Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3)

Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3) Page 89

“Right,” I say. “Tell me what you need.”

“I can’t remember exactly.” Suze looks anxious. “We were given a list… Maybe they’ll know in the baby department.”

“Will you be OK if I leave you?”

“I’ll be fine! Contractions haven’t even started.”

“You’re sure?” I glance nervously at her stomach.

“Bex, just go!”

Honestly. Why on earth do they put baby departments so far away from the main entrances of shops? I mean, what’s the point of all these stupid floors of clothes and makeup and bags, which no one’s interested in? After sprinting up and down about six escalators, at last I find it, and come to a standstill, panting slightly.

For a moment I look around, dazed by all the names of things I’ve never heard of.

Reception blanket?

Anticolic teats?

Oh, sod it. I’ll just buy everything. I quickly head for the nearest display and start grabbing things indiscriminately. Sleeping suits, tiny socks, a hat… a teddy, a cot blanket… what else? A Moses basket… nappies… little glove puppets in case the baby gets bored… a really cute little Christian Dior jacket… gosh, I wonder if they do that in grown-up sizes too…

I shove the lot onto the checkout desk and whip out my Visa card.

“It’s for my friend,” I explain breathlessly. “She’s just gone into labor. Is this everything she needs?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid, dear,” says the assistant, scanning a baby bath thermometer.

“I’ve got a list here,” says a nearby woman in maternity dungarees and Birkenstocks. “This is what the National Childbirth Trust recommends you take in.”

“Oh, thanks!”

She hands a piece of paper to me and I scan the endless typed list with growing dismay. I thought I’d done so well — but I haven’t got half the stuff they say here. And if I miss anything, it’ll turn out to be completely vital, and Suze’s whole birth experience will be ruined and I’ll never forgive myself.

Loose T-shirt… Scented candles… Plant sprayer…

Is this the right list?

“Plant sprayer?” I say bewilderedly.

“To spray the laboring woman’s face,” explains the woman in dungarees. “Hospital rooms get very hot.”

“You’ll want the home department for that,” puts in the assistant.

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

Tape recorder… soothing tapes… inflatable ball…

“Inflatable ball? Won’t the baby be a bit young to play with a ball?”

“It’s for the mother to lean on,” says the woman kindly. “To alleviate the waves of pain. Alternatively she could use a large bean bag.”

Waves of pain? Oh God. The thought of Suze in pain makes me feel all wobbly inside.

“I’ll get a ball and a bean bag,” I say hurriedly. “And maybe some aspirin. Extra-strong.”

At last I stagger back to the ground floor, red in the face and panting. I just hope I’ve got all this right. I couldn’t find an inflatable ball in the whole of the stupid shop — so in the end I grabbed an inflatable canoe instead, and made the man pump it up for me. I’ve got it wedged under one arm now, with a Teletubbies bean bag and a Moses basket stuffed under the other, and about six full carrier bags dangling from my wrists.

I glance at my watch — and to my utter horror I see that I’ve already been twenty-five minutes. I’m half expecting to see Suze sitting on the chair holding a baby in her arms.

But there she is, still on the chair, wincing slightly.

“Bex. There you are! I think my contractions have started.”

“Sorry I took so long,” I gasp. “I just wanted to get everything you might need.” A box of Scrabble falls out of one of the bags onto the ground, and I bend to pick it up. “That’s for when you have an epidural,” I explain.

“The taxi’s here,” interrupts the lady with gold spectacles. “Do you need some help with all that?”

As we make our way out to the chugging taxi, Suze is staring at my load in utter bewilderment.

“Bex… why did you buy an inflatable canoe?”

“It’s for you to lie on. Or something.”

“And a watering can?”

“I couldn’t find a plant sprayer.” Breathlessly I start shoving bags into the taxi.

“But why do I need a plant sprayer?”

“Look, it wasn’t my idea, OK?” I say defensively. “Come on, let’s go!”