It’s like a stage set. We’re just waiting for the lead character to appear.
I prod my tummy, wondering if it’s awake. Maybe I’ll play it a tune and it can be a musical genius when it’s born! I wind up the mobile I ordered from the Intelligent Baby catalog and press it against my tummy.
Baby, listen to that! That’s Mozart.
I think…. Or Beethoven or someone.
God, now I’ve confused it. I’m just looking on the box to see if the tune is by Mozart, when there’s a small crash from the hall.
Christmas cards. That’ll make me feel better. Abandoning the Intelligent Baby mobile, I head to the front door, pick up the huge pile of post lying on the doormat, and waddle back to the sofa, leafing through the envelopes.
And then I stop. There’s a small package, labeled in distinctive, flowing writing.
Venetia’s.
It’s addressed to Luke, but I don’t care. With trembling hands I rip it open, to find a tiny leather Duchamp box. I wrench it open, and there’s a pair of silver and enamel cuff links. What is she doing sending him cuff links?
A small cream card falls out, with a message written in the same script.
L
Long time no see. “Nunc est bibendum?”
V
I stare at the note, the blood rushing through my head. All the stresses of the day seem to be focusing in a laser of fury. I’ve had it. I’ve just had it. I’m going to send this package straight back, return of post—
No. I’m going to give it back to her myself.
In a daze, I find myself getting to my feet and reaching for my coat. I’m going to find Venetia and I’m going to finish this. Once and for all.
TWENTY
I’VE NEVER BEEN more itching for a showdown in my life.
It didn’t take long to track down Venetia. I phoned the Holistic Birth Center, pretending to be really desperate to talk to her and asking where she was. After saying she was “unavailable,” the receptionist let slip that she was at the Cavendish Hospital, in a meeting. They offered to page her, as I’m still on the system as a patient, but I hastily said don’t bother, actually I was feeling better all of a sudden. Which they totally swallowed. They’re obviously used to flaky pregnant women phoning up and dithering.
So now I’m standing outside the Cavendish Hospital’s private maternity wing, my heart racing, clutching a carrier bag from The Look. It contains not only the cuff links but also the support stockings, the fanny pack, every single little note she ever sent Luke, the brochures and medical notes from her stupid holistic center…even the freebies from the goodie bag. (It was a bit of a wrench putting in the Crème de la Mer. In fact I scooped out most of it and put it in an old Lancôme pot. But Venetia needn’t know that.)
It’s like a breakup box. I’m going to hand it to her and say, very calmly, “Leave us alone, Venetia. Luke and I and the baby don’t want anything to do with you ever again.” She has to realize she’s lost, after that.
Plus I phoned up my lovely professor on the way here, and he gave me a brilliant Latin insult, which I’ve learned by heart. It goes Utinam barbari provinciam tuam invadant! and it means “May barbarians invade your province.”
Ha. That’ll teach her.
“Hello?” A tinny voice comes through the intercom system.
“Hi!” I say into the grille. “It’s Becky Brandon, a patient.” I won’t say any more. I’ll just get into the place and take it from there.
The door buzzes and I push it open. Normally this place is pretty tranquil, but today it’s full of activity. The seats are filled with women in various stages of pregnancy, chatting with their partners and holding leaflets entitled “Why Choose the Cavendish?” Two midwives are walking quickly down the corridor, saying words like operating and stuck, which I really don’t like the sound of, and I can hear a woman’s screams emanating from a distant room. My stomach curdles at the sound, and I fight the urge to put my hands over my ears.
Anyway. It wasn’t necessarily a scream of agony. She was probably just shouting because she couldn’t see the telly or something.
I approach the reception desk, breathing hard.
“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Rebecca Brandon, and I need to see Venetia Carter straightaway, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist demands. I haven’t seen her on duty before. She has graying curly hair, and glasses on silver chains, and a pretty abrupt manner for someone who’s dealing with pregnant women all day long.
“Well…no. But it’s really important.”
