“My friend’s in labor! She needs help immediately!”
“Where is she?”
“I’m here,” says Suze, struggling in through the door with three bags under one arm.
“Suze!” I say in horror. “Don’t move. You should be lying down! She needs drugs,” I say to the nurse. “She needs an epidural and general anesthetic and some laughing gas stuff, and . . . basically, whatever you’ve got . . .”
“I’m fine,” says Suze. “Really.”
“OK,” says the midwife. “Let’s just get you settled into a room. Then we can examine you and take a few details . . .”
“I’ll get the rest of the stuff,” I say, and start heading back toward the doors. “Suze, don’t worry, I’ll be back. Go with the midwife and I’ll come and find you . . .”
“Wait,” says Suze urgently, suddenly turning round. “Wait, Bex!”
“What?”
“You never made that call. You never canceled the New York wedding.”
“I’ll make it later,” I say. “Go on. Go with the midwife.”
“Make it now.”
“Now?” I stare at her.
“If you don’t make it now, you’ll never make it! I know you, Bex.”
“Suze, don’t be stupid! You’re about to have a baby! Let’s get our priorities right, shall we?”
“I’ll have the baby when you’ve made the call!” says Suze obstinately. “Oh!” Her face suddenly twists. “It’s starting again.”
“OK,” says the midwife calmly. “Now, breathe . . . try to relax . . .”
“I can’t relax! Not until she cancels the wedding! Otherwise she’ll just put it off again! I know her!”
“I won’t!”
“You will, Bex! You’ve already dithered for months!”
“Is he a bad sort, then?” says the midwife. “You should listen to your friend,” she adds to me. “She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.”
“Friends can always tell the wrong ’uns,” agrees the woman in the pink dressing gown.
“He’s not a wrong ’un!” I retort indignantly. “Suze, please! Calm down! Go with the nurse! Get some drugs!”
“Make the call,” she replies, her face contorted. “Then I’ll go.” She looks up. “Go on! Make the call!”
“If you want this baby born safely,” says the midwife to me, “I’d make the call.”
“Make the call, love!” chimes in the woman in the pink dressing gown.
“OK! OK!” I scrabble for the mobile phone and punch in the number. “I’m calling. Now go, Suze!”
“Not until I’ve heard you say the words!”
“Breathe through the pain . . .”
“Hello!” chirps Robyn in my ear. “Is that wedding bells I hear?”
“There’s no one there,” I say, looking up.
“Then leave a message,” says Suze through gritted teeth.
“Another deep breath now . . .”
“Your call is so important to me . . .”
“Go on, Bex!”
“All right! Here goes.” I take a deep breath as the bleep sounds. “Robyn, this is Becky Bloomwood here . . . and I’m canceling the wedding. Repeat, I’m canceling the wedding. I’m very sorry for all the inconvenience this is going to cause. I know what a lot you’ve put into it and I can only guess at how angry Elinor will be . . .” I swallow. “But I’ve made my final decision—and it’s that I want to get married at home in England. If you want to talk to me about this, leave a message at my home and I’ll call you back. Otherwise, I guess this is good-bye. And . . . thanks. It was fun while it lasted.”
I click off the phone and stare at it, silent in my hand.
I’ve done it.
“Well done,” says the midwife to Suze. “That was a tough one!”
“Well done, Bex,” says Suze, pink in the face. She squeezes my hand and gives me a tiny smile. “You’ve done the right thing.” She looks at the midwife. “OK. Let’s go.”
“I’ll just go and . . . get the rest of the stuff,” I say, and walk slowly toward the double doors leading out of the hospital.
As I step out into the fresh air I can’t help giving a little shiver. So that’s it. No more Plaza wedding. No more enchanted forest. No more magical cake. No more fantasy.
I can’t quite believe it’s all gone.
But then . . . if I’m really honest, it only ever was a fantasy, wasn’t it? It never quite felt like real life.
This is real life, right here.
