“The twenty-sixth?” Luke nods, consulting his BlackBerry. “OK with you, Becky?”

“Fine!” I say sweetly. “We’ll be there.”

“Marvelous. I’ll call some of the others. It’s so great to have made contact again, after so many years.” Venetia sighs and puts her pen down. “To be honest, it’s been pretty hard, starting again in London. My old friends have their lives; they’ve moved on. Besides which, I don’t always keep sociable hours, and Justin travels abroad a lot, of course.” Her bright smile slips a little.

“Justin is Venetia’s boyfriend,” Luke explains to me.

The boyfriend. I’d almost forgotten he existed.

“Oh, right,” I say politely. “What does he do?”

“He’s a financier.” Venetia reaches for a framed picture of a dull-looking man in a suit, and as she surveys it her whole face lights up. “He’s incredibly driven and motivated, a bit like Luke. I sometimes feel left behind when he’s pursuing a deal. But what can I do? I love him.”

“Really?” I say in surprise. Then I realize how that sounded. “I mean…er…great!”

“He’s the reason I came to London.” Her eyes are still fixed on the picture. “I met him at a party in L.A. and just fell hook, line, and sinker.”

“You moved all this way?” I say, incredulous. “Just for him?”

“That’s what love’s about, surely? You do crazy things for no rhyme or reason.” Venetia looks up, her green eyes shining. “If my job has taught me one thing, Becky, it’s that love is the only thing. Human love. I see it every time I deliver a baby right into its mother’s arms…every time I see a fresh, eight-week-old heart beating on the screen and watch the faces of its parents…every time my patients come back, second or third time around. It’s love that makes the babies. And you know what? Nothing else matters.”

Wow. I am totally blown away.

She’s not after Luke, after all. She’s in love with the boring guy! And to be honest, that little speech has practically got me in tears.

“You’re so right,” I say huskily, clutching Luke’s arm. “Love is all that counts in this crazy, mixed-up world we call…the world.”

I’m not sure that came out right, but who cares? I have completely misjudged Venetia. She’s not a man-eater; she’s a warm, beautiful, loving human being.

“I really hope Justin will be able to make the twenty-sixth.” She finally puts the picture back in its place with a fond pat. “I’d love for you to meet him.”

“Me too!” I say with genuine enthusiasm. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“See you soon, Ven.” Luke kisses Venetia. “Thanks very much.”

“Bye, Becky.” Venetia gives me a warm, friendly smile. “Oh, and I nearly forgot. I don’t know if you’d be at all interested, but a journalist from Vogue called me up yesterday. They’re doing a big feature on London’s yummiest mummies-to-be and wanted me to put forward some names. I thought of you.”

“Vogue?” I stare at her, frozen.

“You may not be interested, of course. It would involve a photo shoot of you in the baby’s nursery, an interview, hair and makeup…. They’ll provide designer maternity clothes….” She gives a vague shrug. “I don’t know — is that your kind of thing?”

I’m practically hyperventilating. Is it my kind of thing? Is having my makeup done and wearing designer clothes and being in Vogue…my kind of thing?

“I think that’s a yes,” says Luke, looking at me in amusement.

“Great!” Venetia touches him on the hand. “Leave it to me. I’ll fix it up.”



Rebecca Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions

Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF


18 August 2003


Dear Fabia,


I just wanted to say how much we love your gorgeous, beautiful house. It’s the Kate Moss of houses!!In fact, it’s so stunning, I think it deserves to appear in Vogue, don’t you?

That reminds me of a teeny favor I wanted to ask. Coincidentally, I am being interviewed by Vogue — and I wondered if I could use the house for the photo shoot?

I also wondered if I could put up some personal props and say that Luke and I live there already? After all, we will by the time the magazine comes out…so it makes sense, really!

In return, if there is anything I can do for you or any fashion item you would like me to track down, I will be only too glad!

With very best wishes,


Becky Brandon

Not in size, obviously.



FABIA PASCHALI


DATE: 19/8/03

TO: Rebecca Brandon


Becky,


1. Chloe Silverado bag, tan

2. Matthew Williamson purple beaded kaftan top, size 6

3. Olly Bricknell Princess shoes, green, size 39.


Fabia


33 Delamain Road, Maida Vale, London NW6 1TY



Oxshott School for Girls

Marlin Road

Oxshott

Surrey

KT22 0JG


From the School Librarian

Mrs L Hargreaves


23 August 2003



Dear Becky,

How nice to hear from you after all these years, and I do indeed remember you as a pupil here. Who could forget the girl who started the “friendship handbags” craze of 1989?

I am delighted you are to appear in Vogue — and it is, as you say, a surprise. Though I must assure you, the teachers did not sit in the staff room, saying “I bet Becky Bloomwood never makes it into Vogue.”

I will be sure to buy an issue, although I think it unlikely the headmistress will sanction buying an official commemorative copy for each pupil, as you suggest.

With very best wishes,


Lorna Hargreaves

Librarian


P.S. Do you still have a copy of In the Fifth at Malory Towers? There is a rather large fine on it.


NINE


I’M GOING to be in Vogue! Last week Martha, who is the girl writing the Yummiest Mummies-to-Be feature, rang up and we had the most brilliant long chat.

Maybe I did make up a few teeny things. Like my daily exercise regime. And having freshly crushed raspberries for breakfast every morning, and how I write poetry to my unborn child. (I can always get some out of a book.) Plus I’ve said we already live in the house on Delamain Road, because it sounds better than living in a flat.

