Shopaholic & Baby

From my bag I pull Nine Months of Your Life. I turn to chapter eight: “Shopping for Your Baby” and eagerly start scanning the page.

Clothes:

Do not be tempted to buy too many tiny baby clothes. White is recommended for ease of washing. Three plain babygros and six tops will suffice.

I look at the words for a moment. The thing is, it’s never a good idea to follow a book too closely. It even said in the introduction, “You will not want to take every piece of advice. Every baby is different and you must be guided by your instincts.”

My instincts are telling me to get a cowhide jacket.

I hurry over to the display and look through the size labels. “Newborn baby.” “Small baby.” How do I know if I’m going to have a small baby or not? Experimentally I prod my bump. It feels quite small so far, but who can tell? Maybe I should buy both, to be on the safe side.

“It’s the Baby in Urbe snowsuit!” A manicured hand appears on the rack in front of me and grabs a white quilted suit on a chic black hanger. “I’ve been dying to find one of these.”

“Me too!” I say instinctively and grab the last remaining one.

“You know in Harrods the waiting list for these is six months?” The owner of the hand is a hugely pregnant blond girl in jeans and a stretchy turquoise-wrap top. “Oh my God, they have the whole Baby in Urbe range.” She starts piling baby clothes into her white wicker basket. “And look! They’ve got Piglet shoes. I must get some for my daughters.”

I’ve never even heard of Baby in Urbe. Or Piglet shoes.

How can I be so uncool? How can I not have heard of any of the labels? As I survey the tiny garments before me I feel a slight panic. I don’t know what’s in or what’s out. I have no idea about baby fashion. And I’ve only got about four months to get up to speed.

I could always ask Suze. She’s my oldest, best friend, and has three children, Ernest, Wilfrid, and Clementine. But it’s a bit different with her. Most of her baby clothes are hand-embroidered smocks handed down through the generations and darned by her mother’s old retainer, and the babies sleep in antique oak cots from the family stately home.

I grab a couple of pairs of Piglet shoes, several Baby in Urbe rompers, and a pair of Jelly Wellies, just to be on the safe side. Then I spot the sweetest little pink baby dress. It has rainbow buttons and matching knickers and little tiny socks. It’s absolutely gorgeous. But what if we’re having a boy?

This is impossible, not knowing the sex. There must be some way I can secretly find out.

“How many children do you have?” says the turquoise-wrap girl chattily as she squints inside shoes for sizes.

“This is my first.” I gesture to my bump.

“How lovely! Just like my friend Saskia.” She gestures at a dark-haired girl who’s standing a few feet away. She’s whippet thin with no sign of pregnancy and is talking intently into a mobile phone. “She’s only just found out. So exciting!”

At that moment, Saskia snaps her phone shut and comes toward us, her face glowing.

“I got in!” she says. “I’m having Venetia Carter!”

“Oh, Saskia! That’s fantastic!” The turquoise-wrap girl drops her basket of clothes right on my foot, and throws her arms around Saskia. “Sorry about that!” she gaily adds to me as I hand the basket back. “But isn’t that great news? Venetia Carter!”

“Are you with Venetia Carter too?” Saskia asks me with sudden interest.

I am so out of the baby loop, I have no idea who or what Venetia Carter is.

“I haven’t heard of her,” I admit.

“You know.” Turquoise-wrap girl opens her eyes wide. “The obstetrician! The must-have celebrity obstetrician!”

Must-have celebrity obstetrician?

My skin starts to prickle. There’s a must-have celebrity obstetrician and I don’t know about it?

“The one from Hollywood!” elaborates turquoise-wrap girl. “She delivers all the film stars’ babies. You must have heard of her. And now she’s moved to London. All the supermodels are going to her. She holds tea parties for her clients — isn’t that fab? They all bring their babies and get these fabulous goodie bags….”

My heart is thumping as I listen. Goodie bags? Parties with supermodels? I cannot believe I’m missing out on all this. Why haven’t I heard of Venetia Carter?

It’s all Luke’s fault. He made us go straight for stuffy old Dr. Braine. We never even considered anyone else.

“And is she good at, you know, delivering babies?” I ask, trying to keep calm.