Shopaholic & Baby

  “I’m sure things will turn around soon,” he says encouragingly. “Now, did you have any other questions?”

  I take a deep breath. “Actually, I did have one question, Dr. Braine.” I hesitate. “Now that the scan results are OK, would you say it’s safe to…you know…”

  “Absolutely.” Dr. Braine nods understandingly. “A lot of couples abstain from intercourse in early pregnancy.”

  “I didn’t mean sex!” I say in surprise. “I meant shopping.”

  “Shopping?” Dr. Braine seems taken aback.

  “I haven’t bought anything for the baby yet,” I explain. “I didn’t want to jinx it. But if everything looks OK, then I can start this afternoon!”

  I can’t help sounding excited. I’ve been waiting and waiting to start shopping for the baby. And I’ve just read about this fabulous new baby shop on the King’s Road, called Bambino. I actually took a bona fide afternoon off, especially to go!

  I feel Luke’s gaze on me and turn to see him regarding me with incredulity.

  “Sweetheart, what do you mean, ‘start’?” he says.

  “I haven’t bought anything for the baby yet!” I say, defensive. “You know I haven’t.”

  “So…you haven’t bought a miniature Ralph Lauren dressing gown?” Luke counts off on his fingers. “Or a rocking horse? Or a pink fairy outfit with wings?”

  “Those are for it to have when it’s a toddler,” I retort with dignity. “I haven’t bought anything for the baby.”

  Honestly. Luke’s not going to be a very good dad if he doesn’t know the difference.

  Dr. Braine is following our conversation, looking perplexed.

  “I take it you don’t wish to know the sex of the baby?” he puts in.

  “No, thanks,” says Luke, sounding determined. “We want to keep it a surprise, don’t we, Becky?”

  “Um…yes.” I clear my throat. “Unless maybe you think, Dr. Braine, that we should know for very good, unavoidable medical reasons?”

  I look hard at Dr. Braine, but he doesn’t get the message.

  “Not at all.” He beams.

  Drat.

  It’s another twenty minutes before we leave the room, about three of which are spent in Dr. Braine examining me, and the rest in he and Luke reminiscing about some school cricket match. I’m trying to be polite and listen, but I can’t help fidgeting with impatience. I want to get to Bambino!

  At last the appointment’s over and we’re walking out onto the busy London street. A woman walks past with an old-fashioned Silver Cross pram, and I discreetly eye it up. I definitely want a pram like that, with gorgeous bouncy wheels. Except I’ll have it customized hot pink. It’ll be so fab. People will call me the Girl with the Hot Pink Pram. Except if it’s a boy, I’ll have it sprayed baby blue. No…aquamarine. And everyone will say—

  “I spoke to Giles from the estate agents this morning.” Luke breaks into my thoughts.

  “Really?” I look up in excitement. “Did he have anything…”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh.” I deflate.

  At the moment, we live in this amazing penthouse flat which Luke has had for years. It’s stunning, but it doesn’t have a garden, and there’s lots of immaculate beige carpet everywhere and it’s not exactly a baby type of place. So a few weeks ago we put it on the market and started looking for a nice family house.

  The trouble is, the flat was snapped up immediately. Which, I don’t want to boast or anything, was totally due to my brilliant styling. I put candles everywhere, and a bottle of champagne on ice in the bathroom, and loads of “lifestyle” touches like opera programs and invitations to glittering society events (which I borrowed from my posh friend Suze). And this couple called the Karlssons put in an offer on the spot! And they can pay in cash!

  Which is great—except where are we going to live? We haven’t seen a single house we like and now the estate agent keeps saying the market’s very “dry” and “poor” and had we thought of renting?

  I don’t want to rent. I want to have a lovely new house to bring the baby home to.

  “What if we don’t find a place?” I look up at Luke. “What if we’re cast out on the streets? It’s going to be winter! I’ll be heavily pregnant!”

  I have a sudden image of myself trudging up Oxford Street while a choir sings “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

  “Darling, we won’t be cast out on the streets! But Giles said we may need to be more flexible in our requirements.” Luke pauses. “I think he meant your requirements, Becky.”

