Shopaholic & Baby
“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “No way, not with Lulu around. I’ve only brought a couple of jars. I’m not letting her see those.”
“D’you want some help?” I volunteer.
“No, don’t worry.” She eyes my pram, piled high with the hobbyhorses, the paddling pool, and the teddy. “Bex, why don’t you go round again and this time maybe look for basics? You know, things the baby will actually need?”
“Right, yes.” I nod. “Good idea.”
I head down the aisles as fast as I can, trying to get away from Lulu’s grating voice.
“Television is the most dreadful influence,” she’s saying. “Again, I would say it’s just sheer laziness on the part of the parents. My children have a program of stimulating educational activities—”
Stupid woman. Trying to ignore her, I pull out my fair guide and am looking around to get my bearings, when a large sign attracts my attention. FIRST AID KITS £40. Now, that’s what we need.
Feeling rather grown-up and responsible, I park the pram and start to peruse the kits. They all come in cool cases, with different things in sections. Plasters…rolls of bandages…and the cutest little pink scissors. I can’t believe I’ve never bought a first aid kit before. They’re fab!
I take the kit up to the checkout, where a lugubrious-looking man in a white coat is sitting on a stool. He starts tapping at his till and I pick up a MediSupply Professional catalog, which is pretty dull. It’s mostly rolls of elastic tape, and industrial-size bottles of aspirin, and—
Ooh. A stethoscope. I’ve always wanted a stethoscope.
“How much is the stethoscope?” I say casually.
“Stethoscope?” The man gives me a suspicious look. “Are you a doctor?”
Honestly. Are only doctors allowed to buy stethoscopes, or something?
“Not exactly,” I admit at last. “Can I still have one?”
“Everything in the catalog is available to order online.” He gives a grudging shrug. “If you want to pay £150. They’re not toys.”
“I know they’re not!” I say with dignity. “I actually think every parent should have a stethoscope in the house for emergency purposes. And a home heart defibrillator,” I add, turning the page. “And—”
I stop midflow. I’m staring at a picture of a smiling pregnant woman clasping her stomach.
Baby’s Gender Predictor Kit.
Conduct a simple test in the privacy of your own home.
Results accurate and anonymous.
My heart is doing a kind of jig. I could find out. Without having another scan. Without telling Luke.
“Um…is this available online too?” I ask, my voice a bit husky.
“I’ve got those here.” He rootles in his drawer and produces a large white box.
“Right.” I swallow. “I’ll take it. Thanks.” I hand over my credit card and the man swipes it.
A voice comes from behind me. “How’s little Tallulah-Phoebe?” It’s the woman in the dark red raincoat again. She’s clutching a hobbyhorse wrapped up in plastic, and peering into the ever-more-laden pram, which I parked by the display of first aid boxes. “She is a good girl, isn’t she? Not a peep!”
I feel a prickle of alarm.
“She’s, um…sleeping,” I say quickly. “I’d leave her alone, actually….”
“Let me just have a little look! I don’t know how she can sleep with all these packages on her pram. Can you, Tallulah-Phoebe?” the woman croons, pushing aside all my plastic bags.
“Please leave her alone!” I start toward the pram. “She’s very sensitive…she doesn’t like strangers—”
“She’s gone!” the old woman cries, and stands bolt upright, pale with fear. “The baby’s gone! Only her little blanket’s left!”
Shit.
“Um…” My face floods with color. “Actually…”
“Miss, your credit card doesn’t work,” says the man at the till.
“It must work!” I turn back, momentarily distracted. “I only got it last week—”
“A baby’s been abducted!”
To my horror, the raincoat woman has bustled out of the stand and accosted a security guard, still clutching the lacy blanket. “Little Tallulah-Phoebe’s gone! A baby’s disappeared!”
“Did you hear that?” a blond woman cries out in horror. “A child’s been abducted! Call the police, someone!”
“No, she hasn’t!” I call. “There’s been a…a misunderstanding….” But no one hears.