Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (96 page)

“I’ll have to go to the hospital.” Suze’s face is pale. “They said to come in if this happened.”

“Well, let’s go! Come on!”

“But I haven’t got my bag, or anything. There’s loads of stuff I need to take . . .” She bites her lip worriedly. “Shall I go home first?”

“You haven’t got time for that!” I say in a panic. “What do you need?”

“Baby clothes . . . nappies . . . stuff like that . . .”

“Well, where do you . . .” I look around helplessly, then, with a sudden surge of relief, spot the sign for Peter Jones.

“OK,” I say, and grab her arm. “Come on.”

As soon as we get into Peter Jones, I look around for an assistant. And thank goodness, here comes one, a nice middle-aged lady with red lipstick and gold spectacles on a chain.

“My friend needs an ambulance,” I gasp.

“A taxi will be fine, honestly,” says Suze. “It’s just that my waters have broken. So I should probably get to the hospital.”

“Goodness!” says the lady. “Come and sit down, dear, and I’ll call a taxi for you . . .”

We sit Suze down on a chair by a checkout desk, and a junior assistant brings her a glass of water.

“Right,” I say. “Tell me what you need.”

“I can’t remember exactly.” Suze looks anxious. “We were given a list . . . Maybe they’ll know in the baby department.”

“Will you be OK if I leave you?”

“I’ll be fine! Contractions haven’t even started.”

“You’re sure?” I glance nervously at her stomach.

“Bex, just go!”

Honestly. Why on earth do they put baby departments so far away from the main entrances of shops? I mean, what’s the point of all these stupid floors of clothes and makeup and bags, which no one’s interested in? After sprinting up and down about six escalators, at last I find it, and come to a standstill, panting slightly.

For a moment I look around, dazed by all the names of things I’ve never heard of.

Reception blanket?

Anticolic teats?

Oh, sod it. I’ll just buy everything. I quickly head for the nearest display and start grabbing things indiscriminately. Sleeping suits, tiny socks, a hat . . . a teddy, a cot blanket . . . what else? A Moses basket . . . nappies . . . little glove puppets in case the baby gets bored . . . a really cute little Christian Dior jacket . . . gosh, I wonder if they do that in grown-up sizes too . . .

I shove the lot onto the checkout desk and whip out my Visa card.

“It’s for my friend,” I explain breathlessly. “She’s just gone into labor. Is this everything she needs?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid, dear,” says the assistant, scanning a baby bath thermometer.

“I’ve got a list here,” says a nearby woman in maternity dungarees and Birkenstocks. “This is what the National Childbirth Trust recommends you take in.”

“Oh, thanks!”

She hands a piece of paper to me and I scan the endless typed list with growing dismay. I thought I’d done so well—but I haven’t got half the stuff they say here. And if I miss anything, it’ll turn out to be completely vital, and Suze’s whole birth experience will be ruined and I’ll never forgive myself.

Loose T-shirt . . . Scented candles . . . Plant sprayer . . .

Is this the right list?

“Plant sprayer?” I say bewilderedly.

“To spray the laboring woman’s face,” explains the woman in dungarees. “Hospital rooms get very hot.”

“You’ll want the home department for that,” puts in the assistant.

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

Tape recorder . . . soothing tapes . . . inflatable ball . . .

“Inflatable ball? Won’t the baby be a bit young to play with a ball?”

“It’s for the mother to lean on,” says the woman kindly. “To alleviate the waves of pain. Alternatively she could use a large bean bag.”

Waves of pain? Oh God. The thought of Suze in pain makes me feel all wobbly inside.

“I’ll get a ball
and
a bean bag,” I say hurriedly. “And maybe some aspirin. Extra-strong.”

At last I stagger back to the ground floor, red in the face and panting. I just hope I’ve got all this right. I couldn’t find an inflatable ball in the whole of the stupid shop—so in the end I grabbed an inflatable canoe instead, and made the man pump it up for me. I’ve got it wedged under one arm now, with a Teletubbies bean bag and a Moses basket stuffed under the other, and about six full carrier bags dangling from my wrists.

I glance at my watch—and to my utter horror I see that I’ve already been twenty-five minutes. I’m half expecting to see Suze sitting on the chair holding a baby in her arms.

But there she is, still on the chair, wincing slightly.

“Bex. There you are! I think my contractions have started.”

“Sorry I took so long,” I gasp. “I just wanted to get everything you might need.” A box of Scrabble falls out of one of the bags onto the ground, and I bend to pick it up. “That’s for when you have an epidural,” I explain.

