“I love the front door!” I exclaim, ringing the bell. “It’s so shiny!”
“Becky…cool, remember,” says Luke. “Try not to look so impressed.”
“Oh, right, yes.” I adopt the best unimpressed expression I can muster, just as the door swings open.
A very slim woman in her forties is standing on black-and-white marble tiles. She’s wearing white D&G jeans, a casual top which I
know
cost her £500, and a diamond ring so huge, I’m amazed she can lift her arm.
“Hi.” Her voice is a husky mockney drawl. “Are you here to see the house?”
“Yes!” At once I realize I sound too excited. “I mean…yeah.” I affect a similar nonchalance. “We thought we’d have a look.”
“Fabia Paschali.” Her handshake is like wet cotton wool.
“Becky Brandon. And this is my husband, Luke.”
“Well, come on through.”
We follow her in, our feet echoing on the tiles, and as I look around I have to suppress a loud intake of breath. This hall is
huge
. And the sweeping staircase is like something out of Hollywood! I immediately have an image of myself trailing down it in a fantastic evening dress while Luke waits admiringly at the bottom.
“We’ve had fashion shoots here,” says Fabia, gesturing at the staircase. “The marble is imported from Italy and the chandelier is antique Murano. It’s included.”
I can see she’s waiting for a reaction.
“Very nice,” says Luke. “Becky?”
Cool. I must be cool.
“It’s all right.” I give a little yawn. “Can we see the kitchen?”
The kitchen is just as amazing. It has a vast breakfast bar, a glass roof, and about every gadget known to mankind. I’m trying as hard as I can not to look overawed as Fabia runs through the appliances. “Triple oven…chef’s hob…This is a rotating multisurface chopping area….”
“Not bad.” I run a hand over the granite with a jaded air. “Do you have a built-in electric sushi maker?”
“Yes,” she says as though I’ve asked something really obvious.
It has a built-in electric sushi maker!
Oh God, it’s just spectacular. And so is the terrace with built-in summer kitchen and barbecue. And the drawing room fitted out with David Linley shelves. As we follow Fabia upstairs to the main bedroom I’m practically expiring, trying not to exclaim at everything.
“Here’s the dressing room….” Fabia shows us into a smallroom lined with paneled walnut wardrobes. “This is my customized shoe cupboard….” She opens the door and we walk in.
I feel faint. Either side of us are rows and rows of shoes, lined up immaculately on suede-lined shelves. Louboutins…Blahniks…
“It’s amazing!” I blurt out. “And look, we’re the same size and everything. This is
so
meant to be—” Luke casts me a warning glance. “I mean…yeah.” I give an offhand shrug. “It’s OK, I guess.”
“Have you got kids?” Fabia glances at my stomach as we move away.
“We’re expecting one in December.”
“We’ve got two at boarding school.” She rips a Nicorette patch off her arm, frowns at it, and drops it in a bin. Then she reaches in her jeans pocket and produces a packet of Marlboro Lights. “They’re on the top floor now but their nurseries are still done up if you’re interested.” She flicks a lighter and takes a puff.
“Nurseries?” echoes Luke, glancing at me. “More than one?”
“His and hers. We had one of each. Never got round to redecorating. This is my son’s….” She pushes open a white-paneled door.
I stand there, open-mouthed. It’s like fairyland. The walls are painted with a mural of green hills and blue sky and woods and teddy bears having a picnic. In one corner is a painted crib in the shape of a castle; in the other is a real little red wooden train on tracks, big enough to sit on, with a toy in each carriage.
I feel an overwhelming stab of desire. I want a boy. I
so
want a little boy.
“And my daughter’s is over here,” Fabia continues.
I can barely tear myself away from the boy’s nursery, but I follow her across the landing as she opens the door—and can’t help gasping.
I have never seen anything so beautiful. It’s a little girl’s dream. The walls are decorated with hand-painted fairies, the white curtains are looped back with huge lilac taffeta bows, and the little cradle is festooned with broderie anglaise frills like a princess’s bed.
Oh God. Now I want a girl.
I want both. Can’t I have both?
“So, what do you think?” Fabia turns to me.
There’s silence on the landing. I can’t speak for longing. I want these nurseries more than I have ever wanted anything, ever. I want this whole house. I want to live here and have our first Christmas here as a family, and decorate a huge pine tree in the black-and-white hall, and hang a tiny stocking above the fireplace….
