Shopaholic and Baby

FOURTEEN

I JUST HOPE they got my message. Or the one I left last evening. Or the one I left this morning. I must have blocked Dave Sharpness’s voice mail completely, telling him to stop the investigation. But until I speak to him myself, I can’t be positive the message has got through.

Which means the surveillance could still be on.

As we leave the flat together the next morning to go to the pram center, all my senses are on high alert. I feel sure someone’s watching us. But where? Hiding in the trees? Sitting in a parked car with a long lens trained on us? I edge down the steps of the building, my eyes darting from side to side. There’s an electronic clicking sound to my left, and I instinctively shield my face with my hand — until I realize it’s not a camera, it’s someone opening their car.

“Are you all right, darling?” Luke is watching me, bemused.

The postman comes by, and I shoot a suspicious glance at him. Is he really the postman?

Oh, yes. He is.

“OK.” I hurry to Luke. “Let’s get in the car. Now.”

We should have bought a car with blacked-out windows. I told Luke all along. And a built-in fridge.

My mobile rings just as we reach the gates of our block, and I jump a mile. That timing is too coincidental. It’ll be the private detective, telling me he’s in the boot of the car. Or he’s in the building opposite, with a sniper rifle aimed at Luke….

Stop it. I didn’t hire an assassin. It’s fine.

Even so, as I get my phone out, my hands are trembling. “Er…hello?” I say nervously.

“Hi, it’s me!” comes Suze’s breezy voice, with the clamor of children’s voices in the background. “Listen, if they have a twin Urban Baby cozy-toes in red trim, will you get it for me? I’ll pay you back.”

“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.”

“Why?”

“Because…it’s cool,” I say defensively. “And all the other yummy mummies will have one.”

“The other yummy mummies?” Luke gives me a blank look. Honestly. Doesn’t he remember anything?

“In Vogue! I have to be the yummiest!”

Stuart is passing the café area, and Luke beckons him over.

“Excuse me. My wife is now talking about buying five prams. Please, can you explain to her that this is totally unreasonable?”

“You’d be surprised, sir,” says Stuart, giving me a confidential wink. “We do see a lot of repeat custom. And if you wanted to get all the pram-buying wrapped up in the one trip, it might make sense….” He trails off at Luke’s stony expression and clears his throat. “Why not try out a few models on our all-terrain stroller course? That’ll give you a real idea.”

The all-terrain stroller course is at the back of the store, and Stuart helps us take all our “possibles” over to it.

“We at Pram City are very proud of our stroller course,” he says, effortlessly pushing five buggies along in a straight line. “As you go around it, you’ll find every surface that the pram may encounter in its lifetime, from the shiny marble of a shopping mall to the pebbly beach of a summer holiday to the stone steps of a cathedral…. Here we are!”

Wow. I am quite impressed. The stroller course is about thirty meters long, like some kind of racetrack, and all the way round, people are pushing prams and calling out to each other. In the gravel section, one girl has got totally stuck with her pink umbrella buggy, and in the beach section, two toddlers are chucking sand at each other.

“Cool!” I grab the shopping-and-lattes stroller and head for the start. “Race you, Mr. Warrior.”

“You’re on.” Luke takes hold of the enormous khaki handles, then frowns. “How do I release the brake?”

“Ha! Loser!” I start dashing over the pavement section with my nippy stroller. A moment later I see Luke starting to push his monster along, and soon he’s gaining on me.

“Don’t you dare!” I say over my shoulder, and pick up the pace.

“The Warrior is invincible,” Luke says in a film-trailer voice. “The Warrior admits no defeat.”

“Can the Warrior do a twirl?” I retort. We’re on the marble surface by now, and my stroller is amazing! I push it with one finger and it practically does a figure eight. “You see? It’s absolutely—” I look up to see Luke already on the gravel. “You missed your compulsory figures!” I call in outrage. “Twenty-second penalty!”

The Warrior is pretty cool on gravel, it has to be said. It just kind of crunches the stones into submission. Whereas my stroller is a bit…crap.

“Need any help there?” Luke inquires as he watches me pick my way across. “Having trouble with your inferior pram?”

“I don’t plan to take the baby to any gravel pits,” I retort kindly. I reach the grass and accidentally-on-purpose bump my pram into Luke’s.

“Trouble with your steering?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Just testing your airbags,” I say airily. “They don’t seem to be working.”