But the point is, we will be living in it very soon. It’s practically ours already. And the girl was really interested to hear about the his and hers nurseries. She said she thought they’d be a highlight of the shoot. A highlight!

“Becky?”

A voice cuts into my thoughts and I look up to see Eric heading across the floor toward me. Quickly I hide my lists under a MaxMara catalog and scan the shop floor to make sure there isn’t some lurking customer I’ve missed. But there’s no one. Trade hasn’t exactly picked up in the last few days.

Truth be told, we’ve had yet another disaster. Someone in marketing decided to start a “word on the street” campaign, hiring students to talk about The Look and hand out leaflets in cafés. Which would have been great if they hadn’t handed them to a gang of shoplifters, who proceeded to come in and pinch the entire range of Benefit cosmetics. They were caught — but even so. The Daily World had a total field day, about how “The Look is so desperate, it’s now inviting in convicted criminals.”

The place feels emptier than ever, and to cap it all, five members of the staff resigned this week. No wonder Eric looks so grumpy.

“Where’s Jasmine?” He glances around the personal shopping reception area.

“She’s…in the stock room,” I lie.

Actually, Jasmine is asleep on the floor in one of the dressing rooms. Her new theory is, since there’s nothing to do at work, she might as well use the time to sleep and go clubbing at night. So far, it’s working out pretty well.

“Well, it was you I wanted to see, anyway.” He frowns. “I’ve just had the contract through for the Danny Kovitz deal. Very demanding, this friend of yours. He’s specified first-class travel, a suite at Claridge’s, a limo for his personal use, unlimited San Pellegrino ‘stirred, to take the bubbles out’…”

I stifle a giggle. That is so typical of Danny.

“He’s a big, important designer,” I remind Eric. “Talented people all have their little quirks.”

“‘For the duration of the creative process,’” Eric reads aloud, “‘Mr. Kovitz will require a bowl of at least ten inches in diameter, filled with jelly beans. No green ones.’ I mean, what is this nonsense?” He flicks the paper in exasperation. “What’s he expecting, that someone’s just going to sit for hours, removing green jelly beans and disposing of them?”

Ooh. I love green jelly beans.

“I don’t mind taking care of that,” I say casually.

“Fine.” Eric sighs. “Well, all I can say is, I hope all this effort and money is worth it.”

“It will be!” I say, surreptitiously touching the wooden desk for luck. “Danny’s the hottest designer around! He’ll come up with something totally brilliant and directional and now. And everyone will flock to the store. I promise!”

I really, really hope I’m right.

As Eric stalks off again I wonder whether to call Danny and see if he’s had any ideas yet. But before I can do so, my cell phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” comes Luke’s voice. “It’s me.”

“Oh, hi!” I lean back in my chair, ready to have a chat. “Hey, I’ve just been hearing about Danny’s contract. You’ll never guess what—”

“Becky, I’m afraid I can’t make this afternoon.”

“What?” My smile slips away.

This afternoon is our first prenatal class. It’s the one that birth partners come to, and we do breathing and make friends for life. And Luke promised to be there. He promised.

“I’m sorry.” He seems distracted. “I know I said I’d be there, but there’s a…crisis at work.”

“A crisis?” I sit up, concerned.

“Not a crisis,” he amends at once. “It’s just…something’s happened which isn’t so good. It’ll be fine. Just a hiccup.”

“What’s happened?”

“Just…a minor internal dispute. I won’t go into it. But I’m really sorry about this afternoon. I wanted to be there.” He does sound genuinely torn up. There’s no point getting cross with him.

“It’s OK.” I hide a sigh. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Couldn’t someone else go with you? Suze, perhaps?”

That’s an idea. I was Suze’s birth partner, after all. We’re pretty close friends. And it would be nice to have some company.

“Maybe.” I nod. “So, will you still be all right for this evening?”

Tonight we’re going out with Venetia and her boyfriend and all Luke’s old friends from Cambridge. I’ve been really looking forward to it; in fact, I’m having my hair blow-dried especially.

“Hope so. I’ll keep you posted.”

“OK. See you later.”

I ring off and am about to dial Suze’s number, when I remember she’s taking Ernie to some new playgroup this afternoon. So she won’t be able to make it. I lean back in my chair, thinking hard. I could just go on my own; I mean, I’m not scared of a bunch of pregnant women, am I?

Or else…

I pick up my phone again and speed-dial a number.

“Hey, Mum,” I say as soon as I get through. “Are you doing anything this afternoon?”



The prenatal class is being held in a house in Islington and is called Choices, Empowerment, Open Minds, which I think is a really good title. I definitely have an open mind. As I walk along the street toward the house, I see Mum pull up in her Volvo and park — after about eight attempts, a small crash with a dustbin, and the help of a lorry driver who gets out of his cab to guide her in.

“Hi, Mum!” I call as she gets out at last, looking a bit flustered. She’s wearing smart white trousers, a navy blazer, and shiny patent loafers.

“Becky!” Her face lights up. “You look wonderful, darling. Come along, Janice!” She bangs on the car window. “I brought Janice along. You don’t mind, do you, love?”

“Er…no,” I say in surprise. “Of course not.”

“She was at a loose end, and we thought we might go to Liberty’s afterward to look at fabrics for the nursery. Dad’s painted it yellow, but we haven’t decided on curtains….” She glances at my bump. “Any inklings on whether it’s a boy or a girl?”

My mind flicks to the Gender Predictor Kit, still hidden in my underwear drawer three weeks after I bought it. I keep getting it out, then losing my nerve and putting it back. Maybe I need Suze as moral support.