Shopaholic & Baby (40 page)

So now I’m standing outside the Cavendish Hospital’s private maternity wing, my heart racing, clutching a carrier bag from The Look. It contains not only the cuff links but also the support stockings, the fanny pack, every single little note she ever sent Luke, the brochures and medical notes from her stupid holistic center…even the freebies from the goodie bag. (It was a bit of a wrench putting in the Crème de la Mer. In fact I scooped out most of it and put it in an old Lancôme pot. But Venetia needn’t know that.)

It’s like a breakup box. I’m going to hand it to her and say, very calmly, “Leave us alone, Venetia. Luke and I and the baby don’t want anything to do with you ever again.” She
has
to realize she’s lost, after that.

Plus I phoned up my lovely professor on the way here, and he gave me a brilliant Latin insult, which I’ve learned by heart. It goes
Utinam barbari provinciam tuam invadant
! and it means “May barbarians invade your province.”

Ha.
That’ll
teach her.

“Hello?” A tinny voice comes through the intercom system.

“Hi!” I say into the grille. “It’s Becky Brandon, a patient.” I won’t say any more. I’ll just get into the place and take it from there.

The door buzzes and I push it open. Normally this place is pretty tranquil, but today it’s full of activity. The seats are filled with women in various stages of pregnancy, chatting with their partners and holding leaflets entitled “Why Choose the Cavendish?” Two midwives are walking quickly down the corridor, saying words like
operating
and
stuck
, which I
really
don’t like the sound of, and I can hear a woman’s screams emanating from a distant room. My stomach curdles at the sound, and I fight the urge to put my hands over my ears.

Anyway. It wasn’t necessarily a scream of agony. She was probably just shouting because she couldn’t see the telly or something.

I approach the reception desk, breathing hard.

“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Rebecca Brandon, and I need to see Venetia Carter straightaway, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist demands. I haven’t seen her on duty before. She has graying curly hair, and glasses on silver chains, and a pretty abrupt manner for someone who’s dealing with pregnant women all day long.

“Well…no. But it’s really important.”

“I’m afraid Venetia is busy.”

“I don’t mind waiting. If you could just tell her I’m here…”

“You’ll have to phone for an appointment.” The receptionist taps at her keyboard as though I’m not even there.

This woman is
really
winding me up the wrong way. Venetia’s only in some stupid meeting. And here I am, practically nine months pregnant….

“Can’t you page her?” I try to stay calm.

“I can only page her if you’re in labor.” The woman shrugs, like it really isn’t her problem.

I stare at her through a fine mist of anger. I’ve come here to have it out with Venetia, and I’m not letting some woman in a mauve cardigan stop me.

“Well…I
am
in labor!” I hear myself saying.

“You’re in labor?” She eyes me skeptically.

She doesn’t believe me, does she? What a nerve. Why would I lie about a thing like that?

“Yes.” I plant my hands on my hips. “I am.”

“Are you having regular contractions?” she says, challenging me.

“Since yesterday, every three minutes,” I shoot back. “And I’ve got back pain, and I’ve been vacuuming nonstop…and…and my water broke yesterday.”

So there.
Now
tell me I’m not in labor.

“I see.” The woman looks a little taken aback. “Well…”

“And I want to see only Venetia, no one else,” I add, pressing home my advantage. “So, can you page her immediately, please?”

The woman is regarding me with a narrowed gaze.

“Your contractions are coming every three minutes?”

“Uh-huh.” Suddenly I realize I must have been standing in this reception area for at least three minutes.

“I’m coping with them silently,” I inform her with dignity. “I’m a Scientologist.”

“A
Scientologist
?” she echoes, putting her pen down and staring at me.

“Yes.” I meet her gaze, unflinching. “And I need to see Venetia urgently. But if you won’t let in a woman whose water broke yesterday and is silently suffering in great pain…” I raise my voice a little so that it carries to all the waiting pregnant women.

“All right!” The receptionist clearly realizes she’s defeated. “You can wait….” She surveys the packed seating area. “Wait in that room,” she says at last, and gestures to a room called Labor Room 3.

“Thank you!” I turn on my heel and head into Labor Room3. It’s a big room, with a scary-looking metal bed and a shower room and even a DVD player. No minibar, though.

