Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (151 page)

“I don’t want to.” Suze’s low voice takes me by surprise. I look over, and she’s staring down into her cappuccino. Suddenly I recall Suze’s reaction at Mum’s house when I mentioned Lulu. That kind of tension in her face.

“Suze, have you and Lulu fallen out?” I say cautiously.

“Not exactly.” Suze won’t look up. “I mean…she’s done a lot for me. She’s been so helpful, especially with the children….”

The trouble with Suze is, she never wants to be nasty. So she always starts off bitching about people with a little speech about how lovely they are really.

“But…” I prompt her.

“But she’s so bloody perfect!” As Suze raises her head, her cheeks are all pink. “She makes me feel like a total failure. Especially when we go out together. She always has homemade risotto or something and her children
eat
it. And they’re never naughty, and they’re all really bright….”

“Your children are bright!” I retort indignantly.

“Lulu’s kids are all reading Harry Potter!” Suze sounds despairing. “And Ernie can’t even really
speak
much, let alone read. Apart from German phrases from Wagner. And Lulu keeps asking me if I played Mozart to him in the womb, and have I thought about extra tuition, and I just feel so inadequate….”

I feel a hot surge of outrage. How
dare
anyone make Suze feel inadequate!

“Suze, you’re a brilliant mother!” I say. “And Lulu’s just a cow. I knew it, the moment I met her. Don’t listen to her anymore. And don’t read her stupid cookbook!” I put an arm round Suze’s shoulders and squeeze tight. “If you feel inadequate, how do you think
I
feel? I don’t even know any nursery rhymes!”

“Good afternoon!” Lulu’s amplified voice suddenly booms out from behind us, and we both turn round. She’s sitting on a raised platform, opposite a woman in a pink suit, with a small audience watching. Two of her children are on her lap, and behind her are huge posters for her book, with a notice saying “Signed Copies Available.”

“A lot of parents are simply
lazy
when it comes to feeding their children,” she’s saying with a pitying smile. “In my experience, all children like the taste of such things as avocado, monk-fish, or a good homemade polenta.”

Suze and I exchange glances.

“I’ve got to feed the twins,” mutters Suze. “I’ll go and do it in the ‘Mother and Baby’ area.”

“Do it here!” I protest. “They’ve got highchairs—”

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “No way, not with Lulu around. I’ve only brought a couple of jars. I’m
not
letting her see those.”

“D’you want some help?” I volunteer.

“No, don’t worry.” She eyes my pram, piled high with the hobbyhorses, the paddling pool, and the teddy. “Bex, why don’t you go round again and this time maybe look for basics? You know, things the baby will actually
need
?”

“Right, yes.” I nod. “Good idea.”

I head down the aisles as fast as I can, trying to get away from Lulu’s grating voice.

“Television is the most
dreadful
influence,” she’s saying. “Again, I would say it’s just sheer laziness on the part of the parents. My children have a program of stimulating educational activities—”

Stupid woman. Trying to ignore her, I pull out my fair guide and am looking around to get my bearings, when a large sign attracts my attention.
FIRST AID KITS
£40. Now,
that’s
what we need.

Feeling rather grown-up and responsible, I park the pram and start to peruse the kits. They all come in cool cases, with different things in sections. Plasters…rolls of bandages…and the cutest little pink scissors. I can’t believe I’ve never bought a first aid kit before. They’re fab!

I take the kit up to the checkout, where a lugubrious-looking man in a white coat is sitting on a stool. He starts tapping at his till and I pick up a MediSupply Professional catalog, which is pretty dull. It’s mostly rolls of elastic tape, and industrial-size bottles of aspirin, and—

Ooh. A stethoscope. I’ve
always
wanted a stethoscope.

“How much is the stethoscope?” I say casually.

“Stethoscope?” The man gives me a suspicious look. “Are you a doctor?”

Honestly. Are only doctors allowed to buy stethoscopes, or something?

