‘What if it’s night time? Are we delivering by candlelight?’
‘Possibly,’ Andrea deadpanned back.
They both had very mixed feelings about the lengthy birth plans that some mothers-to-be or couples arrived with.
These were often novella-length epistles on how the perfect birth was to be achieved, and involved a misty-eyed view of childbirth and how a seven-pound baby could emerge from what was essentially a very small part of a woman’s body. There was always music, soft lighting, deep joy and no sense of the pain of getting a bowling-ball-sized object out of their vagina.
‘First baby?’ asked Indy.
‘Yup. No complications, easy pregnancy so far and she’s very fit. Which can be—’
‘— good or bad,’ agreed Indy.
Very fit people often thought that the painful bits of childbirth didn’t happen if you could run a marathon and got quite a shock to realise that glutes of steel did not necessarily translate to an easy birth. The plus was that fit people were better able for the process.
At half five on Wednesday morning, Indy got the call from Flo, the junior midwife, who’d been with the Platts since half-twelve the night before.
She’s got to seven centimetres dilated,’ said Flo, sounding a bit harassed.
‘I’ll be right there,’ said Indy, swinging her legs out of the bed.
‘You OK?’ she added.
‘Bit stressed,’ whispered Flo. ‘We’re going a bomb on the incense and it’s making me sick.’
‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ said Indy. She was on emergency shift only today – she was sure there were more wedding things she’d be needed for.
Eden had said that hanging the silk flowers was going to take up a fair chunk of time and they still had to fit in going with their mother to pick up her wedding dress. Plus, tonight was the hen-night dinner. She’d have to slip in a nap at some point in the day or she’d be pooped before she even started this evening.
Indy was in and out of the shower and dressed in five. A slick of suncream, her hair tied back and a dab of lemon verbena on her elbows and collar bone, and she was done.
Steve, who could sleep through anything, moved in the bed.
‘Delivery,’ murmured Indy, leaning down to kiss him on the shoulder. She took his phone and set the alarm for six forty-five, fifteen minutes earlier than usual. When he was alone, getting the girls out of the house took longer. Minnie was seven, Daisy was six: they both had long blond hair they liked in plaits and Steve was not as quick as Indy at doing them. Almost, though.
Then, because it looked so inviting, she kissed his shoulder again. He made a soft growling noise. ‘Temptress.’
‘Beloved,’ she replied, grinning.
She was in the car with an insulated cup of instant coffee and a protein bar in two more minutes, and onto the road towards the Platts’ semi-D a moment later, having let Snickers and Twix out into the garden for their morning pee.
As she drove, she passed Savannah’s house, which was a huge mock Georgian surrounded by a wall and security gates.
Indy was a big believer in living mindfully and not giving in to guilt, but she felt a hint of it now as Savannah’s house appeared in her rear-view mirror. It had been ages since she’d seen Savannah properly. Indy and her mother met up every week, Eden too, and even Rory used to until she got into writing that damned book, which she was very cagey about. But Savannah rarely did.
Her business had become so successful and Indy could see how it would take up vast tracts of time, especially since she had Clary, and Calum was apparently very into his competitive cycling so Savannah had to do all the kid stuff but—
That ping was in her head again: the one that she heard when she thought about her sister. She couldn’t put her finger on it but she kept thinking that something was wrong with Savannah. Calum was very charming when they all met up and he appeared to dote on her sister, never far from her side. It all looked great on paper but Indy worried that good on paper was not always good in reality. Ping, ping, ping.
All thoughts of her sister vanished when she reached her destination.
Chateau Platt smelt like a Moroccan souk after a wild weekend. When the front door was opened, Indy was assailed by what smelled like patchouli, oud, musk from several hundred oxen and what could easily have been marijuana. If there was a hint of marijuana at this home birth, she would go ballistic.
But despite the smell, Mike Platt looked entirely focused and not even vaguely relaxed, which at least ruled out drugs.
‘You’re here! That other girl is too young! Monica’s in pain. It’s not right!’
‘Nice to see you, Mike,’ said Indy calmly, following him up the stairs. The scent of dog was added to the mix. Two beautiful Afghan hounds lay on the floor outside the bedroom, their long silken doggy hair like something from a conditioner commercial.
