“Bex!” Suze’s face lights up. “Oh my God! You look fantastic!”
“Suze!” I give her a great big hug, trying not to squash the baby. “How are you? And how’s darling little Clemmie?” I kiss the blond little head.
“This is Wilfrid,” says Suze, going a bit pink.
Damn. I always get it wrong. And to make things worse, Suze is totally paranoid that Wilfrid looks like a girl. (Which he does. Especially in that lacy romper thing.)
I quickly change the subject. “Where are the others?”
“Oh, Tarkie’s got them,” says Suze, looking vaguely out the window. I follow her gaze and see her husband, Tarquin, pushing my godson, Ernie, around the marquee in a wheelbarrow, with Clementine strapped to his chest.
“More!” Ernie’s shrieking voice comes faintly through the window. “More, Dada!”
“That’ll be you in a few months, Luke,” I say with a grin.
“Mmm-hmm.” He raises his eyebrows and gets out his BlackBerry. “I need to send some e-mails. I’ll do it upstairs, if that’s OK?”
He heads out of the room and I sit on a squashy chair near Suze. “So, guess what? We’ve had an offer accepted on the most perfect house! Look!” I get the property details out of my handbag and pass them to Mum for admiration.
“How lovely, darling!” exclaims Mum. “Is it detached?”
“Well…no. But it’s really—”
“Is there off-street parking?” Dad squints over Mum’s shoulder.
“No, there’s no actual parking, but—”
“They don’t need parking, Graham,” Mum interrupts. “They’re Londoners! They take taxis everywhere.”
“Are you telling me no Londoners drive?” says Dad scoffingly. “Are you telling me that in our entire capital city, not a single resident ever gets in a car?”
“I would never drive in London.” Janice gives a little shudder. “You know, they wait until you stop at the traffic lights…and then they knife you.”
“‘They’?” exclaims Dad in exasperation. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“Marble floor. Ooh, dear.” Mum looks up from the details and pulls a face. “What about the little one when it’s learning to walk? You could carpet it over, perhaps. A nice Berber with flecks in so it doesn’t show the dirt.”
I give up.
“And my second piece of news is…” I say loudly, trying to haul the conversation back on track, “I’m changing doctors.” I pause for effect. “I’m having Venetia Carter.”
“Venetia Carter?” Suze looks up from Wilfrid in amazement. “Are you serious?”
Ha. I knew Suze would have heard of her.
“Absolutely.” I glow with pride. “We’ve just heard we’ve got a place with her. Isn’t it fantastic?”
“Is she good, then, this Dr. Carter?” Mum looks from me to Suze.
“They call her the A-list obstetrician.” Suze expertly starts to burp Wilfrid. “I read an article about her in Harper’s. She’s supposed to be wonderful!”
A-list obstetrician! That makes me A-list!
“She does all the supermodels and film stars,” I can’t help boasting. “They have tea parties and designer goodie bags and everything. I’ll probably meet them all!”
“But, Becky, I thought you had a well-respected doctor.” Dad looks perturbed. “Is it a good idea to be changing?”
“Dad, Venetia Carter’s in a different league!” I can’t help sounding impatient. “She’s the absolute best. I had to beg to get a place with her.”
“Well, don’t forget us, love, when you’re famous!” says Mum.
“I won’t! Hey, do you want to see the scan?” I fish in my bag, produce the roll of pictures, and hand it to Mum.
“Look at that!” she breathes, gazing at the blurry image. “Look, Graham! Our first little grandchild. It looks just like my mother!”
“Your mother?” retorts Dad incredulously, grabbing the prints from her. “Are you blind?”
“Becky, I’ve knitted a few bits and pieces for the baby,” Janice puts in timidly. “Some little matinee jackets…a shawl…a Noah’s Ark set…I made three of each animal, just in case of mishap….”
“Janice, that’s so kind of you,” I say, touched.
“It’s no trouble, love! I enjoy knitting. Of course, I always hoped that Tom and Lucy might…” Janice trails off with a brave, bright smile. “But that wasn’t to be.”
“How is Tom?” I ask cautiously.
Tom is Janice’s son. He’s about the same age as me, and got married three years ago, in this big, fancy wedding. But then it all went a bit wrong. His wife, Lucy, got a tattoo and ran off with a guy who lived in a caravan, and Tom turned very weird and started building a summerhouse in his parents’ back garden.
“Oh, Tom’s very well! He lives mainly in the summerhouse now. We leave him food on trays.” Janice looks a little beleaguered. “He says he’s writing a book.”
“Oh, right!” I say encouragingly. “About what?”
“The state of society.” She swallows. “Apparently.”
There’s silence as we all digest this.
“What sort of state does he think society’s in?” asks Suze.
“Not very good,” whispers Janice.