reading

THE SECRET DREAMWORLD OF A SHOPAHOLIC (also published as Confessions of a Shopaholic)
Meet Becky – a journalist who spends all her time telling people how to manage money, and all her leisure time spending it. But the letters from her bank manager are getting harder to ignore. Can she ever escape this dream world, find true love . . . and regain the use of her credit card?

SHOPAHOLIC ABROAD
Becky’s life is peachy. Her balance is in the black – well, nearly – and now her boyfriend has asked her to move to New York with him. Can Becky keep the man and the clothes, when there’s so much temptation around every corner?

SHOPAHOLIC TIES THE KNOT
Becky finally has the perfect job, the perfect man and, at last, the perfect wedding. Or rather, weddings . . . How has Becky ended up with not one, but two big days?

SHOPAHOLIC & SISTER
Becky has received some incredible news. She has a long-lost sister! But how will she cope when she realises her sister is not a shopper . . . but a skinflint?

SHOPAHOLIC & BABY
Becky is pregnant! But being Becky, she decides to shop around – for a new, more expensive obstetrician, and unwittingly ends up employing Luke’s ex-girlfriend! How will Becky make it through the longest nine months of her life?

MINI SHOPAHOLIC
Times are hard, so Becky’s Cutting Back. She has the perfect idea: throw a budget-busting birthday party. But her daughter Minnie can turn the simplest event into chaos. Whose turn will it be to sit on the naughty step?

SHOPAHOLIC TO THE STARS
Becky is in Hollywood! And she has her heart set on a new career – she’s going to be a celebrity stylist. With her best friend Suze, she embarks on the Hollywood insider trail. But somehow, things aren’t quite working out as they hoped . . .

SHOPAHOLIC TO THE RESCUE
Becky is on a major rescue mission! On a road trip to Las Vegas to help her friends and family, she comes up with her biggest, boldest, most brilliant plan yet! So can she save the day just when they need her most?

OTHER BOOKS

Sophie Kinsella’s hilarious, heart-warming standalone novels

CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?
Certain she’s going to die in a plane crash, Emma blurts out her deepest, darkest secrets to the sexy stranger next to her. But it’s OK, because she’ll never have to see him again . . . will she?

THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS
Samantha works all hours, has no home life and thrives on adrenalin. Then one day it all falls apart. She finds herself a new life as housekeeper in a country house. Will her old life ever catch up with her? And if it does, will she want it back?

REMEMBER ME?
What if you woke up and your life was perfect? Somehow Lexi’s life has fast-forwarded three years, and she has everything she’s ever wanted – the job, the house, the man. Or does she? What went on in those missing years, and can she cope when she finds out the truth?

TWENTIES GIRL
Lara has always had an overactive imagination. But even she finds it hard to believe when the ghost of her great aunt Sadie shows up, asking for her help. Is Lara losing her mind? Or could two girls from different times end up helping each other?

I’VE GOT YOUR NUMBER
First Poppy loses her engagement ring – a priceless heirloom – and then she misplaces her phone. The only alternative seems to be to take a mobile she finds in a bin. Little knowing that she’s picked up another man in the process . . .

WEDDING NIGHT
Lottie is determined to get married. And Ben seems perfect – they have history, he’s gorgeous and he’s willing to do it now. They’ll iron out their little differences later. All that’s left to do is seal the deal. But their families have different plans . . .

AVAILABLE AS A DIGITAL SHORT ONLY

SIX GEESE A-LAYING
Christmas is approaching, and Ginny is looking forward to the birth of her first baby. It’s a pity her partner Dan is so useless, and she has to keep reminding him where he’s going wrong. She’s enrolled into the most exclusive antenatal class going – and like the other five women in the class, Ginny already knows exactly how she’s going to handle motherhood. Or does she?

ONE

OK. Don’t panic. Everything’s going to be fine. Of course it is.

Of course it is.

‘If you could lift up your top, Mrs Brandon?’ The sonographer has a pleasant, professional air as she looks down at me. ‘I need to apply some jelly to your abdomen before we start the scan.’

‘Absolutely!’ I say without moving a muscle. ‘The thing is, I’m just a teeny bit . . . nervous.’

I’m lying on a bed at the Chelsea and Westminster hospital, tensed up with anticipation. Any minute now, Luke and I will see our baby on the screen for the first time since it was just a teeny blob. I still can’t quite believe it. In fact, I still haven’t quite got over the fact that I’m pregnant. In nineteen weeks’ time, I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood . . . am going to be a mother. A mother!

Luke’s my husband, by the way. We’ve been married for just over a year and this is a one hundred per cent genuine, honeymoon baby! We travelled loads on our honeymoon, but I’ve pretty much worked out that the baby was conceived when we were staying in this gorgeous resort in Sri Lanka called Unawatuna, all orchids and bamboo trees and beautiful views.

Unawatuna Brandon.

Miss Unawatuna Orchid Bamboo-tree Brandon.

Hmm. I’m not sure what Mum would say.

‘My wife had a slight accident in the early stages of pregnancy,’ Luke explains from his seat beside the bed. ‘So she’s a little anxious.’

