“Oh. Er…of course.” I grab a pen and scribble it down. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. I’d better go! Talk later!”

I put my phone away, still feeling jumpy. We’re being followed — I just know we are.

“So, where is this place?” Luke consults the leaflet and starts pressing buttons on his sat nav. The map pops up and he pulls a face. “It’s bloody miles away. Do we have to go here?”

“It’s the best place in London! Look!” I read from the leaflet. “You get to try all the top-quality prams on a variety of terrains and a consultant will help guide you through the maze.”

“The maze of pram-buying or a literal maze?” inquires Luke.

“I don’t know,” I admit, after searching through the leaflet. “But anyway, it’s got the widest choice and Suze said we should go there.”

“Fair enough.” Luke raises his eyebrows and does a U-turn. Then he frowns at the rearview mirror. “That car looks familiar.”

Shit.

Trying to appear casual, I swivel my head to see. It’s a brown Ford and a guy is driving it. A dark-haired, pockmarked, private detective kind of guy.

Shit shit shit.

“Let’s listen to the radio!” I say. I start tuning into different stations, turning the volume up, trying to distract him. “And anyway, so what if it’s familiar? There are lots of brown Fords in the world. Who knows how many? Probably…five million. No, ten…”

“Brown Ford?” Luke gives me a strange look. “What?”

I turn my head again. The brown Ford has disappeared. Where did it go?

“I meant that convertible BMW we passed,” Luke says, turning the radio down. “It looked like Mel’s husband’s car.”

“Oh, right,” I say after a pause, and subside. Maybe I’ll just keep my mouth shut for a bit.



I hadn’t quite realized it would take an hour to get to Pram City. It’s a warehouse based right out in North London, and there’s a special park-and-ride scheme where you get on a bus. I didn’t realize that, either. But still. It’ll be worth it when we have the most cool uber-pram in the world!

As we descend the bus steps, I have a surreptitious scope around — but I can’t see anyone who looks like a private investigator. It’s mostly pregnant couples like us. Unless…maybe Dave Sharpness has hired another pregnant couple to trail us?

No. I’m getting paranoid. I have to stop obsessing about this. Anyway, would it be the worst thing in the world if Luke found out? At least I care about our marriage. In a way, he should be flattered I’m having him followed.

Exactly.

We head toward the vast doors along with all the other couples, and as we enter, I can’t help feeling a little glow of pleasure. Here we are, choosing prams together. Just like I always imagined!

“So!” I beam up at Luke. “What do you think? Where shall we start?”

“Jesus,” Luke says, looking around. It’s a big domed building, with vicious air-conditioning and nursery rhymes playing over the sound system. Colorful ten-foot banners hanging from the rafters read STROLLERS, ALL-TERRAINS, TRAVEL SYSTEMS, TWINS AND MORE.

“What do we need?” Luke rubs his brow. “A pram? A travel system? A buggy?”

“It depends.” I try to sound knowledgeable, but the truth is I’m still foxed by this whole pram and pushchair business. Suze tried to explain the system to me, but it was just like going to press conferences when I was a financial journalist. I glazed over at the pros and cons of swiveling front wheels — and then when she finished I was too embarrassed to admit I hadn’t taken in a word.

“I’ve done some research,” I add, and reach in my bag for my Pram List, which I hand to Luke with pride. Over the last few weeks, every time I’ve seen a cool pram or buggy, I’ve written down its name — and it hasn’t been easy. I had to chase one all the way down High Street Kensington.

Luke is leafing through the pages in disbelief. “Becky, there’s about thirty prams here.”

“Well, that’s the long list! We just need to whittle it down a bit.”

“May I help you?” We both look up to see a guy with a round head and close-cropped hair approaching us. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a Pram City badge saying My Name Is Stuart, and he’s propelling a purple buggy along with one expert hand.

“We need a pram,” says Luke.

“Ah.” Stuart’s eyes drop to my stomach. “Congratulations! Is this your first visit here?”

“First and only,” says Luke firmly. “Not wishing to be rude, but we’d like to get everything wrapped up in one visit, wouldn’t we, Becky?”

“Absolutely!” I nod.

“Of course. Glenda? Take care of this, please? Back to Section D.” Stuart pushes the purple buggy across the shiny floor to a girl about ten yards away, then turns back to us. “Now, what kind of a pram were you looking for?”

“We’re not quite sure,” I say, glancing at Luke. “I think we need some help.”

