Free A Question of Love by Isabel Wolff Page A

opening drawers and cupboards. ‘He’ll be down in a minute for supper.’ She took the top off a baby bottle and handed it to me. ‘Would you give Olivia her milk? She gets formula in the evenings because by then my boobs are all in.’
    While I settled Olivia in the crook of my arm, Fliss opened the fridge and took out some steak, a pot of cream, and a tub of butter.
    ‘Are you on the Atkins diet, Fliss?’ She certainly needed to be. The average weight gain in pregnancy is twenty-eight pounds, but Felicity, voluptuous to start with, had managed to put on four and a half stone.
    ‘Atkins? You must be joking.’ She opened the freezer and grabbed a bag of chips. ‘I love my carbs too much. Anyway, I’m still breastfeeding so I shouldn’t be dieting at all. That’s my excuse.’
    ‘But the milk’s drawn directly from the mother’s fat reserves, so if you did lose a few pounds, you’d still be fine, Fliss.’ For weeks !
    ‘I know I should.’ She pinged the elastic waistband of her old maternity trousers. ‘I’m still two stone over.’ And the rest ! ‘But I thought—’ she frowned—‘that if you carried on breast-feeding the weight just fell off.’
    ‘That’s a bit of a myth. You do lose weight when you first breastfeed, apparently, but then it often plateaus and remains…stuck.’
    Felicity gave me an odd look. ‘How do you know?’
    I stared at her. ‘I read it somewhere.’
    ‘Anyway,’ Felicity went on. ‘I’m too happy to care how fat I am, and Hugh’s too busy with his silly inventions to notice. On the rare occasions that I need to look smart I wear my atomic knickers to flatten the lard.’
    ‘Don’t neglect yourself, Fliss. That’s what the books all say.’
    ‘Oh it’ll come off in the end,’ she said airily. ‘And Hugh isn’t shallow.’ I didn’t think he was either, but hoped she was right. ‘Anyway, don’t give me a tough time about it—okay? It’s hard enough for me as it is, having two slim sisters.’
    Noticing an expensive looking little bag on the high chair, I changed the subject. ‘What have you been buying?’
    She reached for a towel and dried her hands. ‘Something scrumptious.’ She opened the bag, and pulled out a sheath of pale yellow tissue in which lay a miniature pink cardigan of exquisite softness. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous ?’
    I felt my throat constrict. ‘It is.’ Olivia grabbed at it, trying to stuff one sleeve in her mouth. ‘It’s cashmere,’ I added as I stroked it.
    Felicity grimaced. ‘I know. It cost eighty quid and she’ll only wear it for three months, but it was so delicious I couldn’t resist. In any case, why shouldn’t my little girl have the best of everything?’
    Olivia has that all right. She is dressed in beautiful baby clothes from Oilily, BabyDior and Petit Bateau. She sleeps on linen sheets. She is transported in her Bugaboo Frog pram, which cost £500, and her sheepskin-lined Bill Amberg sling. Her beaming face adorns a personalized tote bag from Anya Hindmarch, and her newborn feet were cast in solid bronze. The silk christening gown Felicity has had made for her baptism this Sunday is costing £220.
    ‘Can you afford it?’ I asked as Olivia sucked contentedly on the bottle.
    ‘Of course not,’ she replied. ‘But I don’t care because I’m on my babymoon, Laura, so I’m not going to stint, because I will never have this time again.’ This is a frequent theme of Felicity’s. That she will never get back this special time of her life, so it must be perfect in every way. Then she began talking about the christening and about how much she likes the vicar, and how it’s a nicely high church, not a ‘ghastly happy-clappy one’, and about all the lovely music there’s going to be, and the top-notch caterers she’s booked, and all the people she’s invited, and the new suit she’s going to wear.
    ‘And when are you going back to work?’ I asked her as I tilted the bottle up for Olivia. ‘Your maternity