  That is so unfair! When they sent over the Property Search Form, it said, “Please be as specific as possible in your wishes.” So I was. And now they’re complaining!

  “We can forget the Shoe Room, apparently.”

  “But—” I stop at his expression. I once saw a Shoe Room on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and I’ve been hankering after one ever since. “OK, then,” I say tamely.

  “And we might need to be more flexible on area—”

  “I don’t mind that!” I say, as Luke’s mobile starts ringing. “In fact, I think it’s a good idea.”

  It’s Luke who’s always been so keen on Maida Vale, not me. There are loads of places I’d like to live.

  “Luke Brandon here,” Luke’s saying in his businesslike way. “Oh, hi there. Yes, we’ve had the scan. Everything looks good. It’s Jess,” he adds to me. “She tried you but your phone’s still switched off.”

  “Jess!” I say, delighted. “Let me talk to her!”

  Jess is my sister. My sister. It still gives me such a kick to say that. All my life, I thought I was an only child—and then I discovered I had a long-lost half sister! We didn’t exactly get on to begin with, but ever since we got trapped in a storm together, and properly talked, we’ve been real friends.

  I haven’t seen her for a couple of months because she’s been away in Guatemala on some geology research project. But we’ve called and e-mailed each other, and she’s texted me pictures of herself on top of some cliff. (Wearing a hideous blue anorak instead of the cool faux fur jacket I got her. Honestly.)

  “I’m going back to the office now,” Luke is saying into the phone. “And Becky’s off shopping. Do you want a word?”

  “Shh!” I hiss in horror. He knows he’s not supposed to mention the word shopping to Jess. Making a face at him, I take the phone and put it to my ear. “Hi, Jess! How’s it going?”

  “It’s great!” She sounds all distant and crackly. “I was just calling to hear how the scan went.”

  I can’t help feeling touched at her remembering. She’s probably hanging by a rope in some crevasse somewhere, chipping away at the rock face, but she still took the trouble to call.

  “Everything looks fine!”

  “Yes, Luke said. Thank goodness for that.” I can hear the relief in Jess’s voice. I know she feels guilty about me falling off the mountain, because I’d gone up there looking for her, because—

  Anyway, it’s a long story. The point is, the baby’s OK.

  “So, Luke says you’re going shopping?”

  “Just some essentials for the baby,” I say casually. “Some…er…recycled nappies. From the thrift shop.” I can see Luke laughing at me, and hastily turn away.

  The thing about my sister Jess is, she doesn’t like shopping or spending money or ruining the earth with evil consumerism. And she thinks I don’t either. She thinks I’ve followed her lead and embraced frugality.

  I did embrace it for about a week. I ordered a big sack of oats, and I bought some clothes from Oxfam and I made lentil soup. But the trouble with being frugal is, it gets so boring. You get sick of soup, and not buying magazines because they’re a waste of money, and sticking bits of soap together to make one big revolting lump. And the oats were getting in the way of Luke’s golf clubs, so in the end I chucked them out and bought some Weetabix instead.

  Only I can’t tell Jess, because it’ll ruin our lovely sisterly bond.

 
“Did you see the article about making your own baby wipes?” she’s saying with enthusiasm. “It should be pretty easy. I’ve started saving rags for you. We could do it together.”

  “Oh. Um…yes!”

  Jess keeps sending me issues of a magazine called Frugal Baby. It has cover lines like “Kit Out Your Nursery for £25!” and pictures of babies dressed in old flour sacks, and it makes me feel depressed just looking at it. I don’t want to put the baby to bed in a £3 plastic laundry basket. I want to buy a cute little cradle with white frills.

  Now she’s going on about something called “sustainable hemp babygros.” I think I might end this conversation.

  “I’d better go, Jess,” I cut in. “Will you make it to Mum’s party?”

  My mum’s having a sixtieth birthday party next week. Loads of people are invited, and there’s going to be a band, and Martin from next door is going to do conjuring tricks!

  “Of course!” says Jess. “Wouldn’t miss it! See you then.”

  “Bye!”

  I switch off the phone and turn to see that Luke has managed to hail a taxi. “Shall I drop you off at the thrift shop?” he inquires, opening the door.