“Of course!” Stuart nods. “Step this way.”

He leads us into the center of the Travel Systems area, then stops, like a museum guide.

“Every couple is different,” he says in a singsong voice. “Every baby is unique. So before we go any further, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your lifestyle, the better to steer your choice.” He reaches for a small pad of paper which is attached to his belt by springy wire. “Let’s look at terrain. What will you be requiring of your vehicle? Pavement walking and shopping? Off-road hiking? Extreme mountaineering?”

“All of them,” I say, slightly mesmerized by his voice.

“All of them?” exclaims Luke. “Becky, when do you ever go extreme mountaineering?”

“I might!” I retort. “I might take it up as a hobby!” I have an image of myself lightly pushing a pram up the foothills of Everest while the baby goos happily up at me. “I don’t think we should rule anything out at this stage.”

“Uh-huh.” Stuart is scribbling some notes. “Now, will you require the pram to fold down quickly and easily for car use? Will you want it to convert to a car seat? Will you be looking for something light and maneuverable or sturdy and secure?”

I glance at Luke. He looks as flummoxed as I feel.

Stuart relents. “Let’s look at some models. That’ll get you started.”

Half an hour later, my head is spinning. We’ve looked at prams that turn into car seats, pushchairs that fold up with hydraulic action, buggies with bicycle wheels, prams with special-sprung German mattresses, and an amazing contraption that keeps the baby out of pollution and is “ideal for shopping and lattes.” (I love that one.) We’ve looked at foot muffs, raincovers, changing bags, and canopies.

To be honest, I’m ready for a latte now myself, but Luke is still totally engrossed. He’s poring over the framework of a pushchair with the hugest, most rugged wheels I’ve ever seen. It’s upholstered in khaki camouflage and looks like a great big Action Man toy.

“So, it has an articulated chassis,” he’s saying with interest. “How does that affect the turning circle?”

For God’s sake. It’s not a car.

“You can’t beat the turning circle on this model.” Stuart’s eyes are gleaming as he demonstrates. “The Warrior is the Humvee of off-roaders. You see the sprung axle?”

“The Warrior?” I echo, aghast. “We’re not getting a pram called the Warrior!”

Both men ignore me.

“It’s a great piece of engineering.” Luke takes hold of the handles. “Feels good.”

“This is a man’s pram. It’s not a fashion pram.” Stuart glances with slight disdain at the Lulu Guinness printed stroller I’m holding on to. “We had an ex-SAS guy in here the other day, Mr. Brandon.” He lowers his voice. “This is the pram he chose.”

“I like it a lot.” Luke’s pushing it back and forth. “Becky, I think we should get this.”

“OK.” I roll my eyes. “That can be your one.”

“What do you mean, my one?” Luke stares at me.

“I want to get this one!” I say defiantly. “It’s got a limited edition Lulu Guinness print and built-in iPod holder. And look at the sun canopy. It’s fab!”

“You cannot be serious.” Luke runs his eyes dismissively over it. “It looks like a toy.”

“Well, your one looks like a tank! I’m not pushing that down the street!”

“I would just point out,” interjects Stuart delicately, “while applauding both your choices, that neither of these models has the car seat and lie-flat facilities that you were originally seeking.”

“Oh.” I look at the Lulu Guinness stroller. “Oh, right.”

“Might I suggest you regroup, have coffee, and work out your needs? It may be that you need more than one vehicle. One for off-roading, one for nipping around the shops.”

That’s a thought.

Stuart hurries off toward another couple, and Luke and I head toward the café.

“OK,” I say as we reach the tables. “You go and get the coffees. I’ll sit here and work out exactly what we need.”

I pull out a chair, sit down, and get out a pen and my Pram List. On the back I write Pram Priorities and draw a grid. The only way to do this is to be totally rigorous and scientific.

A few minutes later, Luke approaches with a tray of drinks. “Get any further?” he asks, sitting down opposite me.

“Yes!” I look up, my face flushed from the effort. “OK. I’ve been working it out logically…and we need five prams.”

“Five?” Luke nearly drops his coffee. “Becky, one small baby cannot possibly need five prams.”

“It does! Look.” I show him my grid. “We need a travel system with a carry-cot and a car seat for when it’s tiny.” I count off on my fingers. “We need an off-road jogger for going on walks. We need that shopping-and-lattes one for the city. We need the whizzy folding-up one for the car. And we need the Lulu Guinness one.”