“I’ll get the coffees,” says Suze as we near the café area.

“I’ll be there in a sec,” I say absently. I’ve spotted a stand with vintage-style hobbyhorses, which are absolutely gorgeous. I’ll buy one for the baby and one each for Suze’s children.

The only trouble is, there’s a massive queue. I maneuver the pram into line as best I can and lean on the handles with a sigh. I’m quite tired actually, after all this walking. In front of me is an old woman in a dark red raincoat. She turns, then pulls an expression of horror as she sees me leaning on the pram.

“Let this young lady through!” she exclaims, tapping the woman in front of her. “She has a baby and she’s expecting! The poor thing’s exhausted — look at her!”

“Oh!” I say, taken aback. Everyone is moving aside like I’m royalty, and the raincoat woman is urging me to push the pram forward. “Um…I don’t actually have a…”

“Come through, come through! How old’s your wee one?” The old woman peers into the pram. “I can’t see the poor little thing for all your gubbins!”

“Er…well…”

The stand owner is beckoning me forward encouragingly. Everyone’s waiting for me to go first.

OK. I know I should be honest. I do know that.

But the queue’s gigantic, and Suze is waiting…and what does it really matter if there’s a baby in here or not?

“Is it a boy or a girl?” the old woman persists.

“It’s…a girl!” I hear myself saying. “She’s asleep,” I add hurriedly. “I’d like four hobbyhorses, please.”

“Ah, the dear little thing,” says the old woman fondly. “And her name?”

Ooh! Names!

“Tallulah,” I say impulsively. “I mean…Phoebe. Tallulah-Phoebe.” I hand the stall owner the money, take the hobbyhorses, and somehow balance them on the pram. “Thanks very much!”

“You be a good girl, Tallulah-Phoebe,” the old woman is clucking into the pram. “You be good for your mum and the new arrival.”

“Oh, she will!” I say brightly. “Nice to meet you! Thanks very much!” And I hastily wheel the pram away, feeling a giggle rise inside. I turn the corner and immediately spot Suze at the coffee counter, chatting to a girl with highlights and an off-road pushchair and three children in matching stripy tops tied to it with reins.

“Hi, Bex!” she calls. “What do you want?”

“Can I have a decaf cappuccino and a choc chip muffin?” I call back. “And I have to tell you what just happened—” I break off as the girl with highlights turns.

I don’t believe it.

It’s Lulu.

Lulu, Suze’s horrible friend from the country. My heart sinks like a stone as I wave cheerfully. What’s she doing here? Just as we were having such a good time.

They’re coming over toward me now, all the toddlers trailing in their wake like kites being dragged along a beach. Lulu is looking as sensible-mummy as ever, in her pink cords and white shirt and pearl earrings, which probably all came out of the same sensible-mummy catalog.

Oh God, I know that’s really bitchy. But I can’t help it. Lulu has rubbed me the wrong way ever since the first time we met and she totally looked down on me because I didn’t have any kids.(And also maybe because I took my bra off in front of all the children to entertain them. But I was really desperate, OK? And it’s not like they saw anything.)

“Lulu!” I force a smile. “How are you? I didn’t know you were coming today!”

“I didn’t know myself!” Lulu’s voice is so sharp and posh, it makes me wince. “I was offered a sudden promotion opportunity. For my new children’s cookbook.”

“Yes, Suze told me about that. Congratulations!”

“And congratulations to you!” Lulu eyes my bump. “We’ll have to get together sometime! Talk baby things!”

Lulu has never been anything other than mean and patronizing to me, all the times I’ve met her. But now suddenly because I’m having a baby we’re supposed to be friends?

“That would be super!” I say pleasantly, and Suze shoots me a look.

“There’s a section on pregnancy in my cookbook, actually….” Lulu rifles in her bag for a shiny book, illustrated with a photo of herself holding an armful of vegetables in her kitchen. “I must send you a copy.”

“Like, on cravings and stuff?” I take a sip of decaf. “I could do with some good nonalcoholic cocktail recipes.”

“I’ve called it ‘Think of the Baby.’” She frowns slightly. “It’s shocking, what some people put in their bodies while they’re pregnant. Additives…sugar…”

“Right.” I hesitate, chocolate muffin halfway toward my mouth, then defiantly stuff it in. “Mmm, yum.”

I can see Suze hide a giggle.

“Would your children like some?” I add, breaking it into crumbly pieces.

“They don’t eat chocolate!” Lulu snaps, looking horrified, as though I’ve tried to peddle them cocaine. “I’ve brought some dried banana snacks.”

“Lulu, sweetie?” A girl in a headset ducks down to our table. “Are you ready to come and do the radio interview? And then we’d like a photo of you and all the kids.”

“Absolutely.” Lulu bares her teeth in her horsey smile. “Come along Cosmo, Ivo, Ludo….”

“Go Dasher, go Dancer,” I mutter.

“See you later!” says Suze with a strained smile as they walk off. And all of a sudden I feel a bit ashamed. Lulu is Suze’s friend and I should make the effort. I’m going to be nice about her, I suddenly resolve. If it kills me.

“So…that was great, seeing Lulu!” I try to inject some warmth into my voice. “She’s right, we should all get together and have a good chat. Maybe we should meet up later on and have tea or something—”

“I don’t want to.” Suze’s low voice takes me by surprise. I look over, and she’s staring down into her cappuccino. Suddenly I recall Suze’s reaction at Mum’s house when I mentioned Lulu. That kind of tension in her face.

“Suze, have you and Lulu fallen out?” I say cautiously.

“Not exactly.” Suze won’t look up. “I mean…she’s done a lot for me. She’s been so helpful, especially with the children….”

The trouble with Suze is, she never wants to be nasty. So she always starts off bitching about people with a little speech about how lovely they are really.

“But…” I prompt her.

“But she’s so bloody perfect!” As Suze raises her head, her cheeks are all pink. “She makes me feel like a total failure. Especially when we go out together. She always has homemade risotto or something and her children eat it. And they’re never naughty, and they’re all really bright….”

“Your children are bright!” I retort indignantly.

“Lulu’s kids are all reading Harry Potter!” Suze sounds despairing. “And Ernie can’t even really speak much, let alone read. Apart from German phrases from Wagner. And Lulu keeps asking me if I played Mozart to him in the womb, and have I thought about extra tuition, and I just feel so inadequate….”

I feel a hot surge of outrage. How dare anyone make Suze feel inadequate!

“Suze, you’re a brilliant mother!” I say. “And Lulu’s just a cow. I knew it, the moment I met her. Don’t listen to her anymore. And don’t read her stupid cookbook!” I put an arm round Suze’s shoulders and squeeze tight. “If you feel inadequate, how do you think I feel? I don’t even know any nursery rhymes!”

“Good afternoon!” Lulu’s amplified voice suddenly booms out from behind us, and we both turn round. She’s sitting on a raised platform, opposite a woman in a pink suit, with a small audience watching. Two of her children are on her lap, and behind her are huge posters for her book, with a notice saying “Signed Copies Available.”

“A lot of parents are simply lazy when it comes to feeding their children,” she’s saying with a pitying smile. “In my experience, all children like the taste of such things as avocado, monk-fish, or a good homemade polenta.”

Suze and I exchange glances.

“I’ve got to feed the twins,” mutters Suze. “I’ll go and do it in the ‘Mother and Baby’ area.”

“Do it here!” I protest. “They’ve got highchairs—”

“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?”