I sit on the bed and swiftly get out my makeup case. Everyone knows the first rule of business is “Look good during confrontations.” Or if it isn’t, it should be. I put on some blusher and apply some fresh lipstick—and am practicing my steeliest expression in the mirror, when there’s a knock at the door.

That’s her. With the most enormous lurch of nerves I grab the breakup bag and stand up.

“Come in,” I say as calmly as possible, and a moment later, the door swings open.

“Hello, love!” A jolly-looking Afro-Caribbean midwife comes bustling in. “I’m Esther. How are you getting on? Contractions still coming thick and strong?”

“What?” I stare at her. “Er…no. I mean, yes….” I break off in confusion. “Listen, I really need to see Venetia Carter.”

“She’s on her way,” says the midwife soothingly. “I’ll get you sorted out in the meantime.”

I feel a tweak of suspicion. They haven’t paged Venetia at all, have they? They’re trying to palm me off.

“I don’t need sorting out,” I say politely. “Thanks all the same.”

“Darlin’, you’re having a baby!” The midwife peals with laughter. “You need to get into a gown. Or did you bring a T-shirt? And I’ll need to examine you, see how you’re progressing.”

I need to get rid of this woman, quick. She presses a hand on my abdomen and I shrink away.

“Actually, I’ve already been examined!” I say brightly. “By another midwife. So I’m all set….”

“Another midwife? Who? Sarah?”

“Er…maybe. I don’t remember. She suddenly rushed off, said she had to go to theater or something?” I blink innocently.

“I’ll start you a new chart.” Esther shakes her head, sighing. “I’ll have to examine you again….”

“No!” I squeak before I can stop myself. “I mean…I have a phobia about being examined. They said I could have minimal examination. Venetia understands. I really need to see Venetia, no one else. In fact, could you leave me alone till she comes? I want to focus on my…my inner womanhood.”

Esther rolls her eyes, then heads to the door and leans her head out.

“Pam. We’ve got another one of Venetia’s wacky patients here. Can you page her? All right.” She draws her head back in. “We’re paging Venetia for you. I’ll just fill this in. So, your water broke at home?”

“Uh-huh.” I nod.

“Did the other midwife say how far you’d got?”

“Um…four centimeters,” I say at random.

“And you’re coping with the pain?”

“Fine, so far,” I say bravely.

“Well, now.” The midwife finishes writing. “I really must examine you, so if you pop up on the bed for me….”

“No!” I back away. “Don’t touch me! I only want Venetia!”

There’s a knock at the door and a woman pops her head round it. “Esther? Can you come?”

“We’re busy today.” Esther sighs and hangs the chart on the end of the bed. “I’ll be back. And Venetia should be here soon. Sorry about this.”

“That’s all right,” I say, trying to hide my relief. “Thanks!”

The door closes behind her and I sink back on the bed. For a few minutes nothing happens, and I start to flick through the TV channels. I’m just wondering whether they have any DVDs for hire, when there’s another knock at the door.

It has to be Venetia this time. I grab the breakup bag, struggle to my feet, and take a deep breath to prepare myself.

“Come in!”

The door opens and a girl of about twenty, in a midwife uniform, looks in. She’s got blond wispy hair tied back and looks very apprehensive.

“Um, hi,” she says. “My name’s Paula and I’m a student midwife. Would you mind if I come and observe you in the early stages of labor for a while? I’d be really, really grateful.”

Oh, for God’s sake. I’m about to say “No, go away.” But she looks so shy and nervous, I can’t bring myself to. After all, I can always get rid of her when Venetia arrives.

“Sure.” I wave an arm. “Come on in. My name’s Becky.”

“Hi there.” She smiles shyly as she tiptoes in and sits down on a chair in the corner.

For a minute or two neither of us says anything. I’ve flopped back on the pillows and am staring at the ceiling, trying to hide my frustration. Here I am, all ready for a confrontation, and there’s no one to confront. If Venetia doesn’t show in the next five minutes, I’ll just go.

“You seem very…serene.” Paula looks up from scribbling on her notepad. “Do you have any particular coping mechanisms for the pain?”

Oh, right. I’m supposed to be in labor. I’d better put on a show or she’ll have nothing to write down.

“Absolutely.” I nod. “I’ll just move around a bit, actually. I find that really helps.” I get up and walk around the bed, swinging my arms back and forth in a businesslike way. Then I rock my hips around a few times, and do a stretch I once learned in Yoga-lates.