He squeezes my hand supportively, and I squeeze back. In my pregnancy book, Nine Months of Your Life, it says you should include your partner in all aspects of your pregnancy, otherwise he can feel hurt and alienated. So I’m including Luke as much as I possibly can. Like, last night I included him in watching my new DVD, Toned Arms in Pregnancy. He suddenly remembered he had to make a business call in the middle, and missed quite a lot – but the point is, he doesn’t feel shut out.

‘You had an accident?’ The sonographer has paused in her tapping at the computer.

‘I fell off this mountain when I was looking for my long-lost sister in a storm,’ I explain. ‘I didn’t know I was pregnant at the time. And I think maybe I bashed the baby.’

‘I see.’ The sonographer looks at me kindly. She has greying-brown hair tied back in a knot, with a pencil stuck into it. ‘Well. Babies are resilient little things. Let’s just have a look, shall we?’

Here it is. The moment I’ve been obsessing over for weeks. Gingerly I lift up my top and look down at my swelling stomach.

‘If you could just push all your necklaces aside?’ she adds. ‘That’s quite a collection you have there!’

‘They’re special pendants.’ I loop them together with a jangle. ‘This one is an Aztec maternity symbol, and this is a gestation crystal . . . and this is a chiming ball to soothe the baby . . . and this is a birthing stone.’

‘A birthing stone?’

‘You press it on a special spot on your palm, and it takes away the pain of labour,’ I explain. ‘It’s been used since ancient Maori times.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ The sonographer raises an eyebrow and squeezes some transparent gloop on my stomach. Frowning slightly, she applies the ultrasound probe thing to my skin, and instantly a fuzzy black and white image appears on the screen.

I can’t breathe.

That’s our baby. Inside me. I dart a look at Luke, and he’s gazing at the screen, transfixed.

‘There are the four chambers of the heart . . .’ The sonographer is moving the probe around. ‘Now we’re looking at the shoulders . . .’ She points to the screen and I squint obediently, even though to be honest I can’t see any shoulders, only blurry curves.

‘There’s an arm . . . one hand . . .’ Her voice tails off and she frowns.

There’s silence in the little room. I feel a sudden grip of fear. That’s why she’s frowning. The baby’s only got one hand. I knew it.

A wave of overpowering love and protectiveness rises up inside me. Tears are welling in my eyes. I don’t care if our baby’s only got one hand. I’ll love it just as much. I’ll love it more. Luke and I will take it anywhere in the world for the best treatment, and we’ll fund research, and if anyone even dares give my baby a look—

‘. . . and the other hand.’ The sonographer’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

‘Other hand?’ I look up, choked. ‘It’s got two hands?’

‘Well . . . yes.’ The sonographer seems taken aback at my reaction. ‘Look, you can see them here.’ She points at the image and to my amazement I can just about make out the little bony fingers. Ten of them.

‘I’m sorry,’ I gulp, wiping my eyes with a tissue she hands me. ‘It’s just such a relief.’

‘Everything seems absolutely fine as far as I can tell,’ she says reassuringly. ‘And don’t worry, it’s normal to be emotional in pregnancy. All those hormones swilling about.’

Honestly. People keep talking about hormones. Like Luke last night, when I cried over that TV ad with the puppy. I’m not hormonal, I’m perfectly normal. It was just a very sad ad.

‘Here you go.’ The sonographer taps at her keyboard again. A row of black and white scan pictures curls out of the printer and she hands it to me. I peer at the first one – and you can see the distinct outline of a head. It’s got a little nose and a mouth and everything.

‘So – I’ve done all the checks.’ She swivels round on her chair. ‘All I need to know now is whether you want to know the gender of the baby?’

‘No thank you,’ Luke answers with a smile. ‘We’ve talked it through at great length, haven’t we, Becky? And we both feel it would spoil the magic to find out.’

‘Very well.’ The sonographer smiles back. ‘If that’s what you’ve decided, I won’t say anything.’

She ‘won’t say anything’? That means she’s already seen what the sex is. She could just tell us right now!

‘We hadn’t actually decided, had we?’ I say. ‘Not for definite.’

‘Well . . . yes we had, Becky.’ Luke seems taken aback. ‘Don’t you remember? We talked about it for a whole evening and agreed we wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘Oh, right. Yes.’ I can’t take my eyes off the blurry print of the baby. ‘But we could have our surprise now! It would be just as magical!’

OK, maybe that’s not exactly true. But isn’t he desperate to know?

‘Is that really what you want?’ As I look up I can see a streak of disappointment in Luke’s face. ‘To find out now?’

‘Well . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’

The last thing I want is to upset Luke. He’s been so sweet and loving to me since I’ve been pregnant. Recently I’ve had cravings for all sorts of odd combinations – like the other day I had this sudden weird desire for pineapple and a pink cardigan. And Luke drove me to the shops especially to get them.

He’s about to say something when his mobile phone starts ringing. He whips it out of his pocket, but the sonographer puts up a hand.

‘I’m sorry, but you can’t use that in here.’

