Sophie Kinsella: Shopaholic and Baby

The contraction seems to have finished. The clenching sensation has died away. But I know it’ll be back, like that scary guy on Elm Street.

“I think I’d like an epidural after all,” I gulp. “Quite soon.”

“Of course!” says Paula, hurrying over. “I’ll page the anesthetist. You’ve done so well to last this long, Becky….”

“…ridiculous.” I hear the last word of some muttered epithet of Venetia’s before she bangs the door closed.

“What a cow!” says Suze. “I’m telling all my pregnant friends what a cow she is.”

“She’s gone.” Luke kisses me on the forehead. “It’s over. I’m sorry, Becky. I’m so sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say automatically.

And actually…I mean it.

Already I feel like Venetia’s irrelevant, drifting away from us like smoke. It’s Luke and me that matters. And the baby.

Oh God, another contraction’s starting already. This whole labor malarkey is a complete pain. I grab the gas and air mask and all the student midwives gather round, encouraging me as I start to inhale.

“You can do it, Becky…stay relaxed…breathe….”

Come on, baby. I want to meet you.

“You’re doing great…keep breathing, Becky….”

Of course you can do it. Come on. We both can.

IT’S A GIRL.

It’s a little girl, with scrunched-up petal lips and a tuft of dark hair and hands in tiny fists, up by her ears. All that time, that’s who was in there. And it’s weird, but the minute I saw her I just thought: It’s you. Of course it is.

Now she’s lying in a plastic crib beside my bed in a gorgeous little white Baby Dior babygro. (I wanted to try a few different outfits on just to see what suited her, but the midwife got a bit stern with me and said we both needed our sleep.) And I’m just staring at her, feeling fuzzy from the broken night, watching every rise and fall of her breath, every squirm of her fingers.

The birth was…

Well, it was what they call “straightforward and easy.” Which really makes me wonder. It seemed pretty complicated and bloody hard work to me. But anyway. Some things are best left a blur. Births and Visa bills.

“Hi. You’re awake.” Luke looks up from where he’s been dozing in a chair and rubs his eyes. He’s unshaven and his hair is askew and his shirt is all rumpled.

“Uh-huh.”

“How is she?”

“Fine.” I can’t help a smile licking across my face as I look at her again. “Perfect.”

“She is perfect. You’re perfect.” His face has a kind of distant euphoria even as he’s looking at me, and I know he’s reliving last night.

In the end, just Luke stayed in the room, and everyone else went out to wait. And then they went home, because Dr. Braine said it would be a long while before anything happened. But it wasn’t! It was one thirty in the morning when she was born, and she looked all bright-eyed and alert, straightaway. She’s going to be a party girl, I know it.

She doesn’t have a name yet. The list I made is discarded on the floor beside the bed. I got it out last night when the midwife asked what we were going to call her — but all the names I’d thought about are wrong. They’re just…wrong. Even Dolce. Even Tallulah-Phoebe.

There’s a gentle tapping at the door. It opens very slowly and Suze puts her head round. She’s holding a giant bunch of lilies and a pink helium balloon.

“Hi,” she breathes, and as her eyes fall on the crib she claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, Bex, look at that. She’s beautiful.”

“I know.” With no warning, tears spring to my eyes. “I know she is.”

“Bex?” Looking anxious, Suze hurries over to the bed with a rustle of flowers. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. I just…” I gulp, wiping my nose. “I had no idea.”

“What?” Suze sits down on the edge of the bed, her face full of dread. “Bex…was it really awful?”

“No, it’s not that.” I shake my head, struggling for the words. “I had no idea I’d feel so…happy.”

“Oh yeah, that.” Suze’s face lights up as if in memory. “You do. It doesn’t last forever, mind you.” She seems to think again and gives me a tight hug. “It is amazing. Congratulations. Congratulations, Luke!”

“Thanks.” He smiles. Even though he looks knackered, he’s glowing. He meets my eye and I feel a catch in my heart. It’s like we have a secret together, which no one else can quite understand.

“Look at her little fingers.…” Suze is bending over the crib. “Hello, darling!” She looks up. “Does she have a name?”

“Not yet.” I adjust myself on the pillows, wincing a little. I feel pretty mashed up after last night. Although the good thing is, the epidural hasn’t completely worn off yet, and they’ve already given me a stash of painkillers.

The door opens again, and Mum appears. She’s already met the baby, at eight this morning, when she arrived with brioches and hot coffee in a flask. Now she’s laden with gift bags and Dad is following in her wake.

“Dad…meet your granddaughter!” I say.

“Oh, Becky, darling. Congratulations.” Dad gives me the hugest, tightest hug. Then he peers into the crib, blinking slightly harder than normal. “Well, then. Hello, old girl.”

“Here are some clothes for you, Becky, love.” Mum heaves an enormous weekend bag stuffed full of garments onto a nearby chair. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I just rooted around….”

“Thanks, Mum.” I undo the zip and pull out a chunky cable cardigan which I haven’t worn for about five years. Then I glimpse something else. A familiar pale blue glimmering, beaded, velvety softness.

My scarf. My precious Denny and George scarf. I still remember the first instant I clapped eyes on it.

“Hey look!” I pull it out, careful not to snag any of the beads. I haven’t worn this for ages, either. “Remember this, Luke?”

“Of course I remember!” Luke’s face softens as he sees it. Then he adds, totally deadpan, “You bought it for your Aunt Ermintrude, as I recall.”

“That’s right.” I nod.

“Tragic that she died before she could ever wear it. Her arm fell off, wasn’t it?”

“Her leg,” I correct him.

Mum has been listening to this exchange, perplexed.

“Aunt who?” she says, and I can’t help breaking into a giggle.

“An old friend,” says Luke, tying the scarf around my neck. He looks at it for a moment in a kind of wonderment, then down at the baby. “Who would have thought…”

“I know.” I finger the corner of the scarf. “Who would have thought?”

Dad is still totally fixated by the baby. He’s put a finger into the crib, and the baby has wrapped her tiny hand around it.

“So, old girl,” he’s saying. “What are we calling you, then?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” I say. “It’s so hard!”

“I’ve brought you a book!” says Mum, rootling in her holdall. “What about Grisabella?”

“Grisabella?” echoes Dad.

“It’s a lovely name!” says Mum defensively, pulling out 1,000 Girls’ Names and putting it on the bed. “Unusual.”

“She’d get called Grizzle in the playground!” Dad retorts.

“Not necessarily! She could be Bella…or Grizzy….”

“Grizzy? Jane, are you mad?”

“Well, what do you like?” says Mum, affronted.

“I was thinking…possibly…” Dad clears his throat. “Rhapsody.”

I glance at Luke, who mouths Rhapsody? with such an expression of horror, I want to laugh.

“Hey, I have an idea,” chimes in Suze. “Fruit’s been done to death, but not herbs. You could call her Tarragon!”

“Tarragon?” Mum looks appalled. “You might as well call her Chili Powder! Now, I’ve got some champagne to wet her little head…. It’s not too early, is it?” She pulls out a bottle, along with a piece of paper. “Oh yes, and I took a message from your real estate agent. He phoned while I was at your flat, and I gave him a piece of my mind, I can tell you! I said, ‘A newborn baby is homeless at Christmas because of you, young man.’ That stopped him in his tracks! He said he wanted to apologize. Then he started talking some nonsense about villas in Barbados! I ask you.” She shakes her head. “Now, who wants champagne? Where are the champagne glasses?” She puts the bottle down and starts searching in the cupboards under the telly.