“Wow,” says Paula, impressed. “You’re very mobile.”

“I’ve done yoga,” I say with a modest little glow. “I think I’ll have a Kit Kat now. Just to keep my energy levels up.”

“Good idea.” Paula nods. As I reach for my bag I can see her writing down “Eats Kit Kat,” on her notes, and underneath, “Using yoga for pain relief.” She riffles back in her file, then looks up sympathetically. “During contractions, where’s most of the pain focused?”

“Er…just…around,” I say vaguely, munching on my Kit Kat. “Kind of here…and here…” I gesture at my body. “It’s hard to explain.”

“You seem amazingly calm, Becky.” Paula is gazing at me as I check my teeth in my hand mirror for Kit Kat crumbs. “I’ve never seen a laboring woman with such self-control!”

“Well, I’m a Scientologist,” I can’t resist saying. “So I’m trying to keep as quiet as possible, obviously.”

“A Scientologist!” Her eyes open wide. “That’s amazing.” Then she frowns in alarm. “Aren’t you supposed to be in total silence?”

“I’m the sort that’s allowed to talk,” I explain. “But not scream or anything.”

“Wow. You know, I’m not sure we’ve ever had a Scientologist in here before!” She looks quite animated. “Do you mind if I just tell a couple of my colleagues?”

“Go ahead!” I nod absently.

As she hurries out, I crumple up my Kit Kat wrapper and throw it in the bin, frustrated. This is stupid. Venetia’s not coming, is she? They’re never going to page her. And I’m not even in the mood for seeing her anymore. I think I’ll go home.

“She’s in here!” The door is flung open and a whole crowd of young midwives floods into the room, led by Paula. “This is Rebecca Brandon,” she addresses the group in an undertone. “She’s four centimeters dilated and is using yoga to help deal with the pain. Because she’s a Scientologist she’s keeping very quiet and calm. You’d barely know she was having contractions!”

They’re all gawping at me as though I’m an extinct animal. I’m almost sorry to let them down.

“Actually, I think it might be a false alarm.” I pick up my bag and shrug on my coat. “I’m going home now. Thanks very much for all your help—”

“You can’t go home!” says Paula with a little laugh. She consults my chart and nods. “I thought so. Rebecca, your water has broken. You’ll run the risk of infection!” She pulls off my coat and takes my bag. “You’re staying here till that baby’s out!”

“Oh,” I say, stymied.

What do I do now? Should I tell them I made up that my water has broken?

No. They’ll think I’m a total loony. What I’ll do is wait till they leave me alone and then sneak out. Yes. Good plan.

“She could be in transition,” one of the student midwives is saying knowledgeably to another. “They often want to go home at that stage. They get quite irrational.”

“Rebecca, you really need to put on a hospital gown.” Paula is surveying me with anxiety. “The baby could be well on the way. How are the contractions feeling? Are they coming quicker? Can I examine you?”

“She’s requested minimal monitoring and examination,” chips in another student midwife, looking at my chart. “She wants everything natural. I think we should get a senior midwife in here, Paula.”

“No, don’t!” I say hurriedly. “I mean…I’d like to be left alone for a while. If that’s OK.”

“You’re very stoic, Rebecca,” says Paula, resting a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “But we can’t leave you alone! You don’t even have a birth partner!”

“I’ll be fine, honestly.” I try to sound casual. “Just for a few minutes. It’s…it’s part of my beliefs. The woman in labor needs to be on her own every hour to say a special chant.”

Go on
. I’m willing them silently.
Just leave me alone…
.

“Well, I guess we should respect your beliefs,” Paula says uncertainly. “OK. We’ll pop out for a while, but if you feel
anything
moving on, just press the buzzer.”

“I will! Thanks!”

The door closes and I subside in relief. Thank God. I’m out of this place as soon as the coast is clear. I grab my bag and coat and open the door a chink—but two midwives are still standing right by the door. Hastily I close it again, trying not to make any noise. I’ll have to wait a few moments more. They’re bound to move away soon, and I’ll make a dash for it.

I can’t believe I’m in this situation. I should never have said I was in labor, I should never have pretended my water had broken. God, it’s a lesson. I am never doing that again,
ever
.

After a little more time I check my watch. Three minutes have gone by. Maybe I’ll check the corridor again. I pick up my coat, but before I can creep forward, the door bursts open.