Sophie Kinsella - Shopaholic and Baby

“You can do it, Becky…stay relaxed…breathe….”

Come on, baby. I want to meet you.

“You’re doing great…keep breathing, Becky….”

Of course you can do it. Come on. We both can.

IT’S A GIRL.

It’s a little girl, with scrunched-up petal lips and a tuft of dark hair and hands in tiny fists, up by her ears. All that time, that’s who was in there. And it’s weird, but the minute I saw her I just thought: It’s you. Of course it is.

Now she’s lying in a plastic crib beside my bed in a gorgeous little white Baby Dior babygro. (I wanted to try a few different outfits on just to see what suited her, but the midwife got a bit stern with me and said we both needed our sleep.) And I’m just staring at her, feeling fuzzy from the broken night, watching every rise and fall of her breath, every squirm of her fingers.

The birth was…

Well, it was what they call “straightforward and easy.” Which really makes me wonder. It seemed pretty complicated and bloody hard work to me. But anyway. Some things are best left a blur. Births and Visa bills.

“Hi. You’re awake.” Luke looks up from where he’s been dozing in a chair and rubs his eyes. He’s unshaven and his hair is askew and his shirt is all rumpled.

“Uh-huh.”

“How is she?”

“Fine.” I can’t help a smile licking across my face as I look at her again. “Perfect.”

“She is perfect. You’re perfect.” His face has a kind of distant euphoria even as he’s looking at me, and I know he’s reliving last night.

In the end, just Luke stayed in the room, and everyone else went out to wait. And then they went home, because Dr. Braine said it would be a long while before anything happened. But it wasn’t! It was one thirty in the morning when she was born, and she looked all bright-eyed and alert, straightaway. She’s going to be a party girl, I know it.

She doesn’t have a name yet. The list I made is discarded on the floor beside the bed. I got it out last night when the midwife asked what we were going to call her — but all the names I’d thought about are wrong. They’re just…wrong. Even Dolce. Even Tallulah-Phoebe.

There’s a gentle tapping at the door. It opens very slowly and Suze puts her head round. She’s holding a giant bunch of lilies and a pink helium balloon.

“Hi,” she breathes, and as her eyes fall on the crib she claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, Bex, look at that. She’s beautiful.”

“I know.” With no warning, tears spring to my eyes. “I know she is.”

“Bex?” Looking anxious, Suze hurries over to the bed with a rustle of flowers. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. I just…” I gulp, wiping my nose. “I had no idea.”

“What?” Suze sits down on the edge of the bed, her face full of dread. “Bex…was it really awful?”

“No, it’s not that.” I shake my head, struggling for the words. “I had no idea I’d feel so…happy.”

“Oh yeah, that.” Suze’s face lights up as if in memory. “You do. It doesn’t last forever, mind you.” She seems to think again and gives me a tight hug. “It is amazing. Congratulations. Congratulations, Luke!”

“Thanks.” He smiles. Even though he looks knackered, he’s glowing. He meets my eye and I feel a catch in my heart. It’s like we have a secret together, which no one else can quite understand.

“Look at her little fingers.…” Suze is bending over the crib. “Hello, darling!” She looks up. “Does she have a name?”

“Not yet.” I adjust myself on the pillows, wincing a little. I feel pretty mashed up after last night. Although the good thing is, the epidural hasn’t completely worn off yet, and they’ve already given me a stash of painkillers.

The door opens again, and Mum appears. She’s already met the baby, at eight this morning, when she arrived with brioches and hot coffee in a flask. Now she’s laden with gift bags and Dad is following in her wake.

“Dad…meet your granddaughter!” I say.

“Oh, Becky, darling. Congratulations.” Dad gives me the hugest, tightest hug. Then he peers into the crib, blinking slightly harder than normal. “Well, then. Hello, old girl.”

“Here are some clothes for you, Becky, love.” Mum heaves an enormous weekend bag stuffed full of garments onto a nearby chair. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I just rooted around….”

“Thanks, Mum.” I undo the zip and pull out a chunky cable cardigan which I haven’t worn for about five years. Then I glimpse something else. A familiar pale blue glimmering, beaded, velvety softness.

My scarf. My precious Denny and George scarf. I still remember the first instant I clapped eyes on it.

“Hey look!” I pull it out, careful not to snag any of the beads. I haven’t worn this for ages, either. “Remember this, Luke?”

“Of course I remember!” Luke’s face softens as he sees it. Then he adds, totally deadpan, “You bought it for your Aunt Ermintrude, as I recall.”

