Shopaholic Ties the Knot

Home again.

Quiet again.

“Becky? Is that you?” I hear Danny’s voice from above and the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

I stare dazedly up, unable to focus. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. No, make that six marathons. The last two weeks has been a blurry jumble of nights and days all run into one. Just me and Suze, and baby Ernest. And the crying.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore little Ernie. I mean, I’m going to be his godmother, and everything.

But… God. That scream of his…

I just had no idea having a baby was like that. I thought it would be fun.

I didn’t realize Suze would have to feed him every single hour. I didn’t realize he would refuse to go to sleep. Or that he would hate his crib. I mean, it came from the Conran Shop! All lovely beech, with gorgeous white blankets. You’d think he would have loved it! But when we put him in it, all he did was thrash about, going “Waaah!”

Then I tried to take him shopping — and when we started out, it was fine. People were smiling at the pram, and smiling at me, and I was starting to feel quite proud of myself. But then we went into Karen Millen, and I was halfway into a pair of leather trousers when he started to yell. Not a cute little whimper. Not a plaintive little wail. A full-throated, piercing “This Woman Has Kidnapped Me, Call the Cops” scream.

I didn’t have any bottles or nappies or anything, and I had to run down the Fulham Road, and by the time I got home, I was red in the face and panting and Suze was crying and Ernest was looking at me like I was a mass murderer or something.

And then, even after he’d been fed, he screamed and screamed all evening…

“Jesus!” says Danny, arriving downstairs in the hall. “What happened to you?”

I glance in the mirror and feel a dart of shock. I look pale with exhaustion, my hair is lank and my eyes are drained. Tarquin got home three days ago, and he did do his fair share — but that didn’t mean I got any sleep. And it didn’t help that when I finally got on the plane to fly home, I was seated next to a woman with six-month-old twins.

“My friend Suze had a baby,” I say blearily. “And her husband was stuck on an island, so I helped out for a bit…”

“Luke said you were on vacation,” says Danny, staring at me in horror. “He said you were taking a rest!”

“Luke… has no idea.”

Every time Luke phoned, I was either changing a nappy, comforting a wailing Ernie, comforting an exhausted Suze — or flat-out asleep. We did have one brief, disjointed conversation, but in the end Luke suggested I go and lie down, as I wasn’t making much sense.

Other than that, I haven’t spoken to anyone. Mum called to let me know that Robyn had left a message at the house that I should call her urgently. And I did mean to call back. But every time I had a spare five minutes to myself… somehow I just couldn’t face it. I’ve no idea what’s been going on; what kind of arguments and fallout there’s been. I know Elinor must be furious. I know there’s probably the mother of all rows waiting for me.

But… I just don’t care. All I care about right now is getting into bed.

“Hey, a bunch of boxes arrived from QVC.” Danny looks at me curiously. “Did you order a set of Marie Osmond dolls?”

“I don’t know,” I say blankly. “I expect so. I ordered pretty much everything they had.”

I have a dim memory of myself at three in the morning, rocking Ernest on my lap so Suze could have a sleep, staring groggily at the screen.

“Do you know how terrible the telly is in Britain at three in the morning?” I rub my dry cheeks. “And there’s no point watching a film, because the minute it gets to a good bit, the baby cries and you have to leap up and start joggling him around, singing ‘Old Macdonald Had a Farm, Ee-I Ee-I Oh…’ and he still doesn’t stop crying. So you have to go into ‘Oh what a beautiful mooorr-rning…’ but that doesn’t work either…”

“Right,” says Danny, backing away. “I’ll… take your word for it. Becky, I think you need a nap.”

“Yes. So do I. See you later.”

I stumble into the apartment, shove all the post on the sofa, and head for the bedroom, as single-minded as a junkie craving a hit.

Sleep. I need sleep…

A light is blinking on our message machine and as I lie down, I automatically reach out and press the button.

“Hi, Becky! Robyn here. Just to say the meeting with Sheldon Lloyd to discuss table centerpieces has been changed to next Tuesday the twenty-first, at two-thirty. Byee!”