For a few moments I’m silent, letting my thoughts drift, until the sound of an ambulance siren brings me back to the present. Hastily I unload the taxi, pay the driver, then stare at the mound of stuff, wondering how on earth I’m going to get it all inside. And whether I really did need to buy a collapsible playpen.
“Are you Becky Bloomwood?” A voice interrupts my thoughts and I look up, to see a young midwife standing at the door.
“Yes!” I feel a tremor of alarm. “Is Suze all right?”
“She’s fine, but her contractions are intensifying now, and we’re still waiting for the anesthetist to arrive . . . and she’s saying she’d like to try using”—she looks at me puzzledly—“is it . . . a canoe?”
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
I can’t even begin to . . . to . . .
It’s seven o’clock in the evening, and I’m completely shattered. I have never seen anything like that in my life. I had no idea it would be so—
That Suze would be so—
It took six hours altogether, which is apparently really quick. Well, all I can say is, I wouldn’t like to be one of the slow ones.
I can’t believe it. Suze has got a baby boy. A tiny, pink, snuffly baby boy. One hour old.
He’s been weighed and measured, and apparently he’s a really healthy size, considering he came early. A nurse has dressed him in the most gorgeous white and blue baby suit and a little white blanket, and now he’s lying in Suze’s arms, all curled up and scrumpled, with tufts of dark hair sticking out over his ears. The baby that Suze and Tarquin made. I almost want to cry . . . except I’m so elated. It’s the weirdest feeling.
I meet Suze’s eyes, and she beams euphorically. She’s been beaming ever since he was born, and I’m secretly wondering if they gave her a bit too much laughing gas.
“Isn’t he just perfect?”
“He’s perfect.” I touch his tiny fingernail. To think that’s been growing inside Suze, all this time.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” says a nurse, coming into the warm, bright room. “You must be exhausted.”
“Thanks very much,” I say gratefully, stretching out a hand.
“I meant Mum,” says the nurse, giving me an odd look.
“Oh,” I say flusteredly. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” says Suze. “Give it to Bex. She deserves it.” She gives me an abashed smile. “Sorry I got angry with you.”
“That’s all right.” I bite my lip. “Sorry I kept saying, ‘Does it really hurt?’ ”
“No, you were great. Seriously, Bex. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Some flowers have arrived,” says a midwife, coming in. “And we’ve had a message from your husband. He’s stuck on the island for the moment because of bad weather, but he’ll be here as soon as he can.”
“Thanks,” says Suze, managing a smile. “That’s great.”
But when the midwife goes out again, her lips begin to tremble. “Bex, what am I going to do if Tarkie can’t get back? Mummy’s in Ulan Bator, and Daddy doesn’t know one end of a baby from the other . . . I’m going to be all on my own . . .”
“No, you aren’t!” I quickly put an arm round her. “I’ll look after you!”
“But don’t you have to go back to America?”
“I don’t have to go anywhere. I’ll change my flight and take more vacation days.” I give her a tight hug. “I’m staying here with you for as long a
s you need me, Suze, and that’s the end of it.”
“What about the wedding?”
“I don’t need to worry about the wedding any more. Suze, I’m staying with you, and that’s that.”
“Really?” Suze’s chin quivers. “Thanks, Bex.” She shifts the baby cautiously in her arms, and he gives a little snuffle. “Do you . . . know anything about babies?”
“You don’t have to know anything!” I say confidently. “You just have to feed them and dress them up in nice clothes and wheel them around the shops.”
“I’m not sure—”
“And anyway, just look at little Armani.” I reach into the white bundle of blanket and touch the baby’s cheek fondly.
“We’re not naming him Armani!”
“Well, whatever. He’s an angel! He must be what they call an ‘easy’ baby.”
“He is good, isn’t he?” says Suze, pleased. “He hasn’t even cried once!”
“Honestly, Suze, don’t worry.” I take a sip of tea and smile at her. “It’ll be a blast!”
Miss Rebecca Bloomwood
251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B
New York, NY 10014
May 6, 2002
Dear Miss Bloomwood:
Thank you for your message of April 30, and I confirm that under the fourth clause I have added the section “(f) I give and bequeath to my gorgeous godson Ernest, the sum of $1,000.”
