Ivan had only been here a few months and his plumbing vocab wasn’t yet up to speed.

“No, Ivan, it’s pronounced ball cock, not bollock. Bollock is something quite different.”

“Yes, bollock. Eet is what I say.”

“No, Ivan, it’s not…”

“I go back to plumber’s merchant tomorrow and return bollock and ask for new one. Then maybe I feex it.”

She wasn’t sure how to approach this. “You know, Ivan, I don’t think you’ll get much joy asking the bloke behind the counter for a new bollock. Might be better to ask for a replacement cistern.”

“Ah, yes, thees is good. But still I tell him, his English bollocks are too small. In my country we have much bigger bollocks.”

Ruby cleared her throat. “Good, well…excellent. I think I’ll just leave sorting this one out to you.”

Once Ivan had left and she’d swept up some of the mess he’d left in the bathroom, there was no time to write the letter to Claudia Planchette. She made time, though, to put in a quick call to Chanel. She didn’t want to pester her, but she was worried about her and simply wanted to check that she’d got home OK and was hanging in there. Craig answered and said he was taking her out to dinner and that they were determined to find a new doctor. Ruby said nothing. Despite having suggested to Chanel that she make an appointment with one of the doctors at St. Luke’s, she couldn’t help thinking now that they were clutching at straws.

After she got off the phone, she went into the bedroom to choose something to wear for her date. The room was just about big enough for her bed and a small wardrobe. Since it was so fashionable again, Ruby had wanted to hang patterned wallpaper. Fi had convinced her that a pattern would make the room seem even smaller, so Ruby compromised. She bought a couple of large wooden panels and covered those in fancy seventies aubergine and olive wallpaper instead. She hung one over her bed in place of a headboard. The second she put on the far wall facing the door, so that people noticed it the moment they walked in. Everybody, including Ronnie, said how well the wallpaper panels worked. What Ruby didn’t say was that she’d nicked the idea from
Changing Rooms
.

Ruby’s wardrobe was overflowing—not because she was always buying clothes, but because the wardrobe was so small and because she hadn’t had a clear-out in ages. She knew the rules. If you haven’t worn an outfit for more than a season, dump it, but she never could. There was always that vague feeling that maybe high-waisted tapered jeans and bat-sleeve sweaters might have their day again. The fact that bat-sleeve sweaters had only ever had a very brief and less than triumphant day in the first place always seemed to escape her.