The Time of Our Lives (36 page)

It’s only then that I hear the voice from the other side of the door.

‘Imogen!’

I step back. ‘Oh, no. Please, no.’

‘You could always ignore it,’ he says, kissing my neck as I close my eyes.

‘IMOGEN!’

I take a deep breath. ‘Not after what happened last time. I’m sorry.’ I step back and throw on my dress, holding it together like a defective hospital gown as I hobble to the
door.

The second I open it, I can tell from Nicola’s expression that something is wrong.

‘It’s Meredith,’ she manages breathlessly.

‘What about her?’

‘I think she’s in labour.’

When I arrive at the room, Meredith is leaning against the mini-bar. ‘Ow,’ she says, as if someone’s just pulled an Elastoplast off her arm really fast.

Which reassures me. Having been in labour myself, I know that if she was close to delivering the baby it’d feel like she was trying to squeeze a breeze block through her cervix.
She’s clearly a long way from that. She just doesn’t know it yet.

‘This
hurts
.’ She frowns.

‘Well, labour does hurt, but . . . a little more than this. What makes you think this is it?’

‘I
think
my waters broke. But I’m not sure if it was just a . . . you know, bladder malfunction. Which never used to happen before I got pregnant, for the record.’

‘Are you getting contractions?’ I ask, rolling up my sleeves. I don’t know why exactly, as it’s not as though I’m going to have a root around in there, but it feels
strangely reassuring.

‘Well, it does hurt every so often.’

‘Meredith, you’re not due to give birth for weeks. They’ll be Braxton Hicks,’ I say.

‘I’ve heard of those!’ she says proudly. ‘They’re practice contractions, aren’t they?’

‘Yes. The key questions are whether they’re regular and, if so, how far apart are they?’

She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. ‘I don’t know. Isn’t it the midwife’s job to time them?’

‘Well, it tends to be yours, first.’ I look at her. ‘I really doubt you’re in labour. But if, for argument’s sake, you were . . . well, the timing of the
contractions is just to work out if we need a taxi because we’ve got twenty hours to go, or an ambulance because we’ve got twenty minutes.’

Nicola inhales emphatically and steadies herself against the bureau. ‘That has got to be a joke.’

‘I
honestly
don’t think it’s imminent,’ I reassure them. ‘Like I say, she’s not due for weeks. Even if it was, labours take ages. At the stage when I
felt like you do, Meredith, there were still another fifteen hours to go.’

Meredith’s eyes widen and her face goes slightly red. ‘
Erugghh
.’

I frown. ‘This is probably wind, you know. Everything feels uncomfortable at this stage in pregnancy. But maybe we should go to hospital just to be on the safe side.’

I pick up the phone to the ‘Whatever your whim’ service to ask them to call the nearest maternity ward and warn them we’re on our way. It’s very apparent from the
reaction of the young telephone operator that this is the first client whim of this nature he’s ever had to deal with.

Meredith’s in pain again, just under five minutes later.

‘There’s really nothing to panic about,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to time this now, but they don’t seem regular. I suspect the hospital will check you out and
send you away again.’

‘But premature labours do happen. And I’m only thirty-four weeks pregnant, not forty, like you’re supposed to be. God, I’m really worried now . . .’ Meredith looks
at me, as if seeking reassurance in my face.

I take her hands. ‘Even if this was the big day, babies are fairly well developed by thirty-four weeks,’ I say. ‘You’re in the final stretch, so please don’t worry.
Besides, I was born at thirty-one weeks, and look at me!’

‘Let’s just get to hospital, shall we?’ Nicola says failing to marvel at this miracle as much as I’d like.

‘What if they don’t speak English?’ Meredith says plaintively. ‘It’s bad enough giving birth early without it being abroad. I’ve already checked in the travel
dictionary, and they don’t list the word for “epidural”.’

‘Meredith, you won’t be giving birth today, I’m certain,’ I repeat. ‘I’m happy to come with you to translate . . . if you want.’

I spin around to notice Harry, who’s been holding my zip together to cover my modesty since we got here.

‘Would you mind?’ Meredith pleads.

‘Of course not. I’m not sure how much obstetrics I know in Spanish, but I’ll do my best.’

We’re in the hotel lift when Meredith suddenly emits a squealing noise, like a wild pig that’s being threatened with a barbeque. I must admit it throws me slightly,
despite being convinced that this
isn’t
labour. The sooner we get her to hospital to confirm that, the better.