  Oh, ha-ha.

  “Bambino on the King’s Road, please,” I say to the driver. “Hey, do you want to come, Luke?” I add with sudden enthusiasm. “We could look at cool prams and everything and then have tea somewhere nice….”

  I already know from Luke’s expression that he’s going to say no.

  “Sweetheart, I need to get back. Meeting with Iain. I’ll come another time, I promise.”

  There’s no point being disappointed. I know Luke’s working full-out on the Arcodas account. At least he made time for the scan. The taxi moves off and Luke puts his arm round me.

  “You look glowing,” he says.

  “Really?” I beam back at him. I have to say, I do feel pretty good today. I’m wearing my fab new maternity Earl Jeans, and high wedge espadrilles, and a sexy halter-neck top from Isabella Oliver, which I’ve ruched up to show just a teeny hint of tanned bump.

  I never realized it before—but being pregnant rocks! OK, your tummy gets big—but it’s supposed to. And your legs look thinner in comparison. And you get this brilliant cleavage, all of a sudden. (Which I have to say, Luke is quite keen on.)

  “Let’s have another look at those scan pictures,” he says. I delve into my handbag for the shiny roll of images and for a while we just gaze at them together: at the rounded head; at the profile of a little face.

  “We’re starting off a whole new person,” I murmur, my eyes riveted. “Can you believe it?”

  “I know.” Luke’s arm tightens around me. “It’s the biggest adventure we’ll ever go on.”

  “It’s amazing how nature works.” I bite my lip, feeling the emotions rise again. “All these maternal instincts have kicked in. I just feel like…I want to give our baby everything!”

  “Bambino,” says the taxi driver, pulling over to the pavement. I look up from the scan pictures to see the most fantastic, brand-new shop façade. The paintwork is cream, the canopy is red stripes, the doorman is dressed up as a toy soldier, and the windows are like a treasure trove for children. There are beautiful little baby clothes on mannequins, a child’s bed shaped like a fifties Cadillac, a real little Ferris wheel going round and round….

  “Wow!” I breathe, reaching for the taxi’s door handle. “I wonder if that Ferris wheel is for sale! Bye, Luke, see you later….”

  I’m already halfway toward the entrance, when I hear Luke calling out, “Wait!” I turn back to see a look of slight alarm on his face. “Becky.” He leans out of the taxi. “The baby doesn’t have to have everything.”

  TWO

  HOW ON EARTH did I hold off baby shopping for so long?

  I’ve reached the New Baby department on the first floor. It’s softly carpeted, with nursery rhymes playing over the sound system, and huge plushy animals decorating the entrance. An assistant dressed as Peter Rabbit has given me a white wicker basket, and as I look around, clutching it, I can feel the lust rising.

  They say motherhood changes you—and they’re right. For once in my life I’m not thinking about myself. I’m being totally selfless! All this is for my unborn child’s welfare.

  In one direction are banks of gorgeous cradles and rotating tinkly mobiles. In the other I can glimpse the alluring chrome glint of prams. Ahead of me are displays of teeny-weeny outfits. I take a step forward, toward the clothes. Just look at those adorable bunny slippers. And the tiny cowhide padded jackets…and there’s a massive section of Baby Dior…and, oh my God, D&G Junior…

  OK. Calm down. Let’s be organized. What I need is a list.

  From my bag I pull Nine Months of Your Life. I turn to chapter eight: “Shopping for Your Baby” and eagerly start scanning the page.

  Clothes:

  Do not be tempted to buy too many tiny baby clothes. White is recommended for ease of washing. Three plain babygros and six tops will suffice.

  I look at the words for a moment. The thing is, it’s never a good idea to follow a book too closely. It even said in the introduction, “You will not want to take every piece of advice. Every baby is different and you must be guided by your instincts.”

  My instincts are telling me to get a cowhide jacket.

  I hurry over to the display and look through the size labels. “Newborn baby.” “Small baby.” How do I know if I’m going to have a small baby or not? Experimentally I prod my bump. It feels quite small so far, but who can tell? Maybe I should buy both, to be on the safe side.

