Shopaholic & Baby (35 page)

A lump suddenly rises in my throat. I don’t want it to be like that. I want us to find out together.

“Luke, I
didn’t
find out,” I say desperately, tears stinging my eyes. “I really, honestly didn’t! I wouldn’t lie to you. You have to believe me. It’s going to be an amazing…wonderful…surprise. For
both
of us.”

I’m gazing up at him, my whole body tense, my hands clutching my skirt. Luke’s eyes are scanning my face.

“OK.” His brow finally relaxes. “OK. I believe you.”

“And I believe you too.” The words fall out of my mouth with no warning.

But now I’ve said them, I realize they’re true. I could demand more proof that Luke’s not seeing Venetia. I could get him followed again. I could be totally paranoid and miserable forever.

In the end, you have to choose whether or not to trust someone. And I do choose to trust him. I do.

“Come here.” Luke draws me in for a hug. “It’s OK, sweetheart. It’s all going to be fine.”

After a while I pull away from Luke. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, and get down a couple of mugs. Then I turn to him.

“Luke, why did Venetia say you were having an affair if you weren’t?”

“I have no idea.” Luke looks mystified. “Are you absolutely
sure
that’s what she meant? You couldn’t have misinterpreted what she was saying?”

“No!” I retort crossly. “I’m not that stupid! It was totally obvious what she meant.” I rip off a piece of Fabia’s paper towels and blow my nose on it. “And just so you know, I’m
not
having our baby delivered by her. Or going to any of her stupid tea parties.”

“Fine.” Luke nods. “I’m sure we can go back to Dr. Braine. You know, he’s e-mailed me a couple of times, just to see how you are.”

“Really? That’s so sweet of him….”

The doorbell rings and I start. It’s them. I’d almost half kind-of forgotten.

“Who’s that?” says Luke.

“It’s
Vogue
!” I say in agitation. “The whole reason I’m here! For the photo shoot!”

I hurry into the hall, and as I see my reflection in the mirror I feel a jerk of dismay. My face is blotchy; my eyes are all bloodshot and puffy; my smile is strained. I can’t remember my way round the house. I’ve totally forgotten all my yummy quotes. I can’t even remember who my
underpants
are by. I can’t do it.

The doorbell rings again, twice.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Luke has followed me into the hall.

“I’ll have to cancel!” Woefully, I turn to face him. “Look at me. I’m a mess! I can’t be in
Vogue
like this!”

“You’ll be wonderful,” he replies firmly, and strides to the front door.

“They think it’s our house!” I hiss after him in panic. “I told them we live here.”

Luke shoots me a what-do-you-take-me-for? glance over his shoulder, and swings open the door.

“Hello!” he says, in his most confident, head-of-a-huge-important-company voice. “Welcome to our home.”

Makeup artists should hereby get the Nobel Prize for adding to human happiness. And so should hairdressers.

And so should Luke.

It’s three hours later and the shoot is going brilliantly. Luke totally charmed all the
Vogue
people as soon as they arrived, and was completely convincing as we showed them around the house. They totally think we live here!

I feel like a different person. I certainly
look
like a different person. My blotchiness has been totally covered up, and the makeup artist was really sweet about it. She said she’d seen far worse and at least I wasn’t off my head on coke. Or six hours late. And at least I hadn’t brought some stupid yappy dog. (I get the feeling she’s not that keen on models.)

My hair looks totally fab and shiny, and they brought the most amazing clothes for me to wear, all in a trailer which they’ve parked outside. And now I’m standing on the sweeping staircase in a Missoni dress, beaming as the camera clicks, feeling just like Claudia Schiffer or someone.

And Luke is standing at the bottom of the staircase, smiling encouragingly up at me. He’s been here all along. He canceled all the rest of his morning meetings, and took part in the interview and everything. He said having a baby put other things into perspective and he thought fatherhood would change him as a person. He said he thought I was more beautiful right now than he’d ever seen me (which is a total lie, but still). He said…

Anyway. He said loads of nice things.
And
he knew who painted the picture above the fireplace in the sitting room when they asked. He’s brilliant!

“Shall we move outside now?” The photographer looks questioningly at Martha.

“That’s a nice idea.” She nods, and I walk down the stairs, carefully holding up my dress.

