I spray myself with perfume and quickly slick on some lip gloss as I hear footsteps approaching. There’s a knock at the door and I call, “Come in.” A moment later it swings open — and there she is.
She’s wearing a mint-green suit and the same Ferragamo pumps she buys every season, and she’s carrying a crocodile Kelly bag. She’s thinner than ever, her hair a lacquered helmet, her face pale and stretched-looking. Which figures. When I worked in Barneys in New York, I saw women like Elinor every single day. But over here she looks…Well, there’s no other word for it: weird.
Her mouth moves a millimeter, and I realize this is her greeting. “Hi, Elinor.” I don’t bother trying to smile. She’ll just assume I’ve had Botox too. “Welcome to London.”
“London is so tawdry these days,” she says with disapproval. “So tasteless.”
She’s just unbelievable. The whole of London is tasteless?
“Yeah, especially the Queen,” I say. “She has no idea.”
Ignoring me, Elinor stalks to a chair and sits down on the edge of it. She surveys me stonily for a few moments. “I gather you left the doctor I recommended, Rebecca. Who are you seeing now?”
“Her name’s…Venetia Carter.” I feel a knife of pain as I say the name. But Elinor doesn’t react a smidgen. She can’t know.
“Have you seen Luke?” I venture.
“Not yet.” She pulls off a pair of calfskin gloves and runs her eyes over my hospital-gowned frame. “You’ve put on a lot of weight, Rebecca. Does this new doctor approve?”
You see? This is what she’s like. Not “How are you?” or “Don’t you look blooming?”
“I’m pregnant,” I snap. “And I’m having a big baby.”
Elinor’s expression doesn’t soften. “Not too large, I hope. Oversize babies are vulgar.”
Vulgar? How dare she call my lovely baby vulgar?
“Yes, well, I’m glad it’s going to be big,” I say in defiance. “That way there’ll be more room for…the tattoos.”
I can just about see a jolt of shock pass across her practically immobile face. That’ll bust her stitches. Or staples. Whatever’s holding her together.
“Didn’t Luke tell you about our tattoo plans?” I adopt a surprised tone. “We’ve found a special newborn-baby tattooist who comes right into the delivery room. We thought we’d have an eagle on its back, with our names in Sanskrit….”
“You are not tattooing my grandchild.” Her voice is like gunfire.
“Oh yes, we are. Luke really got the tattoo bug while we were on honeymoon. He has fifteen of them!” I smile blandly at her. “And as soon as the baby’s born he’s going to get its name tattooed on his arm. Isn’t that sweet?”
Elinor’s gripping her Kelly bag so hard, the veins are standing up. I can tell she doesn’t know whether to believe me or not.
“Have you decided on a name?” she says at last.
“Uh-huh.” I nod. “Armageddon for a boy, Pomegranate for a girl.”
For a moment she seems unable to reply. I can tell she’s desperate to raise her eyebrows, or frown, or something. I almost feel sorry for her real face, trapped under the Botox like a caged animal.
“Armageddon?” she manages at last.
“Isn’t it great?” I nod again. “Macho, but kind of elegant. And unusual!”
Elinor looks like she’s going to explode. Or implode.
“I will not have this!” she suddenly erupts, rising to her feet. “Tattooing! These names! You’re…irresponsible beyond—”
“‘Irresponsible’?” I interrupt in disbelief. “Are you serious? Well, at least we’re not planning to abandon—” I stop abruptly, feeling like the words are too hot for my mouth. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to launch a full-blown attack on Elinor. I haven’t got the energy, for a start. And anyway…I feel distracted. All of a sudden my head is buzzing with thoughts.
“Rebecca.” Elinor approaches the bed, her eyes snapping. “I have no idea if you’re being frank with me—”
“Shut up!” I lift a hand, not caring if I’m rude. I have to concentrate. I have to think this through. I’m suddenly starting to see things clearly, like a tune falling into place.
Elinor walked out on Luke. Now Luke’s walking out on our baby. It’s history repeating itself. Does Luke realize this? If he just saw it…if he just understood what he was doing…
“Rebecca!”
I look up, as though out of a daze. Elinor looks like she wants to pop with exasperation.
“Oh, Elinor…I’m sorry,” I say, all rancor gone. “It was lovely of you to come by, but I’m a bit tired now. Please drop round for tea sometime.”
Elinor looks like the wind has been taken out of her sails. I think she was probably squaring up for a fight too.
“Very well,” she says frostily. “I’m staying at Claridge’s. Here are the details of my exhibition.”
She hands me an invitation for a private viewing, along with a glossy brochure entitled “The Elinor Sherman Collection.” It’s illustrated with a photograph of an elegant white plinth, on top of which is resting another, smaller white plinth.
God, I don’t understand modern art.
“Thanks,” I say, eyeing it dubiously. “We’ll be sure to make it. Thanks for coming. Have a nice day!”