‘Right.’ Luke frowns as he sees the caller display. ‘It’s Iain. I’d better call him back.’

I don’t need to ask which Iain. It’ll be Iain Wheeler, the chief marketing honcho of the Arcodas Group. Luke has his own PR company, Brandon Communications, and Arcodas is Luke’s big new client. It was a real coup when he won them and has given a fantastic boost to the company – he’s already hired a load more staff and is planning to open loads of new European offices on the back of it.

So it’s all wonderful for Brandon Communications. But as usual, Luke’s working himself into the ground. I’ve never seen him so at anyone’s beck and call before. If Iain Wheeler calls, he always, always calls him back within five minutes, whether he’s in another meeting or he’s having supper, or even in the middle of the night. He says it’s the service industry and Arcodas is his mega client, and that’s what they’re paying for.

All I can say is, if Iain Wheeler calls while I’m in labour, then that phone is going straight out the window.

‘Is there a landline I can use near by?’ Luke is asking the sonographer. ‘Becky, you don’t mind . . .’

‘It’s fine.’ I wave a hand.

‘I’ll show you,’ the sonographer says, getting up. ‘I’ll be back in a moment, Mrs Brandon.’

The two of them disappear out of the door, which closes with a heavy clunk.

I’m alone. The computer is still on. The ultrasound probe thing is resting next to the monitor.

I could just reach over and—

No. Don’t be silly. I don’t even know how to use an ultrasound. And besides, it would spoil the magical surprise. If Luke wants us to wait, then we’ll wait.

I shift on the couch and examine my nails. I can wait for things. Of course I can. I can easily—

Oh God. No I can’t. Not till December. And it’s all right there in front of me . . . and nobody’s about . . . I’ll just have a teeny peek. Just really quickly. And I won’t tell Luke. We’ll still have the magical surprise at the birth – except it won’t be quite so much of a surprise for me. Exactly.

Leaning right over, I manage to grab the ultrasound stick. I apply it to the gel on my stomach – and at once the blurry image reappears on the screen.

I did it! Now I just have to shift it slightly to get the crucial bit . . . Frowning with concentration, I move the probe around on my abdomen, tilting it this way and that, craning my head to see the screen. This is a lot easier than I thought! Maybe I should become a sonographer. I’m obviously a bit of a natural.

There’s the head. Wow, it’s huge! And that bit must be—

My hand freezes and I catch my breath. I’ve just spotted it. I’ve seen the sex of our baby!

It’s a boy!

The image isn’t quite as good as the sonographer’s – but even so, it’s unmistakable. Luke and I are going to have a son!

‘Hello,’ I say aloud to the screen, my voice cracking slightly. ‘Hello, little boy!’

And now I can’t stop the tears rolling down my cheeks. We’re having a gorgeous baby boy! I can dress him up in cute dungarees, and buy him a pedal car, and Luke can play cricket with him, and we can call him—

Oh my God. What are we going to call him?

I wonder if Luke would go for Birkin. Then I could get a Birkin to be his nappy bag.

Birkin Brandon. That’s quite cool.

‘Hi, little baby,’ I croon gently to the big round head-image on the screen. ‘Do you want to be called Birkin?’

‘What are you doing?’ The sonographer’s voice makes me jump. She’s standing at the door with Luke, looking appalled. ‘That’s hospital equipment! You shouldn’t be touching it!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, wiping my eyes. ‘But I just had to have another quick look. Luke, I’m talking to our baby. It’s just . . . amazing.’

‘Let me see!’ Luke’s eyes light up, and he hurries across the room, followed by the sonographer. ‘Where?’

I don’t care if Luke sees it’s a boy and the surprise is ruined. I have to share this precious moment with him.

‘Look, there’s the head!’ I point. ‘Hello, darling!’

‘Where’s its face?’ Luke sounds a bit perturbed.

‘Dunno. Round the other side.’ I give a little wave. ‘It’s Mummy and Daddy here! And we love you very, very—’

‘Mrs Brandon.’ The sonographer cuts me off. ‘You’re talking to your bladder.’

Well, how was I supposed to know it was my bladder? It looked just like a baby.

As we walk into the consultant obstetrician’s room, I’m still feeling rather hot about the cheeks. The sonographer gave me this huge great lecture about how I could have done damage to myself, or broken the machine, and we only managed to get away when Luke promised a big donation to the scanner appeal.

And she said since I hadn’t been anywhere near the baby, it was very unlikely I’d seen the sex. Hmph.

But as I sit down opposite Mr Braine, our obstetrician, I feel myself starting to cheer up. He’s such a reassuring man, Mr Braine. He’s in his sixties, with greying, well-groomed hair and a pinstripe suit, and a faint aroma of old-fashioned aftershave. And he’s delivered thousands of babies, including Luke! To be honest, I can’t really imagine Luke’s mother Elinor giving birth, but I guess it must have happened somehow. And as soon as we found out I was pregnant, Luke said we had to find out if Mr Braine was still practising because he was the best in the country.

‘Dear boy.’ He shakes Luke’s hand warmly. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well indeed.’ Luke sits down beside me. ‘And how’s David?’

