Sophie Kinsella: Shopaholic and Baby

“I’m sorry,” the woman says in a firm but polite tone. “Dr. 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.”

“Dr. Carter is absolutely—”

“I’d just like to add that I’m a personal shopper, and I’d be pleased to offer Dr. 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—” Their 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 Dr. 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

14 August 2003

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

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 to not 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.

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m sitting in the office, checking my bank statement on my laptop. I only discovered online banking a couple of months ago — and it has so many advantages. You can do it any time of day! Plus, they don’t send bank statements out by post, so no one (e.g., your husband) can see them lying around the house.

“Becky, I’ve had a letter from my mother.” Luke comes in, holding the post and a mug of coffee. “She sends her regards.”

“Your mother?” I try to hide my horror. “You mean Elinor? What does she want?”

Luke has two mothers. His lovely, warm stepmother, Annabel, who lives in Devon with his dad and who we visited last month. And his ice-queen of a real mother, Elinor, who lives in America and abandoned him when he was little and in my opinion should be excommunicated.

“She’s touring Europe with her art collection.”

“Why?” I ask blankly. I have a vision of Elinor in a coach, a bundle of paintings under her arm. It doesn’t seem very her, somehow.

“The collection is currently on loan to the Uffizi, then a gallery in Paris—” Luke breaks off. “Becky, you didn’t think I meant she was taking her pictures on holiday.”

“Of course not,” I say with dignity. “I knew exactly what you meant.”

“Anyway, she’ll be in London later on in the year and wants to meet up.”

“Luke…I thought you hated your mother. I thought you never wanted to see her again, remember?”

“Come on, Becky.” Luke frowns slightly. “She’s going to be the grandmother of our child. We can’t shut her out completely.”

Yes we can! I want to retort. But instead, I give an unwilling kind of half shrug. I suppose he’s right. The baby will be her only grandchild. It’ll have her blood in it.

Oh God, what if it takes after Elinor? I’m stricken by a terrible vision of a baby lying in a pram in a cream Chanel suit, glaring up at me and saying, “Your outfit is shoddy, Mother.”

“So, what are you up to?” Luke breaks into my thoughts, and too late I realize he’s heading across the room toward me. Right toward my laptop.

“Nothing!” I say quickly. “It’s just my bank statement….” I try to close the window I’m on, but it’s frozen. Damn.

“Something wrong?” says Luke.

“No!” I say, panicking slightly. “I mean…I’ll just shut the whole thing down!” I casually rip the power cord out of the back — but the screen is still powered up. The statement is there, in black and white.

And Luke’s getting nearer. I’m really not sure I want him seeing this.

“Let me have a go.” Luke reaches my chair. “Are you on the bank’s Web site?”

“Er…kind of! Honestly, I wouldn’t bother….” I position my bump in front of the screen, but Luke is peering round me. He stares at the statement for a few disbelieving moments.

“Becky,” he says at last. “Does that say ‘First Cooperative Bank of Namibia’?”

“Er…yes.” I try to sound matter-of-fact. “I have a small online account there.”

“In Namibia?”

“They sent me an e-mail offering me very competitive rates,” I say a little defiantly. “It was a great opportunity.”

“Do you respond to every e-mail you get, Becky?” Luke turns, incredulous. “Do you have a fine selection of Viagra substitutes too?”

I knew he wouldn’t understand my brilliant new banking strategy.

“Don’t get so stressy!” I say. “Why is it such a big deal where I bank? Commerce has gone global, you know, Luke. The old boundaries are gone. If you can get a good rate in Bangladesh, then—”

“Bangladesh?”

“Oh. Well…er…I’ve got a bank account there too. Just a tiny one,” I add quickly, looking at his expression.

“Becky…” Luke seems to be having trouble taking all this in. “How many of these online bank accounts have you opened?”

“Three,” I say after a pause. “About three.”

He gives me a hard look. The trouble with husbands is, they get to know you too well.

“OK then, fifteen,” I say in a rush.

“And how many overdrafts?”

“Fifteen. What?” I add defensively. “What’s the point of having a bank account if you don’t have an overdraft?”

“Fifteen overdrafts?” Luke clutches his head in disbelief. “Becky…you are third world debt.”

“I’m playing the global economy to my advantage!” I retort. “The Bank of Chad gave me a fifty-dollar bonus just for joining!”

Luke’s so blinkered. So what if I have fifteen bank accounts? Everyone knows you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket.

“You seem to forget, Luke,” I add in lofty tones, “I am a former financial journalist. I know all about money and investment. The bigger the risk, the bigger the profit, I think you’ll find.”

Luke doesn’t look too impressed. “I’m aware of the principles of investment, thank you, Becky,” he says politely.