“The taxi’s here,” interrupts the lady with gold spectacles. “Do you need some help with all that?”

As we make our way out to the chugging taxi, Suze is staring at my load in utter bewilderment.

“Bex . . . why did you buy an inflatable canoe?”

“It’s for you to lie on. Or something.”

“And a watering can?”

“I couldn’t find a plant sprayer.” Breathlessly I start shoving bags into the taxi.

“But why do I need a plant sprayer?”

“Look, it wasn’t my idea, OK?” I say defensively. “Come on, let’s go!”

Somehow we cram everything into the taxi. A canoe paddle falls out as we close the door, but I don’t bother trying to get it. I mean, it’s not like Suze is having a water birth.

“Tarkie’s business manager is trying to reach him,” says Suze as we zoom along the King’s Road. “But even if he gets on a plane straight away, he’s going to miss it.”

“He might not!” I say encouragingly. “You never know!”

“He will.” To my dismay I can hear her voice starting to wobble. “He’ll miss the birth of his first child. After waiting all this time. And doing the classes, and everything. He was really good at panting. The teacher made him do it in front of everyone else, he was so good.”

“Oh, Suze.” I feel like crying. “Maybe you’ll take hours and hours, and he’ll still make it.”

“You’ll stay with me, won’t you?” She suddenly turns in her seat. “You won’t leave me there?”

“Of course not!” I say, appalled. “I’ll stay with you all the time, Suze.” I hold both her hands tight. “We’ll do it together.”

“Do you know anything at all about giving birth?”

“Erm . . . yes,” I lie. “Loads!”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . um . . . you need hot towels . . . and . . .” Suddenly I spot a baby milk carton poking out of one of the bags. “. . . and many babies require a vitamin K injection after the birth.”

Suze stares at me, impressed. “Wow. How did you know that?”

“I just know stuff,” I say, pushing the carton out of sight with my foot. “You see? It’ll be fine!”

OK, I can do this. I can help Suze. I just have to stay cool and calm and not panic.

I mean, millions of people give birth every day, don’t they? It’s probably one of those things that
sounds
really scary but is quite easy when it comes to it. Like a driving test.

“Oh God.” Suze’s face suddenly contorts. “Here it comes again.”

“OK! Hang on!” In a flurry of alarm I scrabble inside one of the plastic bags. “Here you are!”

Suze opens her eyes dazedly as I produce a smart cellophaned box. “Bex—why are you giving me perfume?”

“They said get jasmine oil to help ease the pain,” I say breathlessly. “But I couldn’t find any, so I got Romance by Ralph Lauren instead. It’s got jasmine overtones.” I rip off the packaging and squirt it at her hopefully. “Does that help?”

“Not really,” says Suze. “But it’s a nice smell.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I say, pleased. “And because I spent over thirty quid, I got a free beauty bag with exfoliating body mitt and—”

“St. Christopher’s Hospital,” says the driver suddenly, drawing up in front of a large redbrick building. We both stiffen in alarm and look at each other.

“OK,” I say. “Keep calm, Suze. Don’t panic. Just . . . wait there.”

I open the taxi door, sprint through an entrance marked “Maternity,” and find myself in a reception area with blue upholstered chairs. A couple of women in dressing gowns look up from the magazines they’re reading, but other than that, there are no signs of life.

For God’s sake. Where is everybody?

“My friend’s having a baby!” I yell. “Quick, everyone! Get a stretcher! Get a midwife!”

“Are you all right?” says a woman in white uniform, appearing out of nowhere. “I’m a midwife. What’s the problem?”

“My friend’s in labor! She needs help immediately!”

“Where is she?”

“I’m here,” says Suze, struggling in through the door with three bags under one arm.

“Suze!” I say in horror. “Don’t move. You should be lying down! She needs drugs,” I say to the nurse. “She needs an epidural and general anesthetic and some laughing gas stuff, and . . . basically, whatever you’ve got . . .”

“I’m fine,” says Suze. “Really.”

“OK,” says the midwife. “Let’s just get you settled into a room. Then we can examine you and take a few details . . .”

“I’ll get the rest of the stuff,” I say, and start heading back toward the doors. “Suze, don’t worry, I’ll be back. Go with the midwife and I’ll come and find you . . .”

“Wait,” says Suze urgently, suddenly turning round. “Wait, Bex!”

“What?”

“You never made that call. You never canceled the New York wedding.”

“I’ll make it later,” I say. “Go on. Go with the midwife.”

