Shopaholic & Baby (Shopaholic #5)

Shopaholic & Baby (Shopaholic #5) Page 26

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine walking from here. Oh, except I’ve forgotten my bag….” I reach back into the car, where Iain is talking.

“When I want that kind of decision taken, Luke, I’ll fucking take it.” His harsh tone takes me by surprise and I see Luke flinch.

It’s just unbelievable. Just who does this guy think he is? Just because he’s some business bigwig he thinks he can be rude to anyone he likes? I want to get straight back into the car and tell him exactly what I think of him.

But I’m not sure Luke would appreciate it.

“See you soon, darling.” I squeeze his hand and pick up my bag. “Don’t be long.”

I’m a bit early for the appointment, so I take the opportunity to reapply my lipstick and give my hair a quick comb. Then I head to the corner and turn into Fencastle Street. There’s a big impressive stucco building about twenty yards ahead, with Holistic Birth Center, Venetia Carter engraved on the glass. And on the opposite side of the street is a cluster of photographers, their lenses trained on the door.

I stop dead, my heart beating faster. It’s paparazzi. They’re all clicking away! Who are they — What are they—

Oh my God. It’s the new Bond girl! She’s walking toward the building in a pink Juicy strapless top over jeans, with a definite bump showing. I can hear the cries from the photographers: “This way, love!” and “When’s the baby due?”

This is so cool!

Trying to look nonchalant, I hurry along the pavement and arrive at the door at the same time as her. The cameras are all still clicking away behind us. I’ll be in all the gossip magazines with a Bond girl!

“Hi,” I murmur casually as she presses the buzzer. “Hi, I’m Becky. I’m pregnant, too. I like your top!”

She looks at me as if I’m a moron, then without replying pushes the door open.

Well. She wasn’t very friendly. But never mind, I’m sure the others will be. I follow her through an elegant tiled hallway and then into a large room with lilac velvet seats and a reception desk, and a huge Jo Malone candle burning on the central table.

As I head to the desk behind the Bond girl, I do a quick sweep of the room. Two girls in jeans who might easily be supermodels are reading OK! and pointing out pictures to each other. There’s a heavily pregnant girl in Missoni sitting opposite in floods of tears, with a husband who’s holding her hand and saying anxiously, “Sweetheart, we can call the baby Aspen if you like, I just didn’t realize you were serious!”

Aspen.

Aspen Brandon.

Lord Aspen Brandon, Earl of London.

Hmm. Not sure.

The Bond girl finishes talking to the receptionist, then moves away and sits down in a corner.

“Can I help?” The receptionist is looking at me.

“Yes, please.” I beam. “I’m here to see Venetia Carter. Mrs. Rebecca Brandon.”

“Take a seat, Mrs. Brandon. Dr. Carter will see you presently.” The receptionist smiles and hands me a brochure. “Some introductory literature. Help yourself to herbal tea.”

“Thanks!” I take the brochure and sit down opposite the supermodels. Gentle panpipe music is playing over the speakers, and there are photographs of mothers and new babies pinned up on the satin-covered pinboards. The whole atmosphere is serene and beautiful. It’s a million miles away from Dr. Braine’s boring old waiting room, with its plastic chairs and horrible carpet and posters about folic acid.

Luke will be so impressed when he arrives. I knew this was the right decision! Happily I start flicking through the brochure, taking in headings here and there. Water Birth…Reflexology Birth…Hypno Birth…

Maybe I’ll have a hypno birth. Whatever that is.

I’m just lingering over a picture of a girl holding a baby in what looks like a giant Jacuzzi when the receptionist summons me.

“Mrs. Brandon? Dr. Carter will see you now.”

“Oh!” I put down the brochure and glance at my watch anxiously. “I’m afraid my husband isn’t here yet. He should only be a few minutes….”

“Don’t worry.” She smiles. “I’ll send him in when he arrives. Please, come this way.”

I follow the receptionist down the carpeted passage. The walls are covered with signed pictures of glamorous celebrity mothers sitting up in bed with newborn babies, and my head swivels as I walk. I really need to think about what I’m going to wear for the birth. Maybe I’ll ask Venetia Carter for some tips.

We reach a cream-painted door and the receptionist knocks twice before opening it and ushering me in. “Venetia, this is Mrs. Brandon.”