“Not exactly,” I admit at last. “Can I still have one?”

“Everything in the catalog is available to order online.” He gives a grudging shrug. “If you want to pay £150. They’re not toys.”

“I know they’re not!” I say with dignity. “I actually think every parent should have a stethoscope in the house for emergency purposes. And a home heart defibrillator,” I add, turning the page. “And—”

I stop midflow. I’m staring at a picture of a smiling pregnant woman clasping her stomach.

Baby’s Gender Predictor Kit.

Conduct a simple test in the privacy of your own home.

Results accurate and anonymous.

My heart is doing a kind of jig. I could find out. Without having another scan. Without telling Luke.

“Um…is this available online too?” I ask, my voice a bit husky.

“I’ve got those here.” He rootles in his drawer and produces a large white box.

“Right.” I swallow. “I’ll take it. Thanks.” I hand over my credit card and the man swipes it.

A voice comes from behind me. “How’s little Tallulah-Phoebe?” It’s the woman in the dark red raincoat again. She’s clutching a hobbyhorse wrapped up in plastic, and peering into the ever-more-laden pram, which I parked by the display of first aid boxes. “She is a good girl, isn’t she? Not a peep!”

I feel a prickle of alarm.

“She’s, um…sleeping,” I say quickly. “I’d leave her alone, actually….”

“Let me just have a little look! I don’t know
how
she can sleep with all these packages on her pram.
Can
you, Tallulah-Phoebe?” the woman croons, pushing aside all my plastic bags.

“Please leave her alone!” I start toward the pram. “She’s very sensitive…she doesn’t like strangers—”

“She’s gone!” the old woman cries, and stands bolt upright, pale with fear. “The baby’s gone! Only her little blanket’s left!”

Shit.

“Um…” My face floods with color. “Actually…”

“Miss, your credit card doesn’t work,” says the man at the till.

“It must work!” I turn back, momentarily distracted. “I only got it last week—”

“A baby’s been abducted!”

To my horror, the raincoat woman has bustled out of the stand and accosted a security guard, still clutching the lacy blanket. “Little Tallulah-Phoebe’s gone! A baby’s disappeared!”

“Did you hear that?” a blond woman cries out in horror. “A child’s been abducted! Call the police, someone!”

“No, she hasn’t!” I call. “There’s been a…a misunderstanding….” But no one hears.

“She was asleep in her pram!” The raincoat woman’s gabbling to anyone who will listen. “And then it was just her blanket! These people are evil!”

“A baby’s gone!”

“They just grabbed her!”

I can hear the news spreading like wildfire among passersby. Parents are summoning their children to their sides with sharp cries. To my horror I see a pair of security guards heading toward me, their walkie-talkies crackling.

“They’ll have dyed her hair and changed her clothes by now,” the blond woman is saying hysterically. “She’ll be halfway to Thailand!”

“Madam, the fair entrances were secured as soon as we got the alert,” says a security guard in a terse voice. “No one’s coming in or out until we’ve found this baby.”

OK, I have to take control. I have to tell them it’s a false alarm. Yes. Just admit I invented Tallulah-Phoebe in order to queue-jump, and I’m sure everyone will understand—

No, they won’t. They’ll lynch me.

“It’s gone through. Do you have a PIN number?” says the man at the till, who looks totally unmoved by all the fuss. I jab it in on autopilot and he hands me the bag.

“Her child’s missing…and she’s
shopping
?” says the blond woman in tones of horror.

“Can you give a full description of the child, ma’am?” one of the guards says, approaching me. “National police have been informed, and we’ve got a call out to the airports….”

I am never going to tell a lie again. Never.

“I…um…” My voice isn’t working properly. “I should probably…explain something.”

“Yes?” Both men are looking at me expectantly.

“Bex?” Suddenly I hear Suze’s voice. “What’s going on?” I look up, and there’s Suze, pushing the double buggy with one arm and holding Clementine in the other.

