‘There isn’t one.’
With Lucy taking the lead, I’m practically dragged along Frith Street, past Soho Square and through a succession of minor streets. Before long, we reach Liberty’s unmistakable mock-Tudor façade, take the main entrance and come to a halt in the atrium. While Lucy examines the displays, poking at bags and threading scarves through her fingers, I gaze up at the four storeys rising above me, each one a dark timbered gallery illuminated by soft light tumbling from the chandeliers above.
‘Let’s go up to Homewares,’ Lucy suggests. ‘They’ve got cooking stuff.’
‘Why would you want cooking stuff?’
‘D’uh … to cook with.’
She beckons me to follow her, navigating a path to the right, through the Jewellery department, before climbing a creaking wooden staircase. Giving Women’s Clothing a wide berth, we climb another flight of stairs, and then a third, finally reaching Homewares.
Impressed that my heart’s opted for a mild tango rather than a full-blown quick-step, I stand still, taking in the random displays of teapots and tiles and trays indiscriminately arranged on a jumble of tables and shelving units. Immediately, Lucy begins to mooch, leaving me to my own devices. Vaguely aware of Christmas music playing in the background, I head to the right of the gallery, past a display of Liberty-print dressing gowns. Wondering how on Earth this can be classed as Homewares, I’m stopped in my tracks by a rail of tiny pastel-coloured clothes. A young couple pause in front of me, the man waiting patiently while the woman examines the outfits. It’s when she turns, revealing a huge baby bump, that my brain kicks into panic-laden overdrive. Dragging my attention in her wake, she moves off to the right, into a small, brightly lit room. Little Liberty. I shuffle forward and peer through the doorway, coming face-to-face with a display of cots and blankets and bibs.
Babies.
Shit.
Babies.
An abject failure to deal with a more than slightly pressing situation.
Babies.
‘You bloody idiot,’ I scold myself, raking through the past few days.
What with Gordon’s company and the paparazzi attention, I didn’t dare visit a pharmacy in Manhattan, deciding to seek one out at the airport instead. Only there wasn’t a pharmacy at the airport, at least not one I could find. After returning home to Camden and sleeping off the effects of the trip, I woke yesterday morning certain it was already too late. True to form, I blanked it out, a tactic that’s worked pretty well for me in the past. But it’s not the right tactic now. Fixing my attention on a display of teeny-tiny boys’ clothing, I realise I’ve been a first-class idiot. I need to seek some advice, and quickly too.
‘What’s up with you?’ Lucy demands, snapping me out of my reverie. ‘Getting broody?’
I swallow, hard.
‘No way.’
‘Let’s go through there. Kitchen department.’
Taking hold of my arm, she hauls me past a display of clocks, through a timber archway into another section, this one arranged around a balcony above the main light well. Plates, cups, saucers, teapots, bowls: they’re everywhere – set out in piles on tables, displayed in cabinets, even perched precariously on chairs.
‘Christ, I’m crap at presents.’ Edging forward, I scan the wares. ‘I never got Dad anything for his sixtieth.’
‘You were a bit distracted at the time.’
And I’m distracted now. By visions of nappies and baby wipes. Closing my eyes, I shake them out of my head.
‘So, what are you getting?’ Lucy touches a plate.
‘No idea.’
‘Who are you buying for?’
‘Mum, Dad, Sara.’
‘Gordon?’
‘What do you get for the man who’s already got everything?’
I pause, eyeing up a range of teacups, decorated with flowers. If I’m not very much mistaken, I’ve just spotted a sweet pea. Suddenly excited, I head for the display and pick up a cup. It’s crafted from delicate porcelain, and yes, adorned with sweet peas, curling around the body of the cup and twisting up the handle. I examine the rest of the display. Amongst the teacups and saucers, there’s a matching teapot, a sugar bowl and a milk jug. Perfect.
‘Is there something special about that cup?’ Lucy asks.
‘No. It’s just pretty, that’s all.’
She picks up another, turns it over and draws in a breath.
‘Twenty-five pounds.’ She puts it back down, carefully, and waves at the matching teapot. ‘I can’t imagine how much that is.’
‘I’m getting this for Gordon,’ I announce. ‘Hold these. I can’t see any baskets.’
I pass two cups and saucers to Lucy and equip myself with a teapot and a milk jug.
‘He’s American. He won’t know what to do with it. They’re all coffee, coffee, coffee …’
‘I’ll educate him in the ways of tea.’
Which is a downright lie. In actual fact, the tea set’s for Dan. As yet, I haven’t managed to locate a teapot in the apartment, and we can’t carry on like that. He may well be a coffee man, but I’m sure I can convert him with this little lot. Wandering further through the department, I choose a biscuit tin for Dad, and wedge it under my arm. And then serendipity runs dry, leaving my brain to descend into its usual shopping-panic mode.
‘So, what do you want?’ I ask.
Lucy shakes her head.
‘Dunno.’
‘There are some electric mixers over there.’
She seems terrified.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Electric mixers. That’s a bit serious.’ She shrugs. ‘Let’s leave it for now.’
Relieved of the tea set and biscuit tin by a helpful assistant, we skirt further round the gallery, finally arriving at a luminous sign that informs us we’re entering the Bath House. A few more steps and I’m surrounded by oils and body butters, shampoo and lotions, candles and vanity bags. And there’s soap too. Mounds of the stuff – in all colours and sizes – laid out on tables and shelves and