Luke went to school with Mr Braine’s son and always asks after him when we meet.

There’s silence as Mr Braine considers the question. This is the only thing I find a tad annoying about him. He mulls over everything you say as though it’s of the greatest importance, whereas actually you were just making some random remark to keep the conversation going. At our last appointment I asked where he’d bought his tie, and he thought about it for about five minutes, then phoned up his wife to check, and it was all a total saga. And I didn’t even like the stupid tie.

‘David’s very well,’ he says at last, nodding. ‘He sends his regards.’ There’s another pause as he peruses the sheet from the sonographer. ‘Very good,’ he says eventually. ‘Everything’s in order. How are you feeling, Rebecca?’

‘Oh, I’m fine!’ I say. ‘Happy that the baby’s all right.’

‘You’re still working full-time, I see.’ Mr Braine glances at my form. ‘And that’s not too demanding for you?’

Beside me, Luke gives a muffled snort. He’s so rude.

‘It’s . . .’ I try to think how to put it. ‘My job’s not that demanding.’

‘Becky works for The Look,’ explains Luke. ‘You know, the new department store on Oxford Street?’

‘Aah.’ Mr Braine’s expression drops. ‘I see.’

Every time I tell people what I do, they look away in embarrassment or change the subject or pretend they’ve never heard of The Look. Which is impossible, because all the newspapers have been talking about it for weeks. Yesterday the Daily World called it the ‘biggest retail disaster in British history’.

The only plus about working for a failure of a shop is that it means I can take as much time off as I like for doctors’ appointments and antenatal classes. And if I don’t hurry back, no one even notices.

‘I’m sure things will turn around soon,’ he says encouragingly. ‘Now, did you have any other questions?’

I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, I did have one question, Mr Braine.’ I hesitate. ‘Now that the scan results are OK, would you say it’s safe to . . . you know . . .’

‘Absolutely.’ Mr Braine nods understandingly. ‘A lot of couples abstain from intercourse in early pregnancy—’

‘I didn’t mean sex!’ I say in surprise. ‘I meant shopping.’

‘Shopping?’ Mr Braine seems taken aback.

‘I haven’t bought anything for the baby yet,’ I explain. ‘I didn’t want to jinx it. But if everything looks OK, then I can start this afternoon!’

I can’t help sounding excited. I’ve been waiting and waiting to start shopping for the baby. And I’ve just read about this fabulous new baby shop on the King’s Road, called Bambino. I actually took a bona fide afternoon off, especially to go!

I feel Luke’s gaze on me and turn to see him regarding me with incredulity.

‘Sweetheart, what do you mean, “start”?’ he says.

‘I haven’t bought anything for the baby yet!’ I say defensively. ‘You know I haven’t.’

‘So . . . you haven’t bought a miniature Ralph Lauren dressing-gown?’ Luke counts off on his fingers. ‘Or a rocking horse? Or a pink fairy outfit with wings?’

‘Those are for it to have when it’s a toddler,’ I retort with dignity. ‘I haven’t bought anything for the baby.’

Honestly. Luke’s not going to be a very good dad if he doesn’t know the difference.

‘And what do we do if it’s a boy?’ Luke enquires. ‘Are you going to put him in a pink fairy outfit?’

I was planning to wear it myself, actually. In fact I’ve already tried it on and it’s pretty stretchy! Not that I’ll admit this to Luke.

‘You know, I’m surprised at you, Luke.’ I lift my chin. ‘I didn’t think you were prejudiced.’

Mr Braine is following our conversation, looking perplexed.

‘I take it you don’t wish to know the sex of the baby?’ he puts in.

‘No, thanks,’ says Luke, sounding determined. ‘We want to keep it a surprise, don’t we, Becky?’

‘Um . . . yes.’ I clear my throat. ‘Unless maybe you think, Mr Braine, that we should know for very good, unavoidable medical reasons?’

I look hard at Mr Braine, but he doesn’t get the message.

‘Not at all,’ he beams.

Drat.

It’s another twenty minutes before we leave the room, about three of which are Mr Braine examining me, and the rest is him and Luke reminiscing about some school cricket match. I’m trying to be polite and listen – but I can’t help fidgeting with impatience. I want to get to Bambino!

At last the appointment’s over and we’re walking out on to the busy London street. A woman walks past with an old-fashioned Silver Cross pram, and I discreetly eye it up. I definitely want a pram like that, with gorgeous bouncy wheels. Except I’ll have it customized hot pink. It’ll be so fab. People will call me the Girl with the Hot-Pink Pram. Except if it’s a boy, I’ll have it sprayed baby blue. No . . . aquamarine. And everyone will say—

‘I spoke to Giles from the estate agent’s this morning.’ Luke interrupts my thoughts.

‘Really?’ I look up in excitement. ‘Did he have anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh.’ I deflate.

At the moment we live in this amazing penthouse flat which Luke has had for years. It’s stunning, but it doesn’t have a garden, and there’s lots of immaculate beige carpet everywhere and it’s not exactly a baby type of place. So a few weeks ago we put it on the market and started looking for a nice family house.