Thank God, thank God, thank God—

“
There
you are!” I say, grabbing Clementine from Suze, my voice high with relief. “Come here, Tallulah-Phoebe!”

I hug Clementine tight, trying to hide the fact that she’s leaning out of my arms in a desperate attempt to get back to Suze.

“Is this the missing child?” A security guard is looking Clementine up and down.

“Missing child?” Suze looks incredulous. She turns and takes in the crowd around us. “Bex, what on earth—”

“I completely forgot that you’d taken little Tallulah-Phoebe off for lunch!” I say in shrill tones. “Silly me! And everyone thought she’d been kidnapped!” I’m desperately imploring her with my eyes to play along.

I can see her brain working it all out. The great thing about Suze is that she knows me pretty well.

“
Tallulah-Phoebe?
” she says at last, in tones of incredulity, and I give a slight, shamefaced shrug.

“Baby Tallulah-Phoebe’s back!” The raincoat woman is spreading the news joyfully among the passersby. “We’ve found her!”

“You know this woman?” The security guard regards Suze with narrowed eyes.

“She’s my friend,” I say quickly, before they arrest Suze for abducting her own baby. “Actually, I think we should probably go….” I squish Clementine into my pram as best I can amid all the packages, and maneuver it into a getaway position.

“Mama!” Clementine is still stretching out her hands toward Suze. “Mama!”

“Oh my God!” Suze’s face lights up like a beacon. “Did you hear that? She said Mama! Clever
girl
!”

“We’re off now,” I say hurriedly to the guards. “Thank you
so
much for all your help. You’ve got a great security system….”

“Wait a minute.” One of the guards is frowning in suspicion. “Why did the baby say ‘Mama’ to this lady?”

“Because…she’s called Mamie,” I say desperately. “Clever Tallulah-Phoebe, that’s your aunty Mamie! Aunty Mama! Let’s go home now….”

I can’t quite look at Suze as we head toward the exits. On the loudspeakers, the DJ is saying, “And baby Tallulah-Phoebe has been
found,
safe and well….”

“So, do you want to tell me what that was all about, Bex?” Suze says at last, without turning her head.

“Er…” I clear my throat. “Not really. Shall we go and have a cup of tea instead?”

EIGHT

SUZE AND I spend the rest of the day together, and it’s just fab. We dump all our parcels in Suze’s enormous Range Rover, then she drives to the King’s Road and we have tea at a great children-friendly place with ice-cream sundaes and everything. (I am
always
having crayons on the table from now on.) Then we go to Steinberg & Tolkien, and I buy a vintage cardigan and Suze buys an evening bag, and then it’s time for supper, so we go to Pizza on the Park, where a jazz group is warming up and they let the twins bang their fists on the drums.

And then at last, we lift the sleeping babies into the Range Rover and Suze gives me a lift home. It’s about ten by the time we drive in past the porter’s lodge and pull up in front of the entrance to the building. I call Luke on my mobile to help us upstairs with all my stuff.

“Wow,” he says as he takes in the pile of bags on the ground. “So, is this it? Is the nursery complete now?”

“Um…” It’s just occurred to me that I never did buy a sterilizer. Or a nursing pillow or any diaper rash cream. But never mind. I’ve still got fifteen weeks to go. Plenty of time.

As Luke struggles into the flat with the paddling pool and hobbyhorse and about six carriers, I quickly take the bag with the Gender Predictor Kit and hide it in my underwear drawer. I’ll have to choose a moment when he’s out.

Suze has popped into the bathroom to change one of the twins and as I emerge from the bedroom she’s lugging both car seats down the corridor.

“Come and have a glass of wine,” Luke says.

“I’d better get going,” she says regretfully. “But I’ll have a glass of water if you’ve got one.”

We head into the kitchen, where a CD is softly playing Nina Simone songs. A half-empty bottle of wine is open on the counter, with two glasses next to it.

“I’m not having wine,” I begin.