May I draw your attention to the fact that this is the seventh amendment you have made to your will since drawing it up a month ago?
With kind regards,
Jane Cardozo
Fourteen
I STUMBLE UP THE steps of our building. Swaying slightly, I reach for my key—and, after three goes, manage to get it in the lock.
Home again.
Quiet again.
“Becky? Is that you?” I hear Danny’s voice from above and the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.
I stare dazedly up, unable to focus. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. No, make that six marathons. The last two weeks has been a blurry jumble of nights and days all run into one. Just me and Suze, and baby Ernest. And the crying.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore little Ernie. I mean, I’m going to be his godmother, and everything.
But . . . God. That scream of his . . .
I just had no idea having a baby was like that. I thought it would be fun.
I didn’t realize Suze would have to feed him every single hour. I didn’t realize he would refuse to go to sleep. Or that he would hate his crib. I mean, it came from the Conran Shop! All lovely beech, with gorgeous white blankets. You’d think he would have loved it! But when we put him in it, all he did was thrash about, going “Waaah!”
Then I tried to take him shopping—and when we started out, it was fine. People were smiling at the pram, and smiling at me, and I was starting to feel quite proud of myself. But then we went into Karen Millen, and I was halfway into a pair of leather trousers when he started to yell. Not a cute little whimper. Not a plaintive little wail. A full-throated, piercing “This Woman Has Kidnapped Me, Call the Cops” scream.
I didn’t have any bottles or nappies or anything, and I had to run down the Fulham Road, and by the time I got home, I was red in the face and panting and Suze was crying and Ernest was looking at me like I was a mass murderer or something.
And then, even after he’d been fed, he screamed and screamed all evening . . .
“Jesus!” says Danny, arriving downstairs in the hall. “What happened to you?”
I glance in the mirror and feel a dart of shock. I look pale with exhaustion, my hair is lank and my eyes are drained. Tarquin got home three days ago, and he did do his fair share—but that didn’t mean I got any sleep. And it didn’t help that when I finally got on the plane to fly home, I was seated next to a woman with six-month-old twins.
“My friend Suze had a baby,” I say blearily. “And her husband was stuck on an island, so I helped out for a bit . . .”
“Luke said you were on vacation,” says Danny, staring at me in horror. “He said you were taking a rest!”
“Luke . . . has no idea.”
Every time Luke phoned, I was either changing a nappy, comforting a wailing Ernie, comforting an exhausted Suze—or flat-out asleep. We did have one brief, disjointed conversation, but in the end Luke suggested I go and lie down, as I wasn’t making much sense.
Other than that, I haven’t spoken to anyone. Mum called to let me know that Robyn had left a message at the house that I should call her urgently. And I did mean to call back. But every time I had a spare five minutes to myself . . . somehow I just couldn’t face it. I’ve no idea what’s been going on; what kind of arguments and fallout there’s been. I know Elinor must be furious. I know there’s probably the mother of all rows waiting for me.
But . . . I just don’t care. All I care about right now is getting into bed.
“Hey, a bunch of boxes arrived from QVC.” Danny looks at me curiously. “Did you order a set of Marie Osmond dolls?”
“I don’t know,” I say blankly. “I expect so. I ordered pretty much everything they had.”
I have a dim memory of myself at three in the morning, rocking Ernest on my lap so Suze could have a sleep, staring groggily at the screen.
“Do you know how terrible the telly is in Britain at three in the morning?” I rub my dry cheeks. “And there’s no point watching a film, because the minute it gets to a good bit, the baby cries and you have to leap up and start joggling him around, singing ‘Old Macdonald Had a Farm, Ee-I Ee-I Oh . . .’ and he still doesn’t stop crying. So you have to go into ‘Oh what a beautiful mooorr-rning . . .’ but that doesn’t work either . . .”
“Right,” says Danny, backing away. “I’ll . . . take your word for it. Becky, I think you need a nap.”
“Yes. So do I. See you later.”