The trouble is, the flat was snapped up immediately. Which – I don’t want to boast or anything – but it was totally due to my brilliant styling. I put candles everywhere, and a bottle of champagne on ice in the bathroom, and loads of ‘lifestyle’ touches like opera programmes and invitations to glittering society events (which I borrowed from my posh friend Suze). And this couple called the Karlssons put in an offer on the spot! And they can pay in cash!

Which is great – except where are we going to live? We haven’t seen a single house we like and now the estate agent keeps saying the market’s very ‘dry’ and ‘poor’ and have we thought of renting?

I don’t want to rent. I want to have a lovely new house to bring the baby home to.

‘What if we don’t find a place?’ I look up at Luke. ‘What if we’re cast out on the streets? It’s going to be winter! I’ll be heavily pregnant!’

I have a sudden image of myself trudging up Oxford Street while a choir sings ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’.

‘Darling, we won’t be cast out on the streets! But Giles said we may need to be more flexible in our requirements.’ Luke pauses. ‘I think he meant your requirements, Becky.’

That is so unfair! When they sent over the Property Search Form, it said, ‘Please be as specific as possible in your wishes.’ So I was. And now they’re complaining!

‘We can forget the Shoe Room, apparently,’ he adds.

‘But—’ I stop when I see his expression. I once saw a Shoe Room on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and I’ve been hankering after one ever since. ‘OK then,’ I say tamely.

‘And we might need to be more flexible on area.’

‘I don’t mind that!’ I say, as Luke’s mobile starts ringing. ‘In fact, I think it’s a good idea.’

It’s Luke who’s always been so keen on Maida Vale, not me. There are loads of places I’d like to live.

‘Luke Brandon here,’ Luke’s saying in his businesslike way. ‘Oh, hi there. Yes, we’ve had the scan. Everything looks good.

‘It’s Jess,’ he adds to me. ‘She tried you but your phone’s still switched off.’

‘Jess!’ I say, delighted. ‘Let me talk to her!’

Jess is my sister. My sister. It still gives me such a kick to say that. All my life, I thought I was an only child – and then I discovered I had a long-lost half-sister! We didn’t exactly get on to begin with, but ever since we got trapped in a storm together, and properly talked, we’ve been real friends.

I haven’t seen her for a couple of months because she’s been away in Guatemala on some geology research project. But we’ve called and emailed each other, and she’s texted me pictures of herself on top of some cliff. (Wearing a hideous blue anorak instead of the cool faux-fur jacket I got her. Honestly.)

‘I’m going back to the office now,’ Luke is saying into the phone. ‘And Becky’s off shopping. Do you want a word?’

‘Shh!’ I hiss in horror. He knows he’s not supposed to mention the word ‘shopping’ to Jess.

Making a face at him, I take the phone and put it to my ear. ‘Hi Jess! How’s it going?’

‘It’s great!’ She sounds all distant and crackly. ‘I was just calling to hear how the scan went.’

I can’t help feeling touched at her remembering. She’s probably hanging by a rope off some crevasse somewhere, chipping away at the rock face, but she still took the trouble to call.

‘Everything looks fine!’

‘Yes, Luke said. Thank goodness for that.’ I can hear the relief in Jess’s voice. I know she feels guilty about me falling off the mountain, because I’d gone up there looking for her, because—

Anyway, it’s a long story. The point is, the baby’s OK.

‘So Luke says you’re going shopping?’

‘Just some essentials for the baby,’ I say casually. ‘Some . . . er . . . recycled nappies. From the thrift shop.’ I can see Luke laughing at me, and hastily turn away.

The thing about my sister Jess is, she doesn’t like shopping or spending money or ruining the earth with evil consumerism. And she thinks I don’t either. She thinks I’ve followed her lead and embraced frugality.

I did embrace it for about a week. I ordered a big sack of oats, and I bought some clothes from Oxfam and I made lentil soup. But the trouble with being frugal is, it gets so boring. You get sick of soup, and not buying magazines because they’re a waste of money, and sticking bits of soap together to make one big revolting lump. And the oats were getting in the way of Luke’s golf clubs, so in the end I chucked them out and bought some Weetabix instead.

Only I can’t tell Jess, because it’ll ruin our lovely sisterly bond.

‘Did you see the article about making your own baby wipes?’ she’s saying with enthusiasm. ‘It should be pretty easy. I’ve started saving rags for you. We could do it together.’

‘Oh. Um . . . yes!’

Jess keeps sending me issues of a magazine called Frugal Baby. It has cover lines like ‘Kit Out Your Nursery for £25!’ and pictures of babies dressed in old flour sacks, and it makes me feel depressed just looking at it. I don’t want to put the baby to bed in a three-pound plastic laundry basket. I want to buy a cute little cradle with white frills.

Now she’s going on about something called ‘sustainable hemp babygros’. I think I might end this conversation.

‘I’d better go, Jess,’ I cut in. ‘Will you make it to Mum’s party?’

My mum’s having a sixtieth birthday party next week. Loads of people are invited, and there’s going to be a band, and Martin from next door is going to do conjuring tricks!