The lift opens on the fourth floor and my young Italian wanker steps in, holding hands with a gorgeous brunette in her late teens.

‘Ah, hello! It is the . . . Eeenglish lady.’ I note that I’m no longer ‘beautiful’, but realise I’m hardly in a position to complain, under the
circumstances.

‘Hello, how are you?’ I smile.

Meredith starts panting exuberantly and he glances at her, alarmed.

‘Your friend’s ass – it seems very bad.’

‘My ass?’ Meredith frowns, touching her backside.

‘She wees . . .’

Meredith’s eyes widen as if trying to work out if she’s had another ‘bladder malfunction’.

‘Wees?’ I ask. A chord of recognition chimes in my head.

‘She wheezes! Ah, no, it’s not
asthma
– she’s having a baby.’

‘You really think this is it, then?’ Nicola asks nervously.

‘No, I’m sure this is a false alarm,’ I reply.

‘Ah, congratulations!’ The Italian grins as the door opens on the second floor and the Russian guy and Yellow Bikini Lady get in. I shift nervously into the corner of the lift,
hoping he doesn’t recognise me as the woman who disturbed him while his wife was dyeing her upper lip.

‘Owwww!’ says Meredith.

‘You must be orgasmic!’ Italian guy adds.

‘I might be in labour,’ Meredith explains to the Russians, apparently unconcerned about their Mafia connections. ‘It’s my first time.’

When we step out into the lobby, I can only describe the reception we receive from the staff as being comparable to the arrival of royalty. As Nicola phones Nathan to let him know what’s
happening, they are all over us, rushing to provide Meredith with cold towels, then hot towels, then help her down the steps like she’s a geriatric. ‘Is there anything at all we can get
you?’ asks the concierge.

Meredith thinks for a second. ‘Ooh, champagne would be nice.’

‘Madam’ – a young female staff member with cropped black hair and an air of organisational efficiency that would rival Alexander the Great takes me to one side –
‘we have phoned the maternity hospital and they’re expecting you imminently. I have ordered you a car, but if time is of the essence, there is an alternative.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mr Venedictov heard about your plight and has offered that you take his personal limousine and driver.’

‘Really?’ I answer anxiously. What exactly is the protocol when one of the world’s most infamous crime lords invites you to use his personal car when your heavily pregnant best
friend needs to be seen by a doctor? Clearly, offending him is something I’d rather avoid, although we’ve got enough to worry about without thinking we might need to divert somewhere on
the way to go and chop off someone’s fingers one by one.

‘The hotel’s car should be here soon, but Mr Venedictov’s limousine does have the benefit of being outside now. It’s entirely up to you.’

I grab the assistant by the elbow and pull her to a quiet corner. ‘Is it . . . safe?’

She looks perplexed. ‘Is what safe?’

I twitch awkwardly. ‘You know, the car. Given that it’s owned by . . . Alexander Venedictov.’

She looks at me blankly. ‘Alexei.’

‘What?’

‘Alexei Venedictov. The well-known Russian businessman and philanthropist.’

I blink. ‘Not . . . mafia boss?’ I hiss.

She stiffens, looking like I’ve just accused her mother of working the streets. ‘Absolutely not. We are not that kind of establishment. Mr Venedictov is a highly reputable and
successful businessman, a deeply religious man who is totally devoted to his wife, Iarena. And their nine children.’

I glance over at Yellow Bikini Lady and what I’m convinced is her fourteen-inch waist. ‘Nine . . .?’

She nods. ‘He’s entirely respectable,’ she reassures me. ‘But the choice is yours.’

‘Thanks,’ I mutter, and go to put this proposition to Meredith.

‘It wasn’t the red-carpet treatment I’d imagined,’ she pants, ‘but why the hell not?’

Mr Venedictov’s limo is insane. In some ways, it looks like something out of a very bad porn film, but I can see how you could get into the swing of things in different
circumstances. I’m scrutinising the mini-bar when Meredith’s next pain arrives and she lets out a shriek that threatens to shatter the champagne glasses.

‘I will take to hospital,’ announces the driver, a short, rotund man with cheeks like Cox’s Orange Pippins and sideburns that look capable of sweeping out a garage. ‘I
have driven Mr and Mrs Venedicktov around Barcelona many times so I know all the best routes. You will have good, smooth journey.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, as he hits the pedal and Harry clutches my hand.

‘I’ve never been in one of these before,’ Nicola muses, picking up a remote control. She pushes a button and, like something out of
Thunderbirds
, a flap lifts up to
display a flat-screen television.

