Bridesmaid Blitz (11 page)

“Hi, Dad.” I throw my arms around him and squeeze tight.

He laughs. “Easy there, tiger.” I pull away and he smiles down at me. “Ready to see Gracie?”

I nod enthusiastically. He has a word with the receptionist, who buzzes us through the hospital’s electric doors, and we all troop up the stairs. (Dad hates lifts — avoids them whenever he can. He got stuck in one once in Hong Kong during a power cut, and he had to sit on the metal floor for two hours in the dark. They’ve given him the heebie-jeebies ever since.)

“We’re like the three wise women,” I say as we reach the second-floor landing, which smells of disinfectant and overripe fruit. “We come bearing gifts.”

We went shopping in Blackrock on the way over, and I picked out two outfits in a baby boutique. Clover was supposed to be working on her
Goss
agony aunt pages today, but she jumped at the chance to go shopping and visit Gracie.

“Letters later, ’cos baby better,” she said, laughing at her own lame rhyme. “Hey, Beanie, I’m Dr. Seuss.”

Dad looks at the Bee’s Knees carrier bag I’m swinging in my hand and his face drops.

“Is something wrong, Art?” Mum pants, out of breath from all the steps.

“Pauline squeezed half the baby clothes in Portugal into her luggage. And Shelly’s been going crazy in Mothercare.”

“Pauline?” I ask.

Dad looks confused. “Shelly’s mum. I must have told you she’d arrived.”

“Nope,” Mum says.

“And you didn’t tell
me
either,” I say, a little snottily. But it’s lost on him.

From the way Mum’s looking at me, it’s not lost on her, however. “Do try to keep in better touch, Art. We’ve been worried about Gracie, haven’t we, Amy?”

I nod silently, not trusting myself to say anything.

“Anyway,” she goes on, “if she has too many clothes already, we can always take them back and get her some toys instead.”

“Toys?” Dad laughs. “The nursery already looks like a zoo, with all the stuffed animals Pauline’s supplied.”

“Something practical, then,” Mum says tightly.

“We pretty much have everything we —”

“Art!” Mum cuts him off. “We’re not the only people who will give your baby presents. Try to be a little more gracious about it the next time.”

“Sorry,” Dad says, but I can tell he’s a bit surprised. “Didn’t mean to cause offense.”

Mum rolls her eyes. “You never do. Let’s just give Shelly the clothes. I’m sure they’ll come in useful.”

We’ve reached the third floor now, where the rooms for private patients are (only the very best for Shelly), and we follow Dad down the corridor. A set of wooden doors, each numbered, leads off it. Now that Gracie’s breathing on her own and feeding well, the nurses have allowed her out of intensive care for a visit, and when we enter room 3.8, there’s Shelly sitting in a chair in a white silk dressing gown, baby Gracie cradled in her arms.

Shelly looks up and beams as we walk in behind Dad. Wiggling out of Gracie’s yellow waffle-cotton blanket is a wire, and the monitor it’s attached to gives a gentle beep every few seconds. But the tube has gone from under her nose, and even in a week, she looks bigger. And her eyes are open.

“Blue eyes,” I say, gazing down at her. “Like mine. Can I touch her hand?” I ask Shelly.

“Have you washed them?” a voice thunders from the back of the room.

I look up. A tall, blond woman in a tight white vest top and white jeans is staring at me. She’s the split of Shelly, only older and with a deeper tan: same hair, same big piano teeth, same startled, baby-doll eyes. In fact, this woman’s eyes look even wider, and her eyebrows are halfway up her forehead and peaked in the middle, like miniature alpine mountains. This has to be Pauline, Shelly’s mum.

“Well?” she demands.

“Not recently,” I say, my cheeks flushing. I spot a sink against the wall. “I’ll do it right now.”

“Mum —” Shelly begins.

“It’s OK. We all will,” Mum says, and she and Clover queue up behind me. “Can’t be too careful.”

Pauline nods. “When it comes to my precious grandchild, no, you can’t.”

Once we’re all clean and sanitized, I’m finally allowed to approach Gracie, and when I put my finger in her tiny palm she holds it tightly — for a tiny tot, she has quite the monkey grip.

While I’m busy with Gracie, Mum turns to Pauline. “As Art has clearly forgotten his manners, I guess I’ll introduce myself. I’m Sylvie — Art’s first wife.”

Pauline looks her up and down, her eyes cold. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says finally. “I’m Pauline Lame — Shelly’s mum.” She doesn’t give Mum a kiss or put out her hand or anything, which is pretty impolite.