‘Of course!’ says Jess. ‘Wouldn’t miss it! See you then.’

‘Bye!’

I switch off the phone and turn to see that Luke has managed to hail a taxi. ‘Shall I drop you off at the thrift shop?’ he enquires, opening the door.

Oh, ha ha.

‘Bambino on the King’s Road, please,’ I say to the driver.

‘Hey, do you want to come, Luke?’ I add in sudden enthusiasm. ‘We could look at cool prams and everything and then have tea somewhere nice . . .’

I already know from Luke’s expression that he’s going to say no.

‘Sweetheart, I need to get back. Meeting with Iain. I’ll come another time, I promise.’

There’s no point being disappointed. I know Luke’s working full-out on the Arcodas account. At least he made time for the scan. The taxi moves off and Luke puts his arm round me.

‘You look glowing,’ he says.

‘Really?’ I beam back at him. I have to say, I do feel pretty good today. I’m wearing my fab new maternity Earl jeans, and high wedge espadrilles, and a sexy halter-neck top from Isabella Oliver, which I’ve ruched up to show just a teeny hint of tanned bump.

I never realized it before – but being pregnant rocks! OK, your tummy gets big – but it’s supposed to be. And your legs look thinner in comparison. And you get this brilliant cleavage all of a sudden. (Which, I have to say, Luke is quite keen on.)

‘Let’s have another look at those scan pictures,’ he says.

I delve in my handbag for the shiny roll of images, and for a while we just gaze at them together: at the rounded head; at the profile of a little face.

‘We’re starting off a whole new person,’ I murmur, my eyes riveted. ‘Can you believe it?’

‘I know.’ Luke’s arm tightens around me. ‘It’s the biggest adventure we’ll ever go on.’

‘It’s amazing how Nature works.’ I bite my lip, feeling the emotions rise again. ‘All these maternal instincts have kicked in. I just feel like . . . I want to give our baby everything!’

‘Bambino,’ says the taxi-driver, pulling over to the pavement. I look up from the scan pictures to see the most fantastic, brand-new shop facade. The paintwork is cream, the canopy is red stripes, the doorman is dressed up as a toy soldier and the windows are like a treasure trove for children. There are beautiful little baby clothes on mannequins, a child’s bed shaped like a fifties Cadillac, a real little Ferris wheel going round and round . . .

‘Wow!’ I breathe, reaching for the taxi door-handle. ‘I wonder if that Ferris wheel is for sale! Bye, Luke, see you later . . .’

I’m already halfway towards the entrance when I hear Luke calling out, ‘Wait!’ I turn back to see a look of slight alarm on his face. ‘Becky.’ He leans out of the taxi. ‘The baby doesn’t have to have everything.’

TWO

How on earth did I hold off baby shopping for so long?

I’ve reached the Bambino baby department on the first floor. It’s softly carpeted, with nursery rhymes playing over the sound system and huge plushy animals decorating the entrance. An assistant dressed as Peter Rabbit has given me a white wicker basket, and as I look around, clutching it, I can feel the lust rising.

They say motherhood changes you – and they’re right. For once in my life I’m not thinking about myself. I’m being totally selfless! All this is for my unborn child’s welfare.

In one direction are banks of gorgeous cradles and rotating tinkly mobiles. In the other I can glimpse the alluring chrome glint of prams. Ahead of me are displays of teeny weeny outfits. I take a step forward, towards the clothes. Just look at those adorable bunny slippers. And the tiny cowhide padded jackets . . . and there’s a massive section of Baby Dior . . . and, oh my God, junior Dolce . . .

OK. Calm down. Let’s be organized. What I need is a list.

I pull Nine Months of Your Life from my bag. I turn to chapter eight, ‘Shopping for Your Baby’, and eagerly start scanning the page.

Clothes

Do not be tempted to buy too many tiny baby clothes. White is recommended for ease of washing. Three plain babygros and six vests will suffice.

I look at the words for a moment. The thing is, it’s never a good idea to follow a book too closely. It even said in the introduction, ‘You will not want to take every piece of advice. Every baby is different and you must be guided by your instincts.’

My instincts are telling me to get a cowhide jacket.

I hurry over to the display and look through the size labels: ‘Newborn baby’, ‘Small baby’. How do I know if I’m going to have a small baby or not? Experimentally I prod my bump. It feels quite small so far, but who can tell? Maybe I should buy both, to be on the safe side.

‘It’s the Baby in Urbe snowsuit!’ A manicured hand appears on the rack in front of me and grabs a white quilted suit on a chic black hanger. ‘I’ve been dying to find one of these.’

‘Me too!’ I say instinctively and grab the last remaining one.

‘You know in Harrods the waiting list for these is six months?’ The owner of the hand is a hugely pregnant blonde girl, in jeans and a stretchy turquoise wrap top. ‘Oh my God, they have the whole Baby in Urbe range.’ She starts piling baby clothes into her white wicker basket.‘And look! They’ve got Piglet shoes. I must get some for my daughters.’