“Pretty nice,” I manage at last, with a small shrug. “I suppose.”
“Well,” Fabia draws on her cigarette. “Let’s show you the rest.”
I feel like I’m floating as we progress through all the other rooms. We’ve found our house. We’ve found it.
“Make her an offer!” I whisper to Luke as we’re peering into the hot water cupboard. “Tell her we want it!”
“Becky, slow down.” He gives a little laugh. “That’s not the way to negotiate. We haven’t even seen it all yet.”
But I can tell he loves it too. His eyes are bright, and as we come down to the hall again he’s asking questions about the neighbors.
“Well…thanks,” he says at last, shaking Fabia’s hand. “We’ll be in touch through the estate agent.”
How can he restrain himself? Why isn’t he getting out his checkbook?
“Thank you very much,” I add, and am about to shake Fabia’s hand myself when there’s the sound of a key at the front door. A tanned man in his fifties comes in, wearing jeans and a leather jacket and carrying a cool art-portfolio–type thing.
“Hi, there.” He looks from face to face, clearly wondering if he’s supposed to know us. “How are you?”
“Darling, these are the Brandons,” says Fabia. “They’ve been looking round the house.”
“Ah. Through Hamptons?” He frowns. “I would have called if I’d known. I accepted an offer ten minutes ago. Through the other agent.”
I feel a shot of horror. He’s done what?
“We’ll make you an offer right now!” I blurt out. “We’ll offer the asking price!”
“Sorry. It’s done.” He shrugs and takes off his jacket. “Those Americans who looked round this morning,” he adds to Fabia.
No. No. We can’t be losing our dream house!
“Luke, do something.” I try to speak calmly. “Make an offer! Quick!”
“You don’t mind, do you?” Fabia looks surprised. “You didn’t seem that keen on the place.”
“We were playing cool!” I wail, all semblance of nonchalance vanishing. “Luke, I
knew
we should have said something earlier! We love the house! I adore the nurseries! We want it!”
“We’d very much like to offer above the asking price,” says Luke, stepping forward. “We can act with the utmost speed and have our solicitor contact yours in the morning.”
“Look, as far as I’m concerned, the house has gone,” says Fabia’s husband, rolling his eyes. “I need a drink. Good luck with your search.” He strides away, over the tiles toward the kitchen, and I hear a fridge opening.
“I’m sorry,” Fabia says with a shrug, and leads us toward the front door.
“But…” I trail off helplessly.
“That’s OK. If the deal falls through, please let us know.” Luke gives her a polite smile and slowly we walk out into the mild autumn afternoon. Leaves are drifting off the trees onto the paved path and I can smell a bonfire in the air.
I could just see myself living on this street. Pushing the baby along in a pram, waving to all the neighbors…
“I can’t believe it.” My voice is a little choked.
“It was just a house.” Luke puts his arm round my slumped shoulders. “We’ll find another one.”
“We won’t. We won’t ever find a place like that. It was the perfect house!” I stop, my hand on the wrought-iron gate. I can’t just give up. I’m not some lame giver-upper.
“Wait here,” I say to Luke, swiveling on my heel. I rush back along the path, up the steps, and plant a foot in the door before Fabia can close it.
“Listen,” I say urgently. “Please. Fabia, we really, really love your house. We’ll pay anything you want.”
“My husband’s already done the deal.” She shrinks back. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“You can talk him round! What can I do to persuade you?”
“Look.” She sighs. “It’s not up to me. Could you please move your feet?”
“I’ll do anything!” I cry in desperation. “I’ll buy you something! I work at a fashion store, I can get really cool stuff—”
I break off. Fabia is peering at my foot, jammed in the door. Then she looks at the other one.
It’s not my feet she’s interested in, it’s my Archie Swann cowboy boots in beaten-up calfskin with the leather drawstring. Archie Swann is the new kid on the shoe block, and these exact boots were in
Vogue
last week, under “Most Coveted.” I saw Fabia checking them out the moment we arrived.
Fabia raises her eyes to mine. “I like your boots,” she says.
I’m momentarily speechless.
Play it cool, Becky, play it cool.
“I waited a whole year for these boots,” I say at last, feeling as though I’m treading on eggshells. “You can’t get them anywhere.”
“I’m on the waiting list at Harvey Nichols,” she bats back.
“Maybe.” I force a casual tone. “But you won’t get them. They only made fifty pairs and they’ve run out. I’m a personal shopper, so I know these things.”