“And this is Amy,” Mum says, ignoring her rudeness. “Amy and Clover were the ones who got Shelly to the hospital while Art was off playing
golf
.” She puts special emphasis on the last word, just rubbing in the fact that Dad nearly missed Gracie’s birth. She’s always had a thing about the amount of time Dad spends on the green. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story by now,” she adds.

“Indeed,” Pauline says through tight lips. What’s her problem? OK, maybe Mum’s digs at Dad are a little uncalled for, but still, she’s being really rude.

Mum seems at a loss as to what to say next, but thankfully Clover steps forward. “Clover Wildgust, Sylvie’s sister and Gracie’s aunt.”

“Aunt?” Pauline looks confused.

“If Amy is Gracie’s sister, and I’m Amy’s aunt, then I must be Gracie’s aunt too.” Clover beams at Pauline, but I can tell it’s one of her “don’t mess with me” smiles.

Pauline sniffs. “Amy is Grace’s
half
-sister — you’re nothing to my Grace by blood. And I’m not sure about all this
Gracie
business, by the way. Nothing wrong with plain old Grace.”

“Stop being so pedantic, Mum,” Shelly says with a laugh. “And we love the name Gracie, don’t we, Art?”

Dad looks up from his BlackBerry. “Sorry, missed that.”

“I was just saying we love the name Gracie, don’t we?” Shelly says again.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs, lowering his head again.

“And Gracie would just adore such a cool aunt, wouldn’t you, darling?” Shelly coos down at Gracie. “You’d be a lucky girlie-wirlie to have such a nice auntie-wantie.”

Jeepers, I never thought I’d hear Shelly doing baby talk. Equally surprising is the fact that she’s not wearing any makeup, not even lip gloss, and her hair’s pulled back off her face in a simple ponytail. Having a baby has really changed her.

“Thanks, Shelly,” Clover says smugly, staring pointedly at Pauline.

“Anyway, I know we can’t stay long, so here are Gracie’s presents,” Mum says quickly to break the tension. She takes the bag off me and hands it to Pauline. “Maybe you could do the honors, Pauline?”

“The honors?” Pauline stares at Mum.

“Open them,” Clover prompts. “Sylvie won’t leave until you do. She has a thing about watching gifts being unwrapped. When she was a kid, she used to tear the paper off her birthday presents before the guests had even gotten in the door.”

Pauline sniffs. “Is that so? I always taught my Shelly to keep her presents until after her birthday party so she could write proper thank-you cards to everyone.”

“Oh, Mum, stop!” Shelly says. “I’d love to open my presents.” Then she turns to me. “Would you like to hold your sister, Amy?”

I feel a rush of nerves and excitement. She’s so minuscule — what if I drop her? “Can I?”

“Of course. You’ll need to get in practice. I’m hoping you’ll be her first babysitter.”

Pauline tut-tuts. “You can’t leave a teenager in charge of a newborn, Shelly. What are you thinking? And, of course,
I’ll
be Grace’s very first babysitter.” She puffs out her chest. “I intend to stick around for quite some time. At least a month.”

Dad looks up from his BlackBerry. He heard that all right! His shocked face is a picture.

“I know, Mum, but right now, Amy’s going to hold Gracie,” Shelly says brightly. “Now, sit down and get comfortable, Amy, and I’ll pass her to you. Her head’s pretty floppy, so you have to support it with your arm. Oh, and watch the heart-monitor wire.”

I sit down and Shelly passes Gracie over. She’s ultra light, like a doll. I support her head in the crook of my arm and gaze down. Her eyes are closed now, tiny purple veins running over the lids like road maps, and I can see her chest rising and falling under the yellow swaddling blanket. Her skin is reddish pink, and blue veins throb at her temples. She looks so wee, so vulnerable. I lower my head a little and breathe in her scent; she smells delicious, fresh cotton mixed with vanilla.

“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. “She’s a little miracle, Dad.”

But Dad’s too busy fiddling with his BlackBerry to notice.

“That she is,” Mum says, hunkering down and staring at her. She smiles at me. “And you’re a natural, Amy. You’ve always been brilliant with babies.”

“Now, let’s look at these famous presents,” Pauline says loudly, making Gracie’s eyelids flicker. (I think Pauline likes being the center of attention.)

“Hush, now,” I say to Gracie, rocking her gently. She goes back to sleep.

“Presents!” Pauline says again, handing the bag to Shelly, who sits down on the side of the bed and begins to peel back the tissue paper carefully. She pulls out the hat and three pairs of baby tights and smiles. “Tights. How useful. And what a cute little hat.” It’s red with a green top, like a strawberry.

“They’re from me,” Clover says.

Shelly sets them down on the bed beside her and then smooths and folds the tissue paper neatly. “Thanks, Clover.”

