It’s like a breakup box. I’m going to hand it to her and say, very calmly, “Leave us alone, Venetia. Luke and I and the baby don’t want anything to do with you ever again.” She has to realize she’s lost, after that.
Plus I phoned up my lovely professor on the way here, and he gave me a brilliant Latin insult, which I’ve learned by heart. It goes Utinam barbari provinciam tuam invadant! and it means “May barbarians invade your province.”
Ha. That’ll teach her.
“Hello?” A tinny voice comes through the intercom system.
“Hi!” I say into the grille. “It’s Becky Brandon, a patient.” I won’t say any more. I’ll just get into the place and take it from there.
The door buzzes and I push it open. Normally this place is pretty tranquil, but today it’s full of activity. The seats are filled with women in various stages of pregnancy, chatting with their partners and holding leaflets entitled “Why Choose the Cavendish?” Two midwives are walking quickly down the corridor, saying words like operating and stuck, which I really don’t like the sound of, and I can hear a woman’s screams emanating from a distant room. My stomach curdles at the sound, and I fight the urge to put my hands over my ears.
Anyway. It wasn’t necessarily a scream of agony. She was probably just shouting because she couldn’t see the telly or something.
I approach the reception desk, breathing hard.
“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Rebecca Brandon, and I need to see Venetia Carter straightaway, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist demands. I haven’t seen her on duty before. She has graying curly hair, and glasses on silver chains, and a pretty abrupt manner for someone who’s dealing with pregnant women all day long.
“Well…no. But it’s really important.”
“I’m afraid Venetia is busy.”
“I don’t mind waiting. If you could just tell her I’m here…”
“You’ll have to phone for an appointment.” The receptionist taps at her keyboard as though I’m not even there.
This woman is really winding me up the wrong way. Venetia’s only in some stupid meeting. And here I am, practically nine months pregnant….
“Can’t you page her?” I try to stay calm.
“I can only page her if you’re in labor.” The woman shrugs, like it really isn’t her problem.
I stare at her through a fine mist of anger. I’ve come here to have it out with Venetia, and I’m not letting some woman in a mauve cardigan stop me.
“Well…I am in labor!” I hear myself saying.
“You’re in labor?” She eyes me skeptically.
She doesn’t believe me, does she? What a nerve. Why would I lie about a thing like that?
“Yes.” I plant my hands on my hips. “I am.”
“Are you having regular contractions?” she says, challenging me.
“Since yesterday, every three minutes,” I shoot back. “And I’ve got back pain, and I’ve been vacuuming nonstop…and…and my water broke yesterday.”
So there. Now tell me I’m not in labor.
“I see.” The woman looks a little taken aback. “Well…”
“And I want to see only Venetia, no one else,” I add, pressing home my advantage. “So, can you page her immediately, please?”
The woman is regarding me with a narrowed gaze.
“Your contractions are coming every three minutes?”
“Uh-huh.” Suddenly I realize I must have been standing in this reception area for at least three minutes.
“I’m coping with them silently,” I inform her with dignity. “I’m a Scientologist.”
“A Scientologist?” she echoes, putting her pen down and staring at me.
“Yes.” I meet her gaze, unflinching. “And I need to see Venetia urgently. But if you won’t let in a woman whose water broke yesterday and is silently suffering in great pain…” I raise my voice a little so that it carries to all the waiting pregnant women.
“All right!” The receptionist clearly realizes she’s defeated. “You can wait….” She surveys the packed seating area. “Wait in that room,” she says at last, and gestures to a room called Labor Room 3.
“Thank you!” I turn on my heel and head into Labor Room3. It’s a big room, with a scary-looking metal bed and a shower room and even a DVD player. No minibar, though.
I sit on the bed and swiftly get out my makeup case. Everyone knows the first rule of business is “Look good during confrontations.” Or if it isn’t, it should be. I put on some blusher and apply some fresh lipstick — and am practicing my steeliest expression in the mirror, when there’s a knock at the door.
That’s her. With the most enormous lurch of nerves I grab the breakup bag and stand up.
“Come in,” I say as calmly as possible, and a moment later, the door swings open.
“Hello, love!” A jolly-looking Afro-Caribbean midwife comes bustling in. “I’m Esther. How are you getting on? Contractions still coming thick and strong?”
“What?” I stare at her. “Er…no. I mean, yes….” I break off in confusion. “Listen, I really need to see Venetia Carter.”
“She’s on her way,” says the midwife soothingly. “I’ll get you sorted out in the meantime.”
I feel a tweak of suspicion. They haven’t paged Venetia at all, have they? They’re trying to palm me off.