“I’m a very cool dancer,” replies Luke. “Very cool indeed.”
“No, you’re not!”
“I had dance lessons in my teens, you know,” he retorts. “I can waltz like Fred Astaire.”
“Waltz?” I echo derisively. “That’s not cool! We need to know all the street moves. Watch me.”
I do a couple of funky head-wriggle body-pop maneuvers, like they do on rap videos. When I look up, Luke is gaping at me.
“Sweetheart,” he says. “What are you doing?”
“It’s hip-hop!” I say. “It’s street!”
“Becky! Love!” Mum has pushed her way through her dancing guests to reach me. “What’s wrong? Has labor started?”
Honestly. My family has no idea about contemporary urban street dance trends.
“I’m fine!” I say. “Just dancing.”
Ow. Actually, I may have pulled a muscle or three.
“Come here, J-Lo.” Luke puts his arms round me. Mum dances off to talk to Janice and I look up at Luke’s glowing face. He’s been in a good mood ever since that business call he took during coffee.
“What was your call about?” I ask. “Good news?”
“We’ve just had the go-ahead in Barcelona.” His nose twitches, like it always does when he’s delighted with life but wants to look deadpan. “That takes us up to eight offices, Europe-wide. All down to the Arcodas contract.”
He never told me Barcelona was on the cards! That’s so Luke, keeping it quiet until the deal’s done. If it hadn’t come off, he probably never would have said a word about it.
Eight offices. And London and New York. That’s pretty stupendous.
The music changes to a slow track and Luke pulls me closer. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Jess and Tom have sidled farther onto the dance floor together. Go on, I will Tom silently. Kiss her.
“So, things are going pretty well?” I say.
“Things, my darling, could not be going more fantastically.” Luke meets my eyes, the teasing gone. “Seriously. We’re going to treble our size.”
“Wow.” I digest this for a few moments. “Are we going to be squillionaires?
“Could be.” He nods.
This is so cool. I have always wanted to be a squillionaire. We can have a building called Brandon Tower! And Luke can have his own Apprentice-type reality show!
“Can we buy an island?” Suze has got her own Scottish island and I’ve always felt a bit left out.
“Maybe.” Luke laughs.
I’m about to say we need a private jet too, when the baby starts squirming around inside me. I take hold of Luke’s hands and put them on my abdomen.
“It’s saying hello.”
“Hello, baby,” he murmurs back in his deep voice. He pulls me even tighter and I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of his aftershave, feeling the music thud through me like a heartbeat.
I can’t remember ever being so happy. We’re dancing cheek-to-cheek, our baby is kicking between us, we’ve got a fabulous new house, and we’re going to be squillionaires! Everything’s just perfect.
BECKY BRANDON
NURSERY RHYMES SELF-TEST
MARY, MARY QUITE CONTRARY…
Had a little lamb.
And
TOM, TOM, THE PIPER’S SON…
Went to London to look at the
Fell off the wall.
And he called for his pipe.
And all the king’s horses and his fiddlers three.
Couldn’t put
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
LITTLE JACK HORNER…
He had ten thousand men
Met a pieman
LITTLE BOY BLUE…
Lost his sheep
Oh, fuck knows.
FIVE
OK. THIS IS MY OUTFIT for my first-ever appointment with a celebrity must-have obstetrician:
Embroidered kaftan top like Jemima Khan
Maternity jeans (with the elastic hidden in the pockets, not with a great revolting panel of stretchy fabric)
My new Elle Macpherson maternity underwear (lilac)
Prada sandals
I look pretty good, I think. I hope. I tweak my kaftan and toss my hair back at my reflection.
“Hi,” I murmur. “Hi, Kate. Hi, Elle. God, fancy bumping into you. I’m wearing your underpants!”
No. Don’t mention the underpants.
I scrutinize myself one final time, add a dusting of powder, then pick up my bag.
“Luke, are you ready?” I call.
“Uh-huh.” Luke puts his head round the study door, his phone wedged under his chin. “Uh-huh. Hold on, Iain.” He puts his hand over the receiver. “Becky, do I really need to come?”
“What?” I stare at him in horror. “Of course you need to come!”
Luke runs his eyes over my face, as though assessing the full extent of my mood. “Iain,” he says at last, turning back to the phone. “This is complicated.” He disappears back into the office and his voice descends to a murmur.
Complicated? What does he mean, complicated? We’re going to the obstetrician, end of story. I start pacing furiously around the hall, rehearsing retorts in my mind. Can’t Iain wait for once? Does our whole life have to revolve around Arcodas? Isn’t our baby’s birth important to you? Have you ever cared about me at all?
Well, OK. Maybe not that last one.
At last Luke reappears at the study door. The phone’s gone and he’s putting on his suit jacket.
“Listen, Becky…” he begins.