‘Please, help yourself,’ says Meredith, gesturing to the mini-bar, in all seriousness.

‘Meredith, we’re not going to sit here and get pissed when you could be in the throes of labour,’ Nicola points out.

‘Oh, I don’t min
—ARRRGHHHH!’

As her eyes bulge, I look at my watch and start timing. It’s only as the stopwatch on my phone passes the 30-second mark and she’s still clearly in a lot of pain that I realise
something: Meredith really is in labour.

The next two contractions seem to be suddenly and significantly closer together, a discovery I make at the exact moment we pull up at traffic lights and hit the sort of jam you’d expect on
the M25 during rush hour.

‘Is everything okay?’ Harry whispers.

I flash him an uneasy a look. ‘Maybe we should’ve phoned for an ambulance. Could you ask the driver how far away the hospital is?’

His eyes widen as he silently comprehends the implication of my question. The implication being: I hope he’s going to say two minutes. And not a second longer.

Because while I know most first-time mums spend hours in labour before the baby actually arrives, Meredith’s contractions have become alarmingly close, alarmingly quickly. That’s on
top of the fact that, despite my earlier reassurances, she
is
weeks away from what is her due date and, therefore, I won’t relax until she’s in the safe hands a of a medical
professional.

Harry says something to the driver in Spanish and turns back to me.

‘Usually no more than ten minutes.’

‘Usually?’

‘There’s a festival on tonight so the traffic’s bad.’

My eyes jerk to Meredith as she shrieks, ‘Oh God, here’s another one!’

The driver spins round looking mildly aghast.

‘Shall I tell him he needs to put his foot down?’ Harry asks.

Meredith lets out a scream capable of curdling the haemoglobin of a vampire bat. ‘Yes. YESSSSSSSSSS!’

Harry and the driver proceed to have a frantic exchange in Spanish which culminates in the latter’s face turning a peculiarly inhuman colour, which I can only describe as pistachio. He
then clobbers the accelerator and, before any of us can register what’s going on, we’re screaming along the pavement like a tank fashioned out of oil drums and a chainsaw in a final
scene from an episode of
The A-Team
.

‘Shit! What’s happening?’ Meredith asks, and it seems obvious to everyone but her.

‘Let me phone ahead,’ decides Harry. ‘I think we should ask for an ambulance to come and get us.’

‘Good idea,’ I say, wiping sweat from my forehead as it becomes evident that Meredith’s contractions are blending into one big, giant ball of pain.

I glance out of the window and witness pedestrians of all ages and persuasions diving out of the way as our limo ploughs along the pavement, before plopping down on the other side of the
kerb.

‘How far away is . . .
ARGGHHHHHHHH!
’

I pick up my phone and start dialling a number. ‘Who are you phoning?’ Nicola asks, panic written all over her face.

‘Carmel, my boss’s wife,’ I reply.

‘Why?’ demands Nicola.

‘She’s a midwife,’ I explain, as Carmel answers the phone, clearly expecting a discussion similar to our previous ones.

‘I have nothing more to say to that dickwad,’ she announces.

‘It’s not about David,’ I blurt out. ‘My friend is in labour, I really think she’s close to giving birth but we’re in a limo stuck in traffic.’

‘Oh God.’

‘Carmel, I need you to help.’

I can sense her panic before she even speaks. ‘It’s more than thirty years since I’ve even looked at another woman’s vagina, Imogen.’

‘I’m sure it’s like riding a bike. Besides, you’re all we’ve got.’

I can hear her take a deep breath. ‘Okay. Right. Let me think. Have you phoned an ambulance?’

‘My other friend is phoning to try and get one, but I’m worried that she’s going to have the baby before it gets here.’

At this, Meredith glares at me. ‘Jesus H. Christ – ARE you? You never mentioned that before!’

I ignore her. ‘And I’ll be honest,’ I whisper into my phone, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO?’ Meredith shrieks. ‘BUT YOU KNOW
EVERYTHING
, IMOGEN! YOU KNOW . . .
ARGGHHHHHHHH!
’

‘Has the driver pulled over?’ Carmel asks. She suddenly sounds incredibly, mercifully, calm.

I look up and realise that he’s taken a diversion through a pedestrian part of the city and we’re currently driving through a dense parade of Flamenco dancers. The car is engulfed in
a rainbow-coloured array of bodies, as if we’ve crash-landed the set of
Strictly Come Dancing
.