  “It’s the Baby in Urbe snowsuit!” A manicured hand appears on the rack in front of me and grabs a white quilted suit on a chic black hanger. “I’ve been dying to find one of these.”

  “Me too!” I say instinctively and grab the last remaining one.

  “You know in Harrods the waiting list for these is six months?” The owner of the hand is a hugely pregnant blond girl in jeans and a stretchy turquoise-wrap top. “Oh my God, they have the whole Baby in Urbe range.” She starts piling baby clothes into her white wicker basket. “And look! They’ve got Piglet shoes. I must get some for my daughters.”

  I’ve never even heard of Baby in Urbe. Or Piglet shoes.

  How can I be so uncool? How can I not have heard of any of the labels? As I survey the tiny garments before me I feel a slight panic. I don’t know what’s in or what’s out. I have no idea about baby fashion. And I’ve only got about four months to get up to speed.

  I could always ask Suze. She’s my oldest, best friend, and has three children, Ernest, Wilfrid, and Clementine. But it’s a bit different with her. Most of her baby clothes are hand-embroidered smocks handed down through the generations and darned by her mother’s old retainer, and the babies sleep in antique oak cots from the family stately home.

  I grab a couple of pairs of Piglet shoes, several Baby in Urbe rompers, and a pair of Jelly Wellies, just to be on the safe side. Then I spot the sweetest little pink baby dress. It has rainbow buttons and matching knickers and little tiny socks. It’s absolutely gorgeous. But what if we’re having a boy?

  This is impossible, not knowing the sex. There must be some way I can secretly find out.

  “How many children do you have?” says the turquoise-wrap girl chattily as she squints inside shoes for sizes.

  “This is my first.” I gesture to my bump.

  “How lovely! Just like my friend Saskia.” She gestures at a dark-haired girl who’s standing a few feet away. She’s whippet thin with no sign of pregnancy and is talking intently into a mobile phone. “She’s only just found out. So exciting!”

  At that moment, Saskia snaps her phone shut and comes toward us, her face glowing.

  “I got in!” she says. “I’m having Venetia Carter!”

  “Oh, Saskia! That’s fantastic!” The turquoise-wrap girl drops her basket of clothes right on my foot, and throws her arms around Saskia. “Sorry about that!” she gaily adds
to me as I hand the basket back. “But isn’t that great news? Venetia Carter!”

  “Are you with Venetia Carter too?” Saskia asks me with sudden interest.

  I am so out of the baby loop, I have no idea who or what Venetia Carter is.

  “I haven’t heard of her,” I admit.

  “You know.” Turquoise-wrap girl opens her eyes wide. “The obstetrician! The must-have celebrity obstetrician!”

  Must-have celebrity obstetrician?

  My skin starts to prickle. There’s a must-have celebrity obstetrician and I don’t know about it?

  “The one from Hollywood!” elaborates turquoise-wrap girl. “She delivers all the film stars’ babies. You must have heard of her. And now she’s moved to London. All the supermodels are going to her. She holds tea parties for her clients—isn’t that fab? They all bring their babies and get these fabulous goodie bags….”

  My heart is thumping as I listen. Goodie bags? Parties with supermodels? I cannot believe I’m missing out on all this. Why haven’t I heard of Venetia Carter?

  It’s all Luke’s fault. He made us go straight for stuffy old Dr. Braine. We never even considered anyone else.

  “And is she good at, you know, delivering babies?” I ask, trying to keep calm.

  “Oh, Venetia’s wonderful,” says Saskia, who seems far more intense than her friend. “She’s not like these old-fashioned doctors. She really connects with you. My boss, Amanda, had the most fabulous holistic water birth with lotus flowers and Thai massage.”

  Thai massage? Dr. Braine’s never even mentioned Thai massage.

  “My husband won’t pay for her.” Turquoise-wrap girl pouts. “He’s a meanie. Saskia, you’re so lucky—”

  “How do you get a place with her?” The words come spilling out before I can stop them. “Do you have the address? Or the phone number?”

  “Ooh.” Turquoise-wrap girl exchanges doubtful glances with Saskia. “You’re probably too late now. She’ll be booked up.”