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“Oh, Venetia’s wonderful,” says Saskia, who seems far more intense than her friend. “She’s not like these old-fashioned doctors. She really connects with you. My boss, Amanda, had the most fabulous holistic water birth with lotus flowers and Thai massage.”

Thai massage? Dr. Braine’s never even mentioned Thai massage.Advertisement

“My husband won’t pay for her.” Turquoise-wrap girl pouts. “He’s a meanie. Saskia, you’re so lucky—”

“How do you get a place with her?” The words come spilling out before I can stop them. “Do you have the address? Or the phone number?”

“Ooh.” Turquoise-wrap girl exchanges doubtful glances with Saskia. “You’re probably too late now. She’ll be booked up.”

“I can give you this. You could try ringing.” Saskia reaches into her Mulberry bag and produces a brochure with Venetia Carter in elegant raised navy-blue script and a line drawing of a baby. I open it up and the first thing I see is a page of glowing testimonials, with names listed discreetly underneath. All famous! I turn to the back and there’s an address in Maida Vale.

I don’t believe it. Maida Vale is where we live. Oh, this is totally meant!

“Thanks,” I say breathlessly. “I will.”

As Saskia and her friend move away, I whip out my mobile phone and speed-dial Luke.

“Luke!” I exclaim as soon as he answers. “Thank God you answered! Guess what?”

“Becky, are you OK?” he asks in alarm. “What’s happened?”

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“I’m fine! But listen, we have to change doctors! I’ve just found out about this brilliant celebrity obstetrician called Venetia Carter. Everyone goes to her and she’s amazing, apparently, and she practices near us! It couldn’t be more perfect! I’m about to call her!”

“Becky, what on earth are you talking about?” Luke sounds incredulous. “We’re not changing doctors! We have a doctor, remember. A very good one.”

Wasn’t he listening?

“I know we do,” I say. “But Venetia Carter delivers all the film stars’ babies! She’s holistic!”

“What do you mean, ‘holistic’?” Luke sounds unimpressed. God, he has such a closed mind.

“I mean everyone has a fabulous birth! She does Thai massage! I just met these two girls in Bambino, and they said—”

Luke cuts me off. “I really can’t see what advantages this woman could have over Dr. Braine. We know he’s experienced; we know he does a good job; he’s a friend of the family….”

“But…but…” I’m hopping with frustration.

“But what?”

I’m stumped. I can’t say, “But he doesn’t have tea parties with supermodels.”

“Maybe I want to be treated by a woman!” I exclaim with sudden inspiration. “Had you thought of that?”

“Then we’ll ask Dr. Braine to recommend a colleague,” Luke replies firmly. “Becky, Dr. Braine has been the family obstetrician for years. I really don’t think we should run off to some unknown trendy doctor on the say-so of a couple of girls.”

“But she’s not unknown! That’s the whole point! She treats celebrities!”

“Becky, just stop.” Luke suddenly sounds forceful. “This is a bad idea. You’re already halfway through your pregnancy. You’re not changing doctors, end of story. Iain’s here. I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

The phone goes dead and I stare at it, livid.

How dare he tell me which doctor I’m going to? And what’s so great about his precious Dr. Braine? I stuff my mobile and the brochure into my bag and start furiously filling my basket with Petit Lapin baby suits.

Luke doesn’t understand anything. If all the movie stars go to her, then she has to be good.

And it would be so cool. So cool.

I suddenly have a vision of myself lying in hospital, cradling my new baby, with Kate Winslet in the next bed. And Heidi Klum in the bed beyond that. We’d all become friends! We’d buy each other little presents, and all our babies would be bonded for life, and we’d go to the park together and be photographed by Hello! magazine. Kate Winslet pushes her pram, chatting with a friend.

Maybe with her best friend, Becky.

“Excuse me, do you need another basket?” A voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see a salesperson gesturing at my overflowing pile of baby clothes. I’ve just been stuffing them into the basket without really noticing.

“Oh, thanks,” I say in a daze. I take the second wicker basket from him and wander over to a display of tiny hats labeled LITTLE STAR and LITTLE TREASURE. But I can’t concentrate. pqdm.com