Sophie Kinsella - Shopaholic and Baby

“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 £3 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 inquires, 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 with 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. 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 into 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 façade. 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’s door handle. “I wonder if that Ferris wheel is for sale! Bye, Luke, see you later….”

I’m already halfway toward 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.”

HOW ON EARTH did I hold off baby shopping for so long?

I’ve reached the New 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, toward 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, D&G Junior…

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

From my bag I pull Nine Months of Your Life. 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 tops 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 blond 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 not have 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.