“Maybe I could wear the Oscar de la Renta dress?”

The stylist brought the most amazing purple evening dress and cloak, which was apparently made for some pregnant movie star to wear to a premiere but she never did. I just
have
to try it on.

“Yes, that’ll look spectacular against the grass.” Martha heads to the back of the hall and squints through the glass doors. “What an amazing garden! Did you landscape it yourselves?”

“Absolutely!” I glance at Luke.

“We hired a gardening company, obviously,” he says, “but the concept was all ours.”

“That’s right.” I nod. “Our inspiration was a kind of Zen…meets…urban structure….”

“The positioning of the trees was crucial to the project,” Luke adds. “We had them moved at least three times.”

“Wow.” Martha nods intelligently and scribbles in her notebook. “You’re real perfectionists!”

“We just care about design,” Luke says seriously. He shoots me a quick wink and I try not to giggle.

“So, you must be looking forward to seeing your little child out there on the lawn.” She looks up with a smile. “Learning to crawl…and walk…”

“Yes.” Luke takes my hand. “We certainly are.”

I’m about to add something, but my stomach suddenly tightens, like someone squeezed it with both hands. It’s been doing it for a while, now that I think about it—but that time was kind of stronger. “Ooh,” I say, before I can stop myself.

“What?” Luke looks alert.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “So, shall I put on the cloak?”

“Let’s get your makeup touched up,” says Martha. “And shall we do a sandwich run?”

I head across the hall, reach the front door, and stop. My stomach just tightened up again. It’s unmistakable.

“What is it?” Luke is watching me. “Becky, what’s going on?”

OK. Don’t panic.

“Luke,” I say as calmly as I can, “I think I’m in labor. It’s been going on for a while now.”

My stomach tightens again, and I start shallow panting, just like Noura said in that lesson. God, it’s amazing how I’m coping instinctively.

“A
while
?” Luke strides over to me, looking alarmed. “How long, exactly?”

I think back to when I first became aware of the sensations. “About five hours? Which means I’m probably…five centimeters dilated, maybe?”

“Five centimeters dilated?” Luke stares at me. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m halfway there.” My voice suddenly trembles with excitement. “It means we’re going to have a baby!”

“Jesus Christ.” Luke whips out his mobile phone and jabs at it. “Hello? Ambulance service, please. Quick!”

As he gives the address I feel suddenly shaky around the knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen until the nineteenth. I thought I had three more weeks to go.

And maybe I should have gone to more than one prenatal class.

“What’s going on?” Martha says, looking up from her notes. “Shall we do the garden shots now?”

“Becky’s in labor,” Luke says, putting his phone away. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go.”

“In
labor
?” Martha drops her notebook and pen and scrabbles to pick them up. “Oh my God! But it’s not due yet, is it?”

“Not for three weeks,” says Luke. “It must be early.”

“Are you all right, Becky?” Martha peers at me. “Do you need drugs?”

“I’m using natural methods,” I gasp, gripping my necklace. “This is an ancient Maori birthing stone.”

“Wow!” says Martha, scribbling. “Can you spell
Maori
?”

My stomach tightens again and I clutch the stone harder. Even with the pain, I can’t help feeling exhilarated. They’re right, birth
is
an amazing experience. I feel as if my whole body is working in harmony, as if this is what it was designed to do all along.

“Have you got a bag packed?” says Martha, watching me in alarm. “Aren’t you supposed to have a bag?”

“I’ve got a suitcase,” I say breathlessly.

“Right,” says Luke, snapping his phone shut. “Let’s get it. Quick. Where is it? And your hospital notes.”

“It’s…” I break off. It’s all at home. Our real home.

“Um…it’s in the bedroom. By the dressing table.” I look at him in slight desperation. Luke’s eyes snap with sudden understanding.

“Of course,” he says. “Well…I’m sure we can make a stop-off if we need to.”

“I’ll nip up and get it for you,” says Martha helpfully. “Which side of the dressing table is it?”

“No! I mean…um…actually, there it is!” I point at a Mulberry hold-all that I’ve suddenly spotted in the hall cupboard. “I forgot, I put it there so as to be ready.”

“Right.” Luke drags it out of the cupboard, with some effort, and a tennis ball falls out of it.