I stumble into the apartment, shove all the post on the sofa, and head for the bedroom, as single-minded as a junkie craving a hit.
Sleep. I need sleep . . .
A light is blinking on our message machine and as I lie down, I automatically reach out and press the button.
“Hi, Becky! Robyn here. Just to say the meeting with Sheldon Lloyd to discuss table centerpieces has been changed to next Tuesday the twenty-first, at two-thirty. Byee!”
I have just enough time to think “That’s odd,” before my head hits the pillow and I pass out into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Eight hours later I wake up and sit bolt upright.
What was that?
I reach out to the machine and press the “Repeat” button. Robyn’s voice chirps exactly the same message again, and the computer display informs me it was left yesterday.
But . . . that doesn’t make any sense. The New York wedding’s off.
I look disorientedly around the dim apartment. My body clock’s so screwed up, it could be any time at all. I pad into the kitchen for a glass of water and look blearily out of the window at the mural of dancers on the building opposite.
I canceled the wedding. There were witnesses. Why is Robyn still organizing table centerpieces? I mean, it wasn’t as though I was vague about it.
What’s happened?
I drink my water, pour another glass, and go into the living room. It’s 4 P.M. according to the VCR clock, so there’s still time to call her. Find out what’s going on.
“Hello! Wedding Events Ltd.!” says a girl I don’t recognize. “How may I help you?”
“Hi! Excuse me, this is Becky Bloomwood. You’re . . . you were organizing a wedding for me?”
“Oh, hi, Becky! I’m Kirsten, Robyn’s assistant. Can I just say that I thought your Sleeping Beauty concept was totally inspired? I told all my friends about it, and they were all, like, ‘I love Sleeping Beauty! That’s what I’m going to do when I get married.’ ”
“Oh. Er . . . thanks. Listen, Kirsten, this might seem like a strange question . . .”
How am I going to put this? I c
an’t say, Is my wedding still on?
“Is my . . . wedding still on?”
“I certainly hope so!” says Kirsten with a laugh. “Unless you’ve had a row with Luke!” Her tone suddenly changes. “Have you had a row with Luke? Because we have a procedure if that happens . . .”
“No! I haven’t! It’s just . . . didn’t you get my message?”
“Which message was that?” says Kirsten brightly.
“The message I left about two weeks ago!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What with the flood . . .”
“Flood?” I stare at the phone in dismay. “You had a flood?”
“I was sure Robyn had called you in England to let you know! It’s OK, nobody was drowned. We just had to evacuate the office for a few days, and some of the telecoms were affected . . . plus unfortunately an antique ring cushion belonging to one of our clients was ruined . . .”
“So you didn’t get the message?”
“Was it the one about the hors d’oeuvres?” says Kirsten thoughtfully.
I swallow several times, feeling almost light-headed.
“Becky, Robyn’s just stepped in,” Kirsten’s saying, “if you’d like to speak to her . . .”
No way. I’m not trusting the phone anymore.
“Can you tell her,” I say, trying to keep calm, “that I’m coming into the office. Tell her to wait. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Is it urgent?”
“Yes. It’s pretty urgent.”
Robyn’s offices are in a plushy building, right up on Ninety-sixth Street. As I knock on the door, I can hear her gurgling laugh, and as I cautiously open the door, I see her sitting at her desk, champagne glass in one hand, telephone in the other, and an open box of chocolates on the desk.
“Becky!” she says. “Come in! I won’t be a second! Jennifer, I think we should go with the devore satin. Yes? OK. See you soon.” She puts down the phone and beams at me. “Becky, sweetheart. How are you? How was England?”
“Fine, thanks. Robyn—”
“I have just been to a delightful thank-you lunch given to me by Mrs. Herman Winkler at the Carlton. Now, that was a fabulous wedding. The groom gave the bride a schnauzer puppy at the altar! So adorable . . .” Her brow wrinkles. “Where was I going with this? Oh yes! You know what? Her daughter and new son-in-law just left for England on their honeymoon! I said to her, perhaps they’ll bump into Becky Bloomwood!”