“Make it now.”

“Now?”
I stare at her.

“If you don’t make it now, you’ll never make it! I know you, Bex.”

“Suze, don’t be stupid! You’re about to have a baby! Let’s get our priorities right, shall we?”

“I’ll have the baby when you’ve made the call!” says Suze obstinately. “Oh!” Her face suddenly twists. “It’s starting again.”

“OK,” says the midwife calmly. “Now, breathe . . . try to relax . . .”

“I can’t relax! Not until she cancels the wedding! Otherwise she’ll just put it off again! I know her!”

“I won’t!”

“You will, Bex! You’ve already dithered for months!”

“Is he a bad sort, then?” says the midwife. “You should listen to your friend,” she adds to me. “She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.”

“Friends can always tell the wrong ’uns,” agrees the woman in the pink dressing gown.

“He’s not a wrong ’un!” I retort indignantly. “Suze, please! Calm down! Go with the nurse! Get some drugs!”

“Make the call,” she replies, her face contorted. “Then I’ll go.” She looks up. “Go on! Make the call!”

“If you want this baby born safely,” says the midwife to me, “I’d make the call.”

“Make the call, love!” chimes in the woman in the pink dressing gown.

“OK! OK!” I scrabble for the mobile phone and punch in the number. “I’m calling. Now go, Suze!”

“Not until I’ve heard you say the words!”

“Breathe
through
the pain . . .”

“Hello!” chirps Robyn in my ear. “Is that wedding bells I hear?”

“There’s no one there,” I say, looking up.

“Then leave a message,” says Suze through gritted teeth.

“Another deep breath now . . .”

“Your call is
so
important to me . . .”

“Go on, Bex!”

“All right! Here goes.” I take a deep breath as the bleep sounds. “Robyn, this is Becky Bloomwood here . . . and I’m canceling the wedding. Repeat, I’m canceling the wedding. I’m very sorry for all the inconvenience this is going to cause. I know what a lot you’ve put into it and I can only guess at how angry Elinor will be . . .” I swallow. “But I’ve made my final decision—and it’s that I want to get married at home in England. If you want to talk to me about this, leave a message at my home and I’ll call you back. Otherwise, I guess this is good-bye. And . . . thanks. It was fun while it lasted.”

I click off the phone and stare at it, silent in my hand.

I’ve done it.

“Well done,” says the midwife to Suze. “That was a tough one!”

“Well done, Bex,” says Suze, pink in the face. She squeezes my hand and gives me a tiny smile. “You’ve done the right thing.” She looks at the midwife. “OK. Let’s go.”

“I’ll just go and . . . get the rest of the stuff,” I say, and walk slowly toward the double doors leading out of the hospital.

As I step out into the fresh air I can’t help giving a little shiver. So that’s it. No more Plaza wedding. No more enchanted forest. No more magical cake. No more fantasy.

I can’t quite believe it’s all gone.

But then . . . if I’m really honest, it only ever was a fantasy, wasn’t it? It never quite felt like real life.

This is real life, right here.

For a few moments I’m silent, letting my thoughts drift, until the sound of an ambulance siren brings me back to the present. Hastily I unload the taxi, pay the driver, then stare at the mound of stuff, wondering how on earth I’m going to get it all inside. And whether I really did need to buy a collapsible playpen.

“Are you Becky Bloomwood?” A voice interrupts my thoughts and I look up, to see a young midwife standing at the door.

“Yes!” I feel a tremor of alarm. “Is Suze all right?”

“She’s fine, but her contractions are intensifying now, and we’re still waiting for the anesthetist to arrive . . . and she’s saying she’d like to try using”—she looks at me puzzledly—“is it . . . a canoe?”

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I can’t even begin to . . . to . . .

It’s seven o’clock in the evening, and I’m completely shattered. I have never seen anything like that in my life. I had no idea it would be so—

That Suze would be so—

It took six hours altogether, which is apparently really quick. Well, all I can say is, I wouldn’t like to be one of the slow ones.

I can’t believe it. Suze has got a baby boy. A tiny, pink, snuffly baby boy. One hour old.

He’s been weighed and measured, and apparently he’s a really healthy size, considering he came early. A nurse has dressed him in the most gorgeous white and blue baby suit and a little white blanket, and now he’s lying in Suze’s arms, all curled up and scrumpled, with tufts of dark hair sticking out over his ears. The baby that Suze and Tarquin made. I almost want to cry . . . except I’m so elated. It’s the weirdest feeling.