I’ve never even heard of Baby in Urbe. Or Piglet shoes.

How can I be so uncool? How can I have not heard of any of the labels? As I survey the tiny garments before me, I feel a slight panic. I don’t know what’s in or what’s out. I have no idea about baby fashion. And I’ve only got about four months to get up to speed.

I could always ask Suze. She’s my oldest, best friend, and has three children, Ernest, Wilfrid and Clementine. But it’s a bit different with her. Most of her baby clothes are hand-embroidered smocks handed down through the generations and darned by her mother’s old retainer, and the babies sleep in antique oak cots from the family stately home.

I grab a couple of pairs of Piglet shoes, several Baby in Urbe rompers and a pair of Jellie Wellies, just to be on the safe side. Then I spot the sweetest little pink baby dress. It has rainbow buttons and matching knickers and little tiny socks. It’s absolutely gorgeous. But what if we’re having a boy?

This is impossible, not knowing the sex. There must be some way I can secretly find out.

‘How many children do you have?’ says the turquoise-wrap girl chattily as she squints inside shoes for sizes.

‘This is my first.’ I gesture to my bump.

‘How lovely! Just like my friend Saskia.’ She gestures at a dark-haired girl who’s standing a few feet away. She’s whippet thin, with no sign of pregnancy, and is talking intently into a mobile phone. ‘She’s only just found out. So exciting!’

At that moment, Saskia snaps shut her phone and comes towards us, her face glowing.

‘I got in!’ she says. ‘I’m having Venetia Carter!’

‘Oh, Saskia! That’s fantastic!’ The turquoise-wrap girl drops her basket of clothes right on my foot, and throws her arms around Saskia. ‘Sorry about that!’ she adds gaily to me as I hand the basket back. ‘But isn’t that great news? Venetia Carter!’

‘Are you with Venetia Carter too?’ Saskia asks me, with sudden interest.

I am so out of the baby loop, I have no idea who or what Venetia Carter is.

‘I haven’t heard of her,’ I admit.

‘You know.’ Turquoise-wrap girl opens her eyes wide. ‘The obstetrician! The must-have celebrity obstetrician!’

Must-have celebrity obstetrician?

My skin starts to prickle. There’s a must-have celebrity obstetrician and I don’t know about it?

‘The one from Hollywood!’ elaborates turquoise-wrap girl. ‘She delivers all the film stars’ babies. You must have heard of her. And now she’s moved to London. All the supermodels are going to her. She holds tea parties for her clients, isn’t that fab? They all bring their babies and get these fabulous goodie bags . . .’

My heart is thumping as I listen. Goodie bags? Parties with supermodels? I cannot believe I’m missing out on all this. Why haven’t I heard of Venetia Carter?

It’s all Luke’s fault. He made us go straight for stuffy old Mr Braine. We never even considered anyone else.

‘And is she good at, you know, delivering babies?’ I ask, trying to keep calm.

‘Oh, Venetia’s wonderful,’ says Saskia, who seems far more intense than her friend. ‘She’s not like these old-fashioned doctors. She really connects with you. My boss Amanda had the most fabulous holistic water birth with lotus flowers and Thai massage.’

Thai massage? Mr Braine’s never even mentioned Thai massage.

‘My husband won’t pay for her,’ pouts turquoise-wrap girl. ‘He’s a meanie. Saskia, you’re so lucky.’

‘How do you get a place with her?’ The words come spilling out before I can stop them. ‘Do you have the address? Or the phone number?’

‘Ooh.’ Turquoise-wrap girl exchanges doubtful glances with Saskia. ‘You’re probably too late now. She’ll be booked up.’

‘I can give you this. You could try ringing.’ Saskia reaches into her Mulberry bag and produces a brochure with ‘Venetia Carter’ in raised elegant navy-blue script and a line-drawing of a baby. I open it up and the first thing I see is a page of glowing testimonials, with discreet names underneath. All famous! I turn to the back and there’s an address in Maida Vale.

I don’t believe it. Maida Vale is where we live. Oh, this is totally meant!

‘Thanks,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I will.’

As Saskia and her friend move away, I whip out my mobile phone and speed-dial Luke.

‘Luke!’ I exclaim as soon as he answers. ‘Thank God you answered! Guess what?’

‘Becky, are you OK?’ he asks in alarm. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I’m fine! But listen, we have to change doctor! I’ve just found out about this brilliant celebrity obstetrician called Venetia Carter. Everyone goes to her and she’s amazing, apparently, and she practises near us! It couldn’t be more perfect! I’m about to call her!’

‘Becky, what on earth are you talking about?’ Luke sounds incredulous. ‘We’re not changing doctor! We have a doctor, remember. A very good one.’

Wasn’t he listening?

‘I know we do,’ I say. ‘But Venetia Carter delivers all the film stars! She’s holistic!’

‘What do you mean, “holistic”?’ Luke sounds unimpressed. God, he has such a closed mind.

‘I mean everyone has a fabulous birth! She does Thai massage! I just met these two girls in Bambino, and they said—’

‘I really can’t see what advantages this woman could have over Mr Braine.’ Luke cuts me off. ‘We know he’s experienced, we know he does a good job, he’s a friend of the family . . .’