“That’s right.” I nod.

“Tragic that she died before she could ever wear it. Her arm fell off, wasn’t it?”

“Her leg,” I correct him.

Mum has been listening to this exchange, perplexed.

“Aunt who?” she says, and I can’t help breaking into a giggle.

“An old friend,” says Luke, tying the scarf around my neck. He looks at it for a moment in a kind of wonderment, then down at the baby. “Who would have thought…”

“I know.” I finger the corner of the scarf. “Who would have thought?”

Dad is still totally fixated by the baby. He’s put a finger into the crib, and the baby has wrapped her tiny hand around it.

“So, old girl,” he’s saying. “What are we calling you, then?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” I say. “It’s so hard!”

“I’ve brought you a book!” says Mum, rootling in her holdall. “What about Grisabella?”

“Grisabella?” echoes Dad.

“It’s a lovely name!” says Mum defensively, pulling out 1,000 Girls’ Names and putting it on the bed. “Unusual.”

“She’d get called Grizzle in the playground!” Dad retorts.

“Not necessarily! She could be Bella…or Grizzy….”

“Grizzy? Jane, are you mad?”

“Well, what do you like?” says Mum, affronted.

“I was thinking…possibly…” Dad clears his throat. “Rhapsody.”

I glance at Luke, who mouths Rhapsody? with such an expression of horror, I want to laugh.

“Hey, I have an idea,” chimes in Suze. “Fruit’s been done to death, but not herbs. You could call her Tarragon!”

“Tarragon?” Mum looks appalled. “You might as well call her Chili Powder! Now, I’ve got some champagne to wet her little head…. It’s not too early, is it?” She pulls out a bottle, along with a piece of paper. “Oh yes, and I took a message from your real estate agent. He phoned while I was at your flat, and I gave him a piece of my mind, I can tell you! I said, ‘A newborn baby is homeless at Christmas because of you, young man.’ That stopped him in his tracks! He said he wanted to apologize. Then he started talking some nonsense about villas in Barbados! I ask you.” She shakes her head. “Now, who wants champagne? Where are the champagne glasses?” She puts the bottle down and starts searching in the cupboards under the telly.

“I’m not sure they’ve got any champagne glasses,” I say.

“Well, for goodness’ sake!” Mum clicks her tongue and stands up again. “I’ll speak to the concierge.”

“Mum, there isn’t a concierge.”

Just because they have posh menus and tellies, Mum seems to think this place is some kind of Ritz-Carlton.

“I’ll find something,” Mum says firmly, and heads to the door.

“D’you want some help?” Suze gets to her feet. “I’ve got to phone Tarkie anyway.”

“Thank you!” Mum beams at her. “And Graham, you fetch the camera from the car. I forgot to bring it up.”

The door closes behind Dad, and Luke and I are alone in the room again. With our daughter.

God, that’s a weird thought. I still can’t quite believe we have a daughter.

Meet our daughter, Tarragon Parsley Sage and Onion.

No.

“So.” Luke pushes a hand back through his rumpled hair. “In two weeks’ time we’re homeless.”

“Out on the streets!” I say lightly. “Never mind.”

“I guess you expected to marry someone who could put a roof over your head, didn’t you?”

He’s joking, but there’s a wryness in his voice.

“Oh well.” I shrug, watching the baby’s hand unfurl like a little starfish. “Better luck next time…”

There’s silence and I glance up. Luke seems genuinely stricken.

“Luke, I’m joking!” I say hastily. “It doesn’t matter!”

“You’ve just had a baby. You should have a home. We shouldn’t be in this position. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not your fault!” I grab his hand. “Luke, we’ll be fine. We’ll make a home wherever we are.”

“I’ll get us a home,” he says, almost fiercely. “Becky, we’ll have a wonderful house, I promise you.”

“I know we will.” I squeeze his hand tight. “But honestly…it doesn’t matter.”

I’m not just saying that to be supportive.(Even though I am a very supportive wife.) It really, truly doesn’t seem to matter. Right now, I feel like I’m in a kind of bubble. Real life is on the other side, miles away. All that matters is the baby.

“Look!” I say, as she suddenly yawns. “She’s only eight hours old and she can yawn! That’s so clever!”

For a while we both gaze into the crib, awestruck, hoping she might do something else.

“Hey, maybe she’ll be prime minister one day!” I say softly. “Wouldn’t that be cool? We could get her to do all the things we wanted!”

“She won’t, though.” Luke shakes his head. “If we tell her to do them, she’ll do exactly the opposite.”