“Very kind of you. Shall I test yours?” He bumps his pram into mine, and with a giggle I shove him back again. At the side fence I can see Stuart watching us in slight alarm.

“Any decisions yet?” he calls out.

“Oh yes,” Luke calls back, nodding. “We want three Warriors.”

“Shut up!” I hit Luke with the back of my hand and he starts to laugh.

“Make that four—” He breaks off as his mobile rings. “Hang on a sec.” He takes it out and lifts it to his ear. “Luke Brandon. Oh, hi.”

He lets go of the pram and turns away. Maybe I’ll have a go with the Warrior now. I take hold of the massive handles and give it an experimental push.

“You’re kidding,” I hear Luke saying sharply. I wheel the Warrior round till I’m facing him. His face is tight and pale, and he’s listening with an intent frown to whoever’s on the phone. Is everything OK? I mouth at him, but he immediately swivels away and takes several paces away from me.

“Right,” I can just hear him saying. “We have to…think about this.” He’s rumpling his hair as he walks along the stroller course, not even noticing the couple with the three-wheeler who have to dodge him.

Feeling slightly anxious, I start following him with the Warrior. What’s happened? Who’s that on the phone? I bump the wheels down some steps, and at last I catch up with him at the sandy beach section. As I draw near I feel a nervous flip. He’s standing still, clutching his phone, his face etched with tension.

“That’s not an option,” he keeps saying in the same low voice. “It’s not an option.” All of a sudden he notices me and his whole face jolts.

“Luke…”

“I’m talking, Becky.” He sounds rattled. “Could I have some privacy, please?” He strides off down the sand, and I gaze after him, feeling as though I’ve been punched in the face.

Privacy? From me?

My legs are trembling as I watch him striding away. What went wrong? One minute we were pushing prams and laughing and teasing each other and now…

Suddenly I’m aware of my own mobile ringing inside my bag. I have a sudden mad conviction it’s Luke, apologizing — but I can see him on the other side of the stroller course, still talking.

I pull out my phone and switch it on. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Brandon?” comes a crackly voice. “Dave Sharpness here.”

Oh, for God’s sake. Of all the times.

“At last!” I snap, taking out my worry on him. “Listen, I canceled you! What are you doing, still following my husband?”

“Mrs. Brandon.” Dave Sharpness chuckles. “If I had a penny for every woman who phones up to cancel the next day and then regrets it—”

“But I did want you to cancel!” I feel like hitting the phone in frustration. “My husband knows someone’s been following him! He saw one of your men!”

“Ah.” Dave Sharpness sounds taken aback. “Now, that should not have happened. I’ll speak to the operative concerned—”

“Call them all off! Call everybody off right this minute before my marriage gets ruined! And don’t phone me again!”

The phone is getting more and more crackly.

“I’m losing you, Mrs. Brandon,” I hear Dave Sharpness’s voice faintly. “My apologies. I’m on the road to Liverpool.”

“I said, stop the investigation!” I say, as loudly and clearly as I dare.

“What about our findings? That’s why I was ringing. Mrs. Brandon, I have a full report available for you….” His voice disappears into a sea of static.

“Findings?” I stare at the phone, my heart suddenly thumping. “What do you…Mr. Sharpness? Are you there?”

“…really think you should see the photographs…”

The crackle suddenly switches to a continuous tone. He’s gone.

I’m paralyzed, standing on the sand, one hand still clutching the Warrior. Photographs? He surely doesn’t mean—

“Becky.” Luke’s voice startles me so much that I jump, flipping my phone into the air. He bends down to pick it up from the sand, and hands it back. I can’t quite look at him as I take it with shaky hands and shove it in my pocket.

Photographs of what?

“Becky, I have to go.” Luke sounds as strained as I feel. “That was…Mel. Slight office emergency.”

“Fine.” I nod and start pushing the Warrior back to the beginning of the course. My eyes are fixed straight ahead. I feel numb. Photographs of what?

“Let’s get the Lulu Guinness pram,” says Luke as we reach the start. “I really don’t mind.”

“No. Get the Warrior.” I swallow, trying to press back the sudden lump springing up in my throat. “It doesn’t matter.”

All the fun and easyness has disappeared. I feel cold with apprehension. Dave Sharpness has got evidence of Luke doing…something. And I have no idea what.