LITMIR.BIZ

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note to bomb up to Childrenswear on the fourth floor, first thing tomorrow morning when I get into work. Poppy, the sales assistant up there, said they had a delivery last week of the cutest little bunny romper suits she’d ever seen. They even have big floppy ears on the hood and a detachable fluffy rabbit tail for the bottom. I’ll get the pink and blue, to cover both eventualities. But what if Sam goes gender-neutral like Belinda? She’s another regular customer and her son and daughter are always dressed in identical green or yellow smock shirts with baggy knee-length shorts – a stand against commercial gender stereotyping, apparently. Hmmm, maybe I should get the lemon romper suit too, just in case.

      ‘Georgie, you know Nathan cried. Big tumbling man tears, he’s so happy,’ Sam says.

      ‘Of course he is, he adores you, and now you’re going to be a proper gorgeous little family. It’s the best news ever. Can I tell Dad?’ I ask, knowing how fond she is of him. Sam’s wonderful dad, Alfie Palmer, the charismatic and incredibly wealthy owner of Palmer Estates, one of the biggest estate agencies in the country, died earlier this year, leaving his millions to Sam; it meant no expense was spared on their extremely emotional wedding on a picturesque hillside overlooking Lake Como. But it wasn’t the same as Alfie actually being there, so my dad stepped in to do the honours and I felt so proud of him. Nathan’s parents live in Italy, so it was the perfect location for them to marry in before travelling around Europe for the summer, followed by a magical second honeymoon in New York and Hawaii last month.

      ‘Of course you can. Although it’s probably best to wait a bit. It’s very early days.’

      ‘So when is the baby due?’

      ‘I’m not entirely sure. In about eight months’ time?’ she laughs, making big wide eyes and waving her hands in the air.

      ‘Aw, so he or she could be a honeymoon baby then.’ I quickly count the weeks off in my head.

      ‘Sure could be. And ohmigod, Georgie, you’ve just given me a brainwave.’

      ‘I have?’ I ask cautiously. You never know with Sam and her madcap ideas sometimes.

      ‘Of course, if it’s a girl we can call her Honey … sooo romantic.’ I let out a little sigh of relief, pleased that Manhattan or Honolulu aren’t in the running as suitable baby monikers. ‘Or, no wait. Hold on!’ Sam clutches my arm as she thinks for a second before announcing, ‘Honey Moon Taylor! How perfect is that?’ she beams, stretching her hand up and wide in a semi-circle above her head, as if visualising the words emblazoned in flashing lights across a billboard. My mind boggles. Sam is a real queen of hearts, a matchmaker, a true romantic, but I’ve never seen her like this before, so animated with baby love. And we’ve never really talked about having babies before, I’m not that interested, to be honest, unlike her.

      ‘Very,’ I say, secretly wondering if Nathan would go for it. He’s a maritime lawyer, loaded and solid; he strikes me as a more traditional-name-type guy. ‘I’m absolutely made up for you both and this calls for a proper celebration. Dinner and fizz somewhere posh. Orange juice for you obvs.’ I laugh.

      ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel.’ Sam beams. ‘No more Jägerbombs for me,’ she shrugs. ‘We could try out that new restaurant down by the marina, the swanky one that’s opened up to cater for the visiting glamouratti arriving on their yachts.’

      ‘Good idea, but in the meantime these will have to do.’ I pull open a box of mince pies and offer them to her. Sam takes three. I give her a look.

      ‘Whaat?’

      ‘I didn’t say a word,’ I smile as she crams one of the pies into her mouth.

      ‘One for me and one for the baby,’ she explains, in between bites.

      ‘And that one?’ I point to the pie still clutched in her left hand.

      ‘Could be twins.’ Sam winks and collapses back into the sofa. ‘Nathan’s dad is a twin and you know what they say about twins running in families. God, I’d actually love to have twins. Double sweetness.’

      Laughing and shaking my head, I flick the television on and help myself to another mince pie.

      ‘Sooo, talking of romance, how are things going with Tom?’ Sam makes big eyes and gives me a hopeful grin.

      ‘Weell … ’ I hesitate, unsure if I’m ready to share the exquisite details of his practically perfect taut chest, or his delicious chocolatey scent. Or the way he tilts his head to one side and smiles in an endearingly attentive way when I talk, or the way my thighs tingle when he gives me a cheeky surreptitious wink from across the shop floor.

      ‘Oooh, carry on. No need to be coy,’ Sam says, giving me a gentle nudge in the ribs with her foot. ‘How was your date last night?’

      ‘Oh Sam, it was perfect as always. He’s so funny. And such a gentleman. Turned up with treats for Mr Cheeks and a little box of Belgian truffles for me. We went out for tapas and chatted all evening, taking a romantic stroll along the moonlit beach – his idea, and he even carried my heels after I changed into flats to make it over the pebbles before we cuddled up by the pier, then back here an—’

      ‘Cor! Tell me more.’

      ‘We talked. Just work stuff, you know, his plans for the store, how he wants to rekindle the glory from its heyday, make Carrington’s magnificent again, maybe open more shops in other locations, that kind of thing,’ I say, keeping the rest to myself. How worried he is about pulling it off while trying to ignore the whispers and speculation in the business world over his acumen. He’s only twenty-nine, two years older than me. And Sam is my best friend, we usually tell each other everything. And Tom didn’t say any of this was a secret, but still, I guess he assumed he doesn’t need to. Anyway, I’m flattered that he trusts me, and I don’t want to do anything to break his trust.

      ‘Hmmm, is that all? But I want to hear about the sex. I know he’s been away for work, but your long distance flirtation has been going on for long enough now. You’ve had Mr Cheeks for well over a month and, like I said before, a shared pet is huge. Practically living together. Tell me you at least had a snog.’ Sam eyes me eagerly.

      ‘Of course,’ I grin, relishing the exquisite memory of his lips firm on mine and his fingers entwined in my hair as he pulled open my blouse, pushed up my skirt and swung me across the kitchen table. It was amazing. Like something out of a film, and I feel breathless just thinking about it.

      ‘Did you get naked?’

      ‘Mmmm.’ I smile. Last night was our first time, well … first, second and third times, to be fair. A glorious hat-trick medley of kitchen table, up against the wall in my hall, followed by an incredible bedroom finale, each time more thrilling than the last. Then we stayed up nearly all night, chatting and laughing together, swapping cringeworthy stories from our respective teenage years with a bit of truth or dare thrown in. But I’m not ready to share the details with Sam. I want to savour the memory to myself for just a little longer. I fantasised about sleeping with Tom from the very moment I clapped eyes on him, when he turned up in the staff canteen on his first day at work. Of course, I didn’t know he was actually Tom Carrington then; he went undercover, pretended he was just another sales assistant. All part of his plan to assess the store from the ground floor as it were, before buying it from his aunt Camille, whose grandfather was the original Mr Harry Carrington, aka Dirty Harry, on account of his philandering ways with the showgirls from the old music hall on Lovelace Road. Tom has assured me, though, that Dirty Harry’s antics are not a genetic familial trait, which is a big relief.

      ‘Skin on skin?’ Sam probes.

      ‘Stop it,’ I laugh.

      ‘Did he stay the night?’

      ‘No. Well, yes, kind of, but he had to leave in the early hours, said he had a Skype meeting first thing with a foreign supplier and needed some much overdue sleep.’

      ‘So how many times have you actually seen him now?’

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