Shopaholic & Baby

“Actually…”

A new thought has just struck me. There’s an even bigger advantage to splitting up with your husband. You don’t have to be polite to your mother-in-law anymore.

I can say what I like to Elinor. I can be as rude as I like. For the first time in days, I feel a streak of cheer.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see her after all. Just let me get ready….” I reach for my makeup bag and clumsily knock it to the floor. The nurse picks it up and gives me an anxious look.

“Are you OK? You seem very on edge.”

“I’m fine. I was just a bit…upset earlier. I’ll be fine.”

The nurse disappears, and I open my makeup bag. I dab on some eye gel and brush myself with bronzer. I am not going to look like a victim here. I’m not going to look like some poor pathetic wronged wife. I have no idea what Elinor knows, but if she even mentions Luke and me splitting up, or dares to look pleased about it, I’ll…I’ll tell her the baby isn’t Luke’s, that it was fathered by my prison penpal Wayne and the whole scandal’s going to hit the papers tomorrow. That’ll freak her out.

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!”