Shopaholic & Baby

We’re using the old-fashioned gray pram I got at the baby fair, first of all because I got a bit carried away sending back all the other prams, and secondly because Mum reckons it’s the best one for supporting Minnie’s back, “not like these newfangled buggies.” I’m planning to get it sprayed hot pink as soon as I can — only it’s not that easy to find a custom pram paint-sprayer over the festive season.

I tuck her up in the gorgeous pink-and-white blanket that Luke’s parents gave her when they visited over Christmas. They were so sweet — they brought me a basket of muffins and invited us to stay (only, Devon’s a bit far) and said Minnie was the most beautiful baby they’d ever seen. Which shows what good taste they have. Unlike Elinor, who hasn’t even visited and just sent Minnie this hideous antique china doll with ringlets and spooky eyes, like something out of a horror film. I’m going to auction it on eBay and put the money in Minnie’s account.

I put on my new Marc Jacobs coat which Luke got me for Christmas and tie my Denny and George scarf round my neck. I’ve been wearing it all the time since I got out of hospital. Somehow I don’t feel like wearing any other scarf at the moment.

I always knew it would be a good investment.

There’s a little parade of shops quite near to Mum and Dad, and without quite meaning to, I head that way. Not because I’m planning to go shopping or anything. Just because it’s a nice walk.

As I reach the newsagents it’s all warm and bright and welcoming, and I find myself pushing the pram in. Minnie is fast asleep and I head toward the magazine rack. I could get a magazine for Mum — she’d like that. I’m just reaching for Good Housekeeping when my hand freezes. There’s Vogue.

A brand-new issue of Vogue. With a bright blue cover line shouting, London’s Yummiest Mummies-to-Be.

My hands fumbling in excitement, I pull it down, tear off the free travel supplement, and flick through the pages….

Oh my God! It’s a huge picture of me! I’m standing on the sweeping staircase in the Missoni dress, and the caption reads: “Rebecca Brandon, shopping guru and wife of the PR entrepreneur Luke Brandon, is expecting her first baby.”

Based in Maida Vale, the text below reads, former TV presenter Becky Brandon’s elegant style is obvious throughout her palatial six-bedroom house. She designed the stunning “his” and “hers” nurseries herself, with no expense spared. “Only the best will do for my baby,” she says. “We hand-sourced the furniture from a tribe of artisans living in Mongolia.”

I turn the page — and there’s another picture of me, beaming as I stand in the fairy-princess nursery, my hands resting on my bump. A big pull-out quote reads: “I have five prams. I don’t think that’s too many.”

Becky is planning a natural water birth with lotus flowers, and is under the care of It-obstetrician Venetia Carter. “Venetia and I are good friends,” enthuses Becky. “We have such a great bond. I might ask her to be a godmother.”

It all feels like an age away. Like a different world.

As I gaze down at the beautiful designer nursery, I can’t help feeling a pang. Minnie would have loved it. I know she would.

Anyway, she’ll have a lovely nursery one day. Even better than that one.

I take the Vogue to the counter and put it down, and the assistant looks up from her magazine.

“Hi!” I say. “I’d like to get this, please.”

There’s a new display in the corner with a sign reading GIFTS — and while the assistant is unlocking the till, I wander over to have a look. It’s mostly photo frames and small vases and a rack of thirties-style brooches.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” says the assistant as she scans my magazine. “Over Christmas you were in all the time.”

All the time. Honestly. People do exaggerate.

“I’ve just moved back into the area.” I give her a friendly smile. “My name’s Becky.”

“We noticed you.” She puts the Vogue into a plastic bag. “We call you the Girl—” She breaks off and I stiffen. What was she going to say?

“Shh!” says the other assistant, going pink and nudging the first one.

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind!” Nonchalantly I flick my hair back. “Do you call me…the Girl in the Denny and George Scarf?”

“No.” The assistant looks blank. “We call you the Girl with the Crappy Pram.”

Oh.

Huh. It’s not that crappy. And just wait till it’s sprayed pink. It’ll be totally fab.