“You’ll be wonderful,” he replies firmly, and strides to the front door.
“They think it’s our house!” I hiss after him in panic. “I told them we live here.”
Luke shoots me a what-do-you-take-me-for? glance over his shoulder, and swings open the door.
“Hello!” he says, in his most confident, head-of-a-huge-important-company voice. “Welcome to our home.”
Makeup artists should hereby get the Nobel Prize for adding to human happiness. And so should hairdressers.
And so should Luke.
It’s three hours later and the shoot is going brilliantly. Luke totally charmed all the Vogue people as soon as they arrived, and was completely convincing as we showed them around the house. They totally think we live here!
I feel like a different person. I certainly look like a different person. My blotchiness has been totally covered up, and the makeup artist was really sweet about it. She said she’d seen far worse and at least I wasn’t off my head on coke. Or six hours late. And at least I hadn’t brought some stupid yappy dog. (I get the feeling she’s not that keen on models.)
My hair looks totally fab and shiny, and they brought the most amazing clothes for me to wear, all in a trailer which they’ve parked outside. And now I’m standing on the sweeping staircase in a Missoni dress, beaming as the camera clicks, feeling just like Claudia Schiffer or someone.
And Luke is standing at the bottom of the staircase, smiling encouragingly up at me. He’s been here all along. He canceled all the rest of his morning meetings, and took part in the interview and everything. He said having a baby put other things into perspective and he thought fatherhood would change him as a person. He said he thought I was more beautiful right now than he’d ever seen me (which is a total lie, but still). He said…
Anyway. He said loads of nice things. And he knew who painted the picture above the fireplace in the sitting room when they asked. He’s brilliant!
“Shall we move outside now?” The photographer looks questioningly at Martha.
“That’s a nice idea.” She nods, and I walk down the stairs, carefully holding up my dress.
“Maybe I could wear the Oscar de la Renta dress?”
The stylist brought the most amazing purple evening dress and cloak, which was apparently made for some pregnant movie star to wear to a premiere but she never did. I just have to try it on.
“Yes, that’ll look spectacular against the grass.” Martha heads to the back of the hall and squints through the glass doors. “What an amazing garden! Did you landscape it yourselves?”
“Absolutely!” I glance at Luke.
“We hired a gardening company, obviously,” he says, “but the concept was all ours.”
“That’s right.” I nod. “Our inspiration was a kind of Zen…meets…urban structure….”
“The positioning of the trees was crucial to the project,” Luke adds. “We had them moved at least three times.”
“Wow.” Martha nods intelligently and scribbles in her notebook. “You’re real perfectionists!”
“We just care about design,” Luke says seriously. He shoots me a quick wink and I try not to giggle.
“So, you must be looking forward to seeing your little child out there on the lawn.” She looks up with a smile. “Learning to crawl…and walk…”
“Yes.” Luke takes my hand. “We certainly are.”
I’m about to add something, but my stomach suddenly tightens, like someone squeezed it with both hands. It’s been doing it for a while, now that I think about it — but that time was kind of stronger. “Ooh,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“What?” Luke looks alert.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “So, shall I put on the cloak?”
“Let’s get your makeup touched up,” says Martha. “And shall we do a sandwich run?”
I head across the hall, reach the front door, and stop. My stomach just tightened up again. It’s unmistakable.
“What is it?” Luke is watching me. “Becky, what’s going on?”
OK. Don’t panic.
“Luke,” I say as calmly as I can, “I think I’m in labor. It’s been going on for a while now.”
My stomach tightens again, and I start shallow panting, just like Noura said in that lesson. God, it’s amazing how I’m coping instinctively.
“A while?” Luke strides over to me, looking alarmed. “How long, exactly?”
I think back to when I first became aware of the sensations. “About five hours? Which means I’m probably…five centimeters dilated, maybe?”
“Five centimeters dilated?” Luke stares at me. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m halfway there.” My voice suddenly trembles with excitement. “It means we’re going to have a baby!”
“Jesus Christ.” Luke whips out his mobile phone and jabs at it. “Hello? Ambulance service, please. Quick!”
As he gives the address I feel suddenly shaky around the knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen until the nineteenth. I thought I had three more weeks to go.
And maybe I should have gone to more than one prenatal class.
“What’s going on?” Martha says, looking up from her notes. “Shall we do the garden shots now?”
“Becky’s in labor,” Luke says, putting his phone away. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go.”
“In labor?” Martha drops her notebook and pen and scrabbles to pick them up. “Oh my God! But it’s not due yet, is it?”