“That wasn’t for you,” says Luke, filling a glass of water from the fridge. “Venetia popped round earlier.”

I feel a shot of surprise. Venetia was here?

“There’s some extra paperwork we need to fill out,” Luke continues. “She passes this way anyway, so she dropped it off on her way home.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “That was…helpful of her.”

“She’s just left, actually.” Luke hands Suze the glass. “You missed her by a few minutes.”

Hang on. It’s gone ten o’clock. Does that mean she’s been here
all evening
?

I mean, not that I mind or anything. Of course I don’t. Venetia is just Luke’s friend. His beautiful, ex-girlfriend, platonic old friend.

I’m aware of Suze’s eyes boring into me, and quickly look away.

“Bex, can you show me the nursery before I leave?” she says, her voice strangely high-pitched. “Come on.”

She practically hustles me down the corridor and into the spare room, which we’re calling the nursery even though we’ll have moved by the time the baby arrives.

“So.”
Suze shuts the door and turns to face me, agog.

“What?” I shrug, pretending I don’t know what she means.

“Is that normal? To ‘pop round’ to your ex’s house and stay all evening?”

“Of course it is. Why shouldn’t they catch up?”

“Just the two of them? Drinking
wine
?” Suze utters the word like some Baptist teetotal preacher.

“They’re friends, Suze!” I say defensively. “Old…very good…platonic…friends.”

There’s silence in the little room.

“OK, Bex,” Suze says at last, lifting her hands as though in surrender. “If you’re sure.”

“I am! I’m totally, completely, one hundred percent…” I trail off and start fiddling with a Christian Dior bottle warmer. I’m clicking the lid on and off like some obsessive-compulsive. Suze has wandered over to the wicker toy hamper and is examining a little woolly sheep. For a while we’re both silent, not even looking at each other.

“At least…”

“What?”

I swallow several times, not wanting to admit it. “Well,” I say at last, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “What if…just hypothetically…what if I
weren’t
sure?”

Suze raises her head and meets my gaze. “Is she pretty?” she says in equally matter-of-fact tones.

“She’s not just pretty. She’s stunning. She’s got red shiny hair and these amazing green eyes and really toned arms….”

“Cow,” says Suze automatically.

“And she’s clever, and she wears great clothes, and Luke really likes her….” The more I say, the less confident I’m feeling.

“Luke
loves
you!” Suze cuts in. “Bex, remember, you’re his wife. You’re the one he chose. She’s the reject.”

That makes me feel better. “Reject” makes me feel a lot better.

“But that doesn’t mean she’s not after him.” Suze starts pacing up and down, pensively tapping the woolly sheep on her palm. “We have several options here. One: she genuinely is just a friend and you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Right.” I nod earnestly.

“Two: she came by this evening to check the lay of the land. Three: she’s totally going after him. Four—” She stops herself.

“What’s four?” I say in dread.

“It isn’t four,” says Suze quickly. “I reckon it’s two. She came to scope things out. See the home territory.”

“So…what do I do?”

“You let her know you’re onto her.” Suze raises her eyebrows meaningfully. “Woman-to-woman.”

Woman-to-woman? Since when did Suze get so worldly-wise and cynical? She sounds like she should be wearing a pencil skirt and blowing cigarette smoke in some film noir.

“When are you seeing her again?” she asks.

“Next Friday. We’ve got a checkup appointment.”

“OK.” Suze sounds firm. “Go in there, Bex, and stake your claim.”

“Stake my claim?” I say uncertainly. “How do I do that?” I’m not sure I’ve staked my claim on anything before. Except maybe a pair of boots in a Barneys sale.

“Give off discreet little signals,” Suze says in knowledgeable tones. “Show her Luke belongs to you. Put your arm round him…talk about your great life together…. Just nip any little ideas she might have in the bud. And make sure you look fabulous. But not like you’ve made any effort.”

Discreet little signals. Our great life together. Look fabulous. I can do that.

