Beside me, Luke gives a muffled snort. He’s so rude.
“It’s…” I try to think how to put it. “My job’s not that demanding.”
“Becky works for The Look,” explains Luke. “You know, the new department store on Oxford Street?”
“Aah.” Dr. Braine’s face drops. “I see.”
Every time I tell people what I do, they look away in embarrassment or change the subject or pretend they’ve never heard of The Look. Which is impossible, because all the newspapers have been talking about it for weeks. Yesterday the Daily World called it the “biggest retail disaster in British history.”
The only plus about working for a failure of a shop is that it means I can take as much time off as I like for doctors’ appointments and prenatal classes. And if I don’t hurry back, no one even notices.
“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!