I am totally bluffing here. But I think it’s working. She’s practically salivating over them.
“Becky?” Luke is coming back up the path toward me. “What’s going on?”
“Luke!” I lift a hand. “Stay there!” I feel like Obi-Wan Kenobi telling Luke Skywalker not to interfere because he doesn’t understand the strength of the Force.
I wriggle out of my left boot, leaving it standing on the doormat like a totem.
“It’s yours,” I say. “If you accept our offer. And the other one when we exchange contracts.”
“Call the agent tomorrow,” says Fabia, sounding almost breathless. “I’ll talk my husband round. The house is yours.”
I did it! I don’t believe it!
As fast as I can, in one boot and one stockinged foot, I hurry down the steps toward Luke.
“We’ve got the house!” I throw my arms round his neck. “I got us the house!”
“What the
fuck
—” He stares at me. “What did you say? Why are you only wearing one boot?”
“Oh…just a bit of negotiation,” I say airily, and glance back at the front door. Fabia has already kicked off her gold ballet pump and thrust her jean-clad leg into the boot. Now she’s turning it from side to side, fixated. “If you call the agent in the morning, I think you’ll find it’s a deal.”
We don’t even need to wait until the next morning. Less than two hours later, we’re sitting in the car on the way to Mum’s, when Luke’s phone rings.
“Yes?” he says into his headset. “Yes. Really?”
I’m making faces at him, trying to get him to tell me what’s going on, but he’s keeping his eyes firmly on the road, which is really annoying. At last he switches the phone off and turns to me with the tiniest of smiles. “It’s ours.”
“
Yes
!” I squeal in delight. “I told you!”
“They’re relocating to New York and want to move as soon as possible. I said we could complete by December.”
“We’ll have our new baby in our gorgeous new house in time for Christmas.” I hug myself. “It’s going to be perfect!”
“It’s pretty good news.” His face is glowing. “And all down to you.”
“It was nothing,” I say modestly. “Just good negotiating.” I get out my mobile phone and am about to text Suze the good news, when all of a sudden it rings.
“Hello?” I say joyfully into it.
“Mrs. Brandon? It’s Diane from Venetia Carter’s office here.”
“Oh!” I stiffen, and glance at Luke. “Er…hello.”
“We just wanted to let you know that the vacancy
has
arisen on Dr. Carter’s books. She would be very pleased to see you—and your husband if you wish—on Thursday at three P.M.”
“Right,” I say, a little breathless. “Um…yes, please. I’ll be there! Thank you very much!”
“Not at all. Good-bye, Mrs. Brandon.”
The line goes dead and I switch the phone off with trembling hands. I’ve got a place with Venetia Carter! I’m going to meet celebrities and have holistic Thai massage!
Now I just have to break the news to Luke.
“Who was that?” says Luke, turning on the radio. He frowns at the digital display and presses a couple of buttons.
“It was…um…” I drop my phone accidentally-on-purpose on the floor and bend down to retrieve it.
It’ll be fine. He’s in a good mood about the house and everything. I’ll just tell him and that will be that. And if he starts objecting, I shall point out that I’m a grown-up mature woman who can choose her own medical care. Exactly.
“Er…Luke.” I sit up again, a bit red in the face. “About Dr. Braine.”
“Oh, yes?” Luke pulls into another lane. “By the way, I told my mother we’d organize a dinner with him and David.”
A
dinner
? Oh God, this gets worse. I have to tell him, quick.
“Luke, listen.” I wait until he slows down behind a truck. “I’ve been thinking very hard and doing some research.”
Research
sounds good. Even if it was just reading a piece about Hollywood baby trends on fashionmommies.com.
“And the thing is…” I swallow. “I want to go to Venetia Carter.”
Luke makes an impatient noise. “Becky, not this again. I thought we’d agreed—”
“I’ve got a place with her,” I say in a rush. “I’ve made an appointment. It’s all fixed up.”
“You’ve
what
?” He brakes at a traffic light and turns to face me.
“It’s my body!” I say defensively. “I can see whoever I like!”
“Becky, we are lucky enough to have one of the most respected, renowned obstetricians in the country looking after you, and you’re messing around with some unknown woman.”
“For the millionth time, she’s not unknown!” I exclaim in frustration. “She’s huge in Hollywood! She’s modern and she’s in touch, and she does these amazing water births with lotus flowers….”