“Hey, I have an idea,” chimes in Suze. “Fruit’s been done to death, but not herbs. You could call her Tarragon!”
“Tarragon?” Mum looks appalled. “You might as well call her Chili Powder! Now, I’ve got some champagne to wet her little head…. It’s not too early, is it?” She pulls out a bottle, along with a piece of paper. “Oh yes, and I took a message from your real estate agent. He phoned while I was at your flat, and I gave him a piece of my mind, I can tell you! I said, ‘A newborn baby is homeless at Christmas because of you, young man.’ That stopped him in his tracks! He said he wanted to apologize. Then he started talking some nonsense about villas in Barbados! I ask you.” She shakes her head. “Now, who wants champagne? Where are the champagne glasses?” She puts the bottle down and starts searching in the cupboards under the telly.
“I’m not sure they’ve got any champagne glasses,” I say.
“Well, for goodness’ sake!” Mum clicks her tongue and stands up again. “I’ll speak to the concierge.”
“Mum, there isn’t a concierge.”
Just because they have posh menus and tellies, Mum seems to think this place is some kind of Ritz-Carlton.
“I’ll find something,” Mum says firmly, and heads to the door.
“D’you want some help?” Suze gets to her feet. “I’ve got to phone Tarkie anyway.”
“Thank you!” Mum beams at her. “And Graham, you fetch the camera from the car. I forgot to bring it up.”
The door closes behind Dad, and Luke and I are alone in the room again. With our daughter.
God, that’s a weird thought. I still can’t quite believe we have a daughter.
Meet our daughter, Tarragon Parsley Sage and Onion.
No.
“So.” Luke pushes a hand back through his rumpled hair. “In two weeks’ time we’re homeless.”
“Out on the streets!” I say lightly. “Never mind.”
“I guess you expected to marry someone who could put a roof over your head, didn’t you?”
He’s joking, but there’s a wryness in his voice.
“Oh well.” I shrug, watching the baby’s hand unfurl like a little starfish. “Better luck next time…”
There’s silence and I glance up. Luke seems genuinely stricken.
“Luke, I’m joking!” I say hastily. “It doesn’t matter!”
“You’ve just had a baby. You should have a home. We shouldn’t be in this position. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s not your fault!” I grab his hand. “Luke, we’ll be fine. We’ll make a home wherever we are.”
“I’ll get us a home,” he says, almost fiercely. “Becky, we’ll have a wonderful house, I promise you.”
“I know we will.” I squeeze his hand tight. “But honestly…it doesn’t matter.”
I’m not just saying that to be supportive.(Even though I am a very supportive wife.) It really, truly doesn’t seem to matter. Right now, I feel like I’m in a kind of bubble. Real life is on the other side, miles away. All that matters is the baby.
“Look!” I say, as she suddenly yawns. “She’s only eight hours old and she can yawn! That’s so clever!”
For a while we both gaze into the crib, awestruck, hoping she might do something else.
“Hey, maybe she’ll be prime minister one day!” I say softly. “Wouldn’t that be cool? We could get her to do all the things we wanted!”
“She won’t, though.” Luke shakes his head. “If we tell her to do them, she’ll do exactly the opposite.”
“She’s such a rebel!” I run a finger down her teeny forehead.
“She has her own mind.” Luke corrects me. “Look at the way she’s ignoring us now.” He sits back on the bed. “So what are we going to call her? Not Grisabella.”
“Not Rhapsody.”
“Not Parsley.” He picks up 1,000 Girls’ Names and starts flicking through it.
Meanwhile I’m just gazing at her sleeping face. This one name keeps popping into my head every time I look at her. It’s almost as if she’s telling it to me.
“Minnie,” I say aloud.
“Minnie,” Luke echoes, experimentally. “Minnie Brandon. You know, I like that.” He looks up with a smile. “I really like it.”
“Minnie Brandon.” I can’t help beaming back. “It sounds good, doesn’t it? Miss Minnie Brandon.”
“Named after…your aunt Ermintrude, obviously?” Luke raises his eyebrows.
