“Right.” I hesitate, chocolate muffin halfway toward my mouth, then defiantly stuff it in. “Mmm, yum.”
I can see Suze hide a giggle.
“Would your children like some?” I add, breaking it into crumbly pieces.
“They don’t eat chocolate!” Lulu snaps, looking horrified, as though I’ve tried to peddle them cocaine. “I’ve brought some dried banana snacks.”
“Lulu, sweetie?” A girl in a headset ducks down to our table. “Are you ready to come and do the radio interview? And then we’d like a photo of you and all the kids.”
“Absolutely.” Lulu bares her teeth in her horsey smile. “Come along Cosmo, Ivo, Ludo….”
“Go Dasher, go Dancer,” I mutter.
“See you later!” says Suze with a strained smile as they walk off. And all of a sudden I feel a bit ashamed. Lulu is Suze’s friend and I should make the effort. I’m going to be nice about her, I suddenly resolve. If it kills me.
“So…that was great, seeing Lulu!” I try to inject some warmth into my voice. “She’s right, we should all get together and have a good chat. Maybe we should meet up later on and have tea or something—”
“I don’t want to.” Suze’s low voice takes me by surprise. I look over, and she’s staring down into her cappuccino. Suddenly I recall Suze’s reaction at Mum’s house when I mentioned Lulu. That kind of tension in her face.
“Suze, have you and Lulu fallen out?” I say cautiously.
“Not exactly.” Suze won’t look up. “I mean…she’s done a lot for me. She’s been so helpful, especially with the children….”
The trouble with Suze is, she never wants to be nasty. So she always starts off bitching about people with a little speech about how lovely they are really.
“But…” I prompt her.
“But she’s so bloody perfect!” As Suze raises her head, her cheeks are all pink. “She makes me feel like a total failure. Especially when we go out together. She always has homemade risotto or something and her children eat it. And they’re never naughty, and they’re all really bright….”
“Your children are bright!” I retort indignantly.
“Lulu’s kids are all reading Harry Potter!” Suze sounds despairing. “And Ernie can’t even really speak much, let alone read. Apart from German phrases from Wagner. And Lulu keeps asking me if I played Mozart to him in the womb, and have I thought about extra tuition, and I just feel so inadequate….”
I feel a hot surge of outrage. How dare anyone make Suze feel inadequate!
“Suze, you’re a brilliant mother!” I say. “And Lulu’s just a cow. I knew it, the moment I met her. Don’t listen to her anymore. And don’t read her stupid cookbook!” I put an arm round Suze’s shoulders and squeeze tight. “If you feel inadequate, how do you think I feel? I don’t even know any nursery rhymes!”
“Good afternoon!” Lulu’s amplified voice suddenly booms out from behind us, and we both turn round. She’s sitting on a raised platform, opposite a woman in a pink suit, with a small audience watching. Two of her children are on her lap, and behind her are huge posters for her book, with a notice saying “Signed Copies Available.”
“A lot of parents are simply lazy when it comes to feeding their children,” she’s saying with a pitying smile. “In my experience, all children like the taste of such things as avocado, monk-fish, or a good homemade polenta.”
Suze and I exchange glances.
“I’ve got to feed the twins,” mutters Suze. “I’ll go and do it in the ‘Mother and Baby’ area.”
“Do it here!” I protest. “They’ve got highchairs—”
“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “No way, not with Lulu around. I’ve only brought a couple of jars. I’m not letting her see those.”
“D’you want some help?” I volunteer.
“No, don’t worry.” She eyes my pram, piled high with the hobbyhorses, the paddling pool, and the teddy. “Bex, why don’t you go round again and this time maybe look for basics? You know, things the baby will actually need?”
“Right, yes.” I nod. “Good idea.”
I head down the aisles as fast as I can, trying to get away from Lulu’s grating voice.
“Television is the most dreadful influence,” she’s saying. “Again, I would say it’s just sheer laziness on the part of the parents. My children have a program of stimulating educational activities—”
Stupid woman. Trying to ignore her, I pull out my fair guide and am looking around to get my bearings, when a large sign attracts my attention. FIRST AID KITS ?40. Now, that’s what we need.
Feeling rather grown-up and responsible, I park the pram and start to peruse the kits. They all come in cool cases, with different things in sections. Plasters…rolls of bandages…and the cutest little pink scissors. I can’t believe I’ve never bought a first aid kit before. They’re fab!
I take the kit up to the checkout, where a lugubrious-looking man in a white coat is sitting on a stool. He starts tapping at his till and I pick up a MediSupply Professional catalog, which is pretty dull. It’s mostly rolls of elastic tape, and industrial-size bottles of aspirin, and—
Ooh. A stethoscope. I’ve always wanted a stethoscope.
“How much is the stethoscope?” I say casually.
“Stethoscope?” The man gives me a suspicious look. “Are you a doctor?”
Honestly. Are only doctors allowed to buy stethoscopes, or something?
“Not exactly,” I admit at last. “Can I still have one?”
“Everything in the catalog is available to order online.” He gives a grudging shrug. “If you want to pay ?150. They’re not toys.”
“I know they’re not!” I say with dignity. “I actually think every parent should have a stethoscope in the house for emergency purposes. And a home heart defibrillator,” I add, turning the page. “And—”
I stop midflow. I’m staring at a picture of a smiling pregnant woman clasping her stomach.
Baby’s Gender Predictor Kit.
Conduct a simple test in the privacy of your own home.
Results accurate and anonymous.
My heart is doing a kind of jig. I could find out. Without having another scan. Without telling Luke.
“Um…is this available online too?” I ask, my voice a bit husky.
“I’ve got those here.” He rootles in his drawer and produces a large white box.
“Right.” I swallow. “I’ll take it. Thanks.” I hand over my credit card and the man swipes it.
A voice comes from behind me. “How’s little Tallulah-Phoebe?” It’s the woman in the dark red raincoat again. She’s clutching a hobbyhorse wrapped up in plastic, and peering into the ever-more-laden pram, which I parked by the display of first aid boxes. “She is a good girl, isn’t she? Not a peep!”
I feel a prickle of alarm.
“She’s, um…sleeping,” I say quickly. “I’d leave her alone, actually….”
“Let me just have a little look! I don’t know how she can sleep with all these packages on her pram. Can you, Tallulah-Phoebe?” the woman croons, pushing aside all my plastic bags.
“Please leave her alone!” I start toward the pram. “She’s very sensitive…she doesn’t like strangers—”
“She’s gone!” the old woman cries, and stands bolt upright, pale with fear. “The baby’s gone! Only her little blanket’s left!”
Shit.
“Um…” My face floods with color. “Actually…”
“Miss, your credit card doesn’t work,” says the man at the till.
“It must work!” I turn back, momentarily distracted. “I only got it last week—”
“A baby’s been abducted!”
To my horror, the raincoat woman has bustled out of the stand and accosted a security guard, still clutching