‘But . . . but . . .’ I’m hopping with frustration.

‘But what?’

I’m stumped. I can’t say ‘But he doesn’t have tea parties with supermodels.’

‘Maybe I want to be treated by a woman!’ I exclaim in sudden inspiration. ‘Had you thought of that?’

‘Then we’ll ask Mr Braine to recommend a colleague,’ Luke replies firmly. ‘Becky, Mr Braine has been the family obstetrician for years. I really don’t think we should run off to some unknown trendy doctor on the say-so of a couple of girls.’

‘But she’s not unknown! That’s the whole point! She treats celebrities!’

‘Becky, just stop.’ Luke sounds suddenly forceful. ‘This is a bad idea. You’re already halfway through your pregnancy. You’re not changing doctor, end of story. Iain’s here. I have to go. I’ll see you later.’

The phone goes dead and I stare at it, livid.

How dare he tell me which doctor I’m going to? And what’s so great about his precious Mr Braine? I stuff my mobile and the brochure back in my bag and start furiously filling my basket with Petit Lapin baby suits.

Luke doesn’t understand anything. If all the movie stars go to her then she has to be good.

And it would be so cool. So cool.

I have a sudden vision of myself lying in hospital, cradling my new baby, with Kate Winslet in the next bed. And Heidi Klum in the bed beyond that. We’d all become friends! We’d buy each other little presents, and all our babies would be bonded for life, and we’d go to the park together and be photographed by Hello! magazine. ‘Kate Winslet pushes her pram, chatting with a friend.’

Maybe ‘with her best friend Becky’.

‘Excuse me, do you need another basket?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see a sales guy gesturing to my overflowing pile of baby clothes. I’ve just been stuffing them into the basket without really noticing.

‘Oh, thanks,’ I say in a daze. I take the second wicker basket from him and wander over to a display of tiny hats saying ‘Little Star’ and ‘Little Treasure’. But I can’t concentrate.

I want to go to Venetia Carter. I don’t care what Luke thinks.

In sudden defiance I pull out my mobile again, and reach for the brochure. I move to a quiet corner of the shop and carefully punch in the number.

‘Good afternoon, Venetia Carter’s office,’ a very posh woman’s voice answers.

‘Oh, hello!’ I say, trying to sound as charming as I can. ‘I’m having a baby in December, and I’ve heard how wonderful Venetia Carter is, and I just wondered if there was any possible chance of me arranging an appointment with her, possibly?’

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says in firm but polite tones. ‘Miss Carter is fully booked for the present.’

‘But I’m really desperate! And I really think I need a holistic water birth. And I live in Maida Vale, and I’d be willing to pay over the odds.’

‘Miss Carter is absolutely—’

‘I’d just like to add that I’m a personal shopper, and I’d be pleased to offer Miss Carter my complimentary services.’ The words come tumbling out. ‘And my husband has a PR company and he could do some free PR for her! Not that she probably needs it, of course,’ I add hastily. ‘But if you could just ask her? Please?’

There’s silence.

‘Your name is?’ says the woman at last.

‘Rebecca Brandon,’ I say eagerly. ‘And my husband is Luke Brandon of Brandon Communications, and—’

‘Hold on please, Mrs Brandon. Venetia—’ Her conversation is cut off by a brisk rendition of The Four Seasons.

Please let her say yes. Please let her say yes . . .

I can hardly breathe as I wait. I’m standing next to a display of white knitted rabbits, crossing my fingers as hard as I can, clutching all my pendants for good measure, and sending silent prayers to the goddess Vishnu, who has been very helpful to me in the past.

‘Mrs Brandon?’

‘Hello!’ I drop all my pendants. ‘I’m here!’

‘It’s likely that Miss Carter will have an unexpected vacancy on her books. We’ll be able to let you know within the next few days.’

‘OK,’ I gasp. ‘Thanks very much!’

REGAL AIRLINES

Head Office

Preston House

354 KINGSWAY • LONDON WC2 4TH

Mrs Rebecca Brandon

37 Maida Vale Mansions

Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

Dear Mrs Brandon

Thank you for your letter, and the enclosed flight itineraries, doctor’s note and scan pictures.

I agree that your unborn child has taken many flights with Regal Airlines. Unfortunately it does not qualify for air miles, since it did not buy a ticket for any of these flights.

I am sorry to disappoint and hope you choose Regal Airlines again soon.

Yours sincerely

Margaret McNair

Customer Service Manager

THREE

I haven’t mentioned anything more about Venetia Carter to Luke.

For a start, it’s not definite yet. And for another start, if marriage has taught me one thing, it’s don’t bring up tricky subjects when your husband is stressed out launching offices simultaneously in Amsterdam and Munich. He’s been away all week, and only arrived back last night, exhausted.

Besides which, changing doctors isn’t the only tricky subject I need to broach. There’s also the very slight scratch on the Mercedes (which was not my fault, it was that stupid bollard) and the two pairs of shoes I want him to get from Miu Miu when he goes to Milan.