“How’s Luke about the baby, by the way?” Suze asks casually. “Is he excited?”

“Yes, I think so. Why?”

“Oh, nothing.” She shrugs. “I just read this piece in a magazine the other day about men who can’t cope with the idea of becoming a father. Apparently they often have affairs to compensate.”

“Often?” I echo in dismay. “How often?”

“Er…about half the time?”

“Half?”

“I mean…a tenth,” Suze amends hastily. “I can’t remember what it said, actually. And I’m sure that’s not Luke. But still, it might be worth talking to him about fatherhood. The article said some men can only see the pressures and stresses of having a child, and you have to paint a positive picture.”

“Right.” I nod, trying to take all this information in. “OK. I’ll do that. And Suze…” I pause awkwardly. “Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so.’ You told me to steer clear of Venetia Carter and…maybe you were right.”

“I would
never
say ‘I told you so’!” exclaims Suze in horror.

“I know you wouldn’t. But loads of people would.”

“Well, they shouldn’t! And anyway, maybe
you
were right, Bex. Maybe Venetia’s not interested in Luke and it’s all totally innocent.” She puts the woolly sheep down and pats it on the head. “But I’d stake your claim anyway. Just to be sure.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” I give a determined nod. “I will.”

Suze is so right. I need to give Venetia the message:
Keep your hands off my husband
. In a subtle way, of course.

As we arrive at the birth center on Friday I’m dressed in my best “looking fabulous with no effort” outfit of Seven maternity jeans (frayed), a sexy red stretchy top, and my new Moschino killer heels. Which are a bit dressy maybe, but the frayed jeans compensate. When we arrive, the waiting room is pretty empty, with not a celebrity in sight, but I’m so psyched up I don’t mind.

“Becky?” Luke looks down at my hand, gripping his. “Are you all right? You seem tense.”

“Oh…you know,” I say. “I’ve just got a few concerns.”

“I’m sure you have.” He gives an understanding nod. “Why not share them with Venetia?”

Yu-huh. That was the general plan.

We sit down on the plushy chairs, and I pick up a magazine, and Luke opens the
FT
with a rustle. I’m about to turn to “Your Baby’s Horoscope” when I remember Suze’s words yesterday. I should talk to Luke about fatherhood. This is the perfect time.

“So…it’s exciting, isn’t it?” I say, putting my magazine down. “Becoming parents.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Luke nods and turns a page.

He doesn’t sound that excited. Oh God, what if he’s secretly daunted by a life of diapers and is seeking refuge in another woman’s arms? I have to paint a
positive
picture of parenthood, like Suze said. Something really good…something exciting to look forward to…

“Hey, Luke,” I say, suddenly inspired. “Imagine if the baby wins a gold medal at the Olympic Games.”

“Sorry?” He raises his head from the
FT.

“The Olympics! Imagine if the baby wins a gold medal at something. And we’ll be its parents!” I look at him for a reaction. “Won’t it be great? We’ll be so proud!”

My mind is totally seized by this idea. I can totally see myself at the stadium in 2030 or whenever, being interviewed by Sue Barker, telling her how I knew my child was destined for greatness, even from the womb.

Luke appears a bit bemused.

“Becky…have I missed something? What makes you think our child will win an Olympic gold?”

“It might! Why shouldn’t it? You have to
believe
in your children, Luke.”

“Ah. Fair enough.” Luke nods and puts his paper down. “So, which sport did you have in mind?”

“The long jump,” I say after some thought. “Or maybe the triple jump, because it’s less popular. It’ll be easier to win a gold.”

“Or wrestling,” suggests Luke.

“Wrestling?”
I look at him indignantly. “Our child’s not doing wrestling! It might hurt itself!”

“What if its destiny is to become the world’s greatest-ever wrestler?” Luke raises his eyebrows. For a few moments I’m flummoxed.

“It’s not,” I say at last. “I’m its mother and I know.”

“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?