“Why are you taking tennis balls to hospital?” asks Martha, looking puzzled.

“For…er…massage. Oh God…” I grip the Maori stone tightly and breathe deeply.

“Are you OK, Becky?” says Luke, looking anxious. “It seems to be getting worse.” He looks at his watch. “Where’s this bloody ambulance?”

“They’re getting stronger.” I manage to nod through the pain. “I should think I’m probably about six or seven centimeters dilated by now.”

“Hey, the ambulance is here.” The photographer pokes his head through the front door. “It’s just pulling up.”

“We should get going.” Luke holds out his arm to me. “Are you able to walk?”

“I think so. Just about.”

We head out the front door and pause on the top step. The ambulance is blocking the whole road, its blue light flashing round and round. I can see a few people watching, on the other side of the street.

This is it. When I come out of hospital…I’ll have a baby!

“Good luck!” calls Martha. “Hope it all goes well!”

“Becky…I love you.” Luke squeezes my arm tight. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing amazingly! You’re so calm, so composed….”

“It just feels totally natural,” I say with a kind of humble awe, like Patrick Swayze telling Demi Moore what heaven is like at the end of
Ghost
. “It’s painful…but it’s beautiful too.”

Two paramedics have got out of the back of the ambulance and are coming toward me.

“Ready?” Luke glances down at me.

“Uh-huh.” I take a deep breath and start walking down the steps. “Let’s do it.”

HUH. I DON’T BELIEVE IT, I wasn’t in labor after all. I don’t have a baby or
anything
.

It doesn’t make any sense, in fact I still think they might have been wrong. I had all the symptoms! The regular contractions, and the back pain (well, a slight achy feeling), just like in the book. But they sent me home and said I wasn’t in labor or prelabor or even approaching labor. They said they weren’t real labor pains.

It was all a bit embarrassing. Especially when I asked for the epidural and they laughed. They didn’t have to laugh. Or phone up their friends and tell them. I
heard
that midwife, even though she was whispering.

It’s also made me rethink this whole giving-birth thing. I mean, if that wasn’t the real thing…what on earth is the real thing like? So after we got back from the hospital I had a long, frank talk with Luke. I said I’d given it some careful thought and come to the conclusion that I couldn’t do labor, and we were going to have to find some other solution.

He was really sweet about it, and
didn’t
just say “Love, you’ll be fine” (like that stupid midwife phone advisory service). He said I should line up every form of pain relief I could, never mind about the cost. So I’ve hired a reflexologist, a hot-stone-massage person, an aromatherapist, an acupuncturist, a homeopath, and a doula. Plus I’ve taken to phoning the hospital every day, just to make sure their anesthetists haven’t all gone ill or been trapped in a cupboard or anything.

And I chucked out that stupid birthing stone. I always thought it was rubbish.

It’s now a week later, and nothing’s happened since, except I’m bigger and more lumbery than ever. We went to see Dr. Braine yesterday, and he said everything seemed just fine and the baby had turned into the right position, which was good news. Hmph. Good news for the baby, maybe. Not for me. I can hardly walk anymore, let alone sleep. Last night I woke up at three A.M. and felt so uncomfortable I couldn’t even lie in bed, so I went and watched this program on cable called
True-Life Births—When Trauma Goes Bad
.

Which was maybe a mistake, in hindsight. But luckily Luke was awake too, and he made me a cup of hot chocolate to calm me down and said it was really unlikely we’d ever be stuck in a snowdrift with twins about to be born and no doctors for two hundred miles. And at least now we knew what to do if we were.

Luke isn’t sleeping well either at the moment, and it’s all because of the Arcodas situation. He’s been talking to his lawyers every day, and having consultations with his staff, and has endlessly tried to set up a meeting with the Arcodas senior team to have it all out. But Iain has canceled twice with no notice—and then he disappeared off on some trip. So nothing’s resolved yet, and the longer it all goes on, the tenser Luke gets. It’s like we’re both on some ticking fuse, just…
waiting
.

I’ve never been good at waiting. For babies, or phone calls, or sample sales…or anything.

The only positive thing right now is that Luke and I are about a million times closer than we have been for months. We’ve talked about everything over the past week. His company, plans for the future…one night we even got out all the honeymoon photos and looked through them again.