Free Shopaholic & Baby by Sophie Kinsella

stairs with slightly less enthusiasm. I guess mine will be a Virgin Fruity Bland Something.
    I mean, obviously I don’t mind. I’m creating a beautiful new human being and all that. But still. If I were God, I’d make it OK for pregnant women to have cocktails. In fact, I’d make it
healthy
to have cocktails. And your arms wouldn’t swell up. And there wouldn’t be any morning sickness. And labor wouldn’t exist….
    Thinking about it, I’d pretty much have a whole different system altogether.
     
     
    Even on virgin cocktails, it’s a fabulous party. By midnight the marquee is full, and we’ve all had a delicious dinner. Dad has made a speech about how wonderful Mum is, as a wife and as a mother and now as a prospective grandmother. And Martin, our next-door neighbor, has performed his magic show, which was really excellent! Apart from the bit when he tried to cut Janice in half and she freaked out when he turned on the chain saw and started crying “Don’t kill me, Martin!” while he kept revving it up like some horror film maniac.
    It was all right in the end. Martin took off his mask and Janice was fine after she had some brandy.
    And now the band is playing and we’re all on the dance floor. Mum and Dad are grooving away, all rosy-cheeked and beaming at each other, the lights sparkling on Mum’s sequins. Suze is dancing with one arm round Tarquin’s neck and the other round Clementine, who woke up and wouldn’t go back to sleep. Tom and Jess are standing at the edge of the dance floor, talking and occasionally doing a kind of awkward shuffle together. Tom looks pretty good in black tie, I noticed—and Jess’s black embroidered skirt is fantastic! (I was totally sure it was Dries van Noten. But apparently it was made by a women’s collective in Guatemala and cost about 30p. Typical.)
    And I’m wearing my new pink dress with the handkerchief hem, and dancing (as best I can, given the bump) with Luke. Mum and Dad dance by and wave at us, and I smile back, trying not to cringe in horror. I know this is their party and everything. But my parents
really
don’t know how to dance. Mum’s wiggling her hips, completely out of time, and Dad’s kind of punching the air like he’s fighting three invisible men at once.
    Why can’t parents dance? Is it some universal law of physics or something?
    Suddenly a terrifying thought hits me. We’re going to be parents! In twenty years’ time,
our
child will be cringing at
us
.
    No. I can’t let it happen.
    “Luke!” I say urgently over the music. “We have to be able to do cool dancing so we don’t embarrass our child!”
    “I’m a very cool dancer,” replies Luke. “Very cool indeed.”
    “No, you’re not!”
    “I had dance lessons in my teens, you know,” he retorts. “I can waltz like Fred Astaire.”
    “
Waltz
?” I echo derisively. “That’s not cool! We need to know all the street moves. Watch me.”
    I do a couple of funky head-wriggle body-pop maneuvers, like they do on rap videos. When I look up, Luke is gaping at me.
    “Sweetheart,” he says. “What are you doing?”
    “It’s hip-hop!” I say. “It’s street!”
    “Becky! Love!” Mum has pushed her way through her dancing guests to reach me. “What’s wrong? Has labor started?”
    Honestly. My family has
no
idea about contemporary urban street dance trends.
    “I’m fine!” I say. “Just dancing.”
    Ow. Actually, I may have pulled a muscle or three.
    “Come here, J-Lo.” Luke puts his arms round me. Mum dances off to talk to Janice and I look up at Luke’s glowing face. He’s been in a good mood ever since that business call he took during coffee.
    “What was your call about?” I ask. “Good news?”
    “We’ve just had the go-ahead in Barcelona.” His nose twitches, like it always does when he’s delighted with life but wants to look deadpan. “That takes us up to eight offices, Europe-wide. All down to the Arcodas contract.”
    He never told me Barcelona was