Meanwhile, Pauline has picked up a pair of the tights and is examining them, rubbing the wool between her fingers. “Can these be exchanged? I’m not sure they’re soft enough, and my Grace might be allergic to wool.”

“Mum!” Shelly frowns at her. “I’m sure they’ll be just perfect.” She opens the next parcel — pink corduroy dungarees and a striped navy-and-white sailor dress in soft cotton jersey, with matching knickers to go over Gracie’s nappy.

“Do you like them?” I ask nervously.

“Love them,” Shelly says. “The dungarees are so cute. And the little sailor dress will look darling. Maybe she’ll be big enough to wear it on Christmas Day.”

I’m touched. That’s a really nice thing to say. I know we haven’t had the best of starts, but I’m beginning to warm to Shelly.

“But my Grace will be wearing the red velvet dress with the Portuguese lace collar, darling,” Pauline twitters. “Don’t you remember? I chose it especially.”

“She can wear both,” Shelly says diplomatically. “She’s bound to need at least one change.”

“But you’ll put her in the velvet for the photographs.” Pauline’s not giving up without a fight.

“Mum!” Shelly says again.

Pauline sniffs. “I’m just saying . . .”

“Well, don’t.” Shelly opens the cards. The one from Mum and Dave has a Mothercare gift card tucked inside. She reads the messages and smiles. “Thanks, all of you. They’re wonderful presents. And the gift card’s really practical.”

Gracie’s eyes are open again and Shelly holds up the sailor dress. “Look, Gracie-gru,” she says. “Isn’t it cute? Art? What do you think?”

Dad is still standing by the window, staring at the screen of his BlackBerry.

“Art!” Shelly doesn’t look pleased. “Put that thing down and come and look at the presents.”

He raises a hand but doesn’t look up. “Just a second. Something important’s happening in the markets.”

“More important than your own daughter?” Shelly says. “ART!”

Gracie jumps and gives a little mewing cry. This time Dad looks up. I rock her again and she stops and goes back to sleep.

“I think it’s time to go,” Mum whispers.

“Exit stage left,” Clover adds. “Better give the baby back first, Amy.”

I sigh. “Can’t I keep her? She’s so cute.” Standing up carefully, I hand her back to Shelly. “Thanks for letting me have a cuddle. And as soon as she’s home, I’ll come and stay with you and help out. Give you a rest.”

Pauline gives me a snooty look down her nose. “But I’ll be there, Amy, so they’ll hardly need your help. Besides, I’m not sure where you’ll sleep, as I’m in the only spare room.” Her lips curl when she says the word “help,” and I feel my stomach clench in anger. What a hag! And she must know that’s my room.

“That’s only temporary,” Clover says firmly. Pauline looks at her and they lock eyes. She’s picked the wrong family to mess with.

“That sounds lovely, Amy,” Shelly says, glaring at Pauline. “And thanks so much for the presents. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to write you all proper thank-you notes,” she adds with a wink.

As soon as we’re out of earshot and walking back down the stairs, Clover says, “That Pauline woman is as territorial as a She-Rex. Did you see the looks she was giving you, Beanie? Jealous of a teenager — what’s she like?”

“Jealous of what, exactly?” I ask.

“Of all the fuss Shelly was making of you,” Clover says. “And all the ‘Amy’s brilliant with babies’ stuff. And the way you were able to soothe Gracie back to sleep. Must have put her nose out of joint. Shelly’s not normally so nice to you.”

“That’s a bit unfair, Clover,” Mum says. “Shelly has always tried to be nice to Amy.”

Clover snorts. “Hello! She nicked Amy’s last bedroom and painted it yellow. Made it into a nursery behind Art’s back, remember? Since when are you on Little Miss Perky’s side?” Clover pauses. “But I guess she was being a bit less painful than normal today.”

Personally, I think Shelly was being really sweet — Dad was the useless one, but I keep my mouth shut.

“Having a baby changes you,” Mum says quietly. “I feel a bit sorry for Shelly. Art isn’t exactly being very attentive. And imagine having a mother like that.”

“No kidding,” Clover says. “Did you see Pauline’s pillow cheeks? Filler-rama. She’s obviously been playing around with Botox too.”

“How can you tell?” I ask, intrigued.

“I-spy-the-Botox-addict is Saffy’s favorite game. She can’t look at a celeb photo without picking over the enhanced features. If Shelly’s going on thirty, Pauline must be, what, late forties, early fifties? No one has baby-smooth skin at that age. And according to Saff, Spock eyebrows are a dead giveaway. Plus, the woman has no frown lines or crow’s-feet. You’re years younger, Sylvie, and you have crow’s-feet.”