By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс
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This came pretty close to sounding like a commitment, of sorts. Her heart shivered with joyful doubt and excitement. ‘You do know I’m about to get really enormous?’
‘Every man in Paris will envy me.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Are you sure? Wait till I tell Neil.’ Then meeting his amused, tender gaze, she said, ‘This isn’t just because I’m pregnant and you’ve been harbouring some weird sicko fantasy about pregnant women?’
He laughed heartily, then tenderly tweaked her hair. ‘It’s because you are you.’ His eyes grew serious. ‘Beautiful, unique you.’
He kissed her then, with such passionate ardour she believed him. Believed every word.
And knew she was in love. All at once Paris was heaven. The sun came out, the trees glowed greenly and the flowers in the gardens all opened their beauteous faces. She strolled along the banks of the Seine with her lover, argued with him, teased and drank coffee with him in cafés on the Left Bank. She visited Notre Dame de Paris with him and was awed.
She prevailed on him to take her to all the tourist hangouts, and he obliged without protest, regaling her with a dizzying lunch at the top of the Eiffel Tower, hours and hours of pictures in galleries all over Paris, and dinners in restaurants where the waiters could run up steep flights of stairs balancing steaming trays aloft on one hand.
It was too early to share her news with the world, so she was cagey even with Emilie and Neil. ‘I’ve decided to stay on for a week or two,’ she told them in her email. ‘Luc has come to my rescue and he’s letting me stay at his place for some of the time.’
At his place. Not with him. She hoped they got the distinction, though, red-eyed and sleepless from attending to the latest set of twins all night through, they were hardly likely to notice anything.
She included a few pics of Disneyland, some of them strolling in Montmartre, and one rare one she just couldn’t resist of Luc laughing while getting drenched in a downpour of rain.
When the possibilities of varying her limited wardrobe reached saturation point, Luc took her to a boutique in the Rue Cambon, near the Ritz, that blessed venue, and some others in the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré. She tried on dozens of things, and he wanted to buy her most of them, but she accepted one lovely pale green dress to wear for daytime occasions and two for evening—one a simple, stunning black, the other a pale silvery cream.
She would never have been able to afford them herself, though she kept a tally of the cost so she could pay him back when her first truly massive royalty cheque arrived, just supposing one ever did. And she allowed the generous guy to give her some pearls and matching earrings as an outright gift.
She insisted on buying herself the shoes though, and, with the weather warming, trawled the Galleries Lafayette for some cooler things for casual wear. She couldn’t imagine how large she might be in a few months’ time, but there was the rest of spring and a certain amount of summer to live through first.
In her third week in Paris she was booked for her first prenatal visit. A private clinic had been recommended to Luc by a friend in the medical profession. It was the finest in Paris, the friend had assured Luc; reputed to be the most cutting edge in Europe.
The clinic was in the sixteenth arrondissement, across the river from Tante Laraine’s, though not far as the crow flew. In fact, after their big appointment, as Luc casually informed Shari over his breakfast croissant, his mother had suggested they join her for lunch.
‘Oh, have you told her?’ Shari said quickly.
‘Only that you’re still in Paris,’ he said soothingly, the shimmer in his eyes informing her he was perfectly alive to her alarm on the mother front.
The consultation alone was enough for Shari to worry about, without mothers—and such mothers—thrown in.
She put her anxieties aside and focused all her energies on preparing her questions for the doctor. Luc seemed as eager and excited as she was herself, an energy in his stride and a gleam in his eyes that melted her heart whenever he glanced at her.
Finally they were ushered into the consulting room and spent an arduous and exciting hour with the obstetrician, who was a pleasant and efficient Frenchwoman.
There was an endless list of questions for each of them to answer in regard to their family health histories, forms to fill out and government stuff to take care of.
Her official status in France was one of the items at issue.
‘My visa is good for another two months,’ Shari explained. ‘It will have to be extended, of course.’ She glanced at Luc. ‘Will that be a problem, do you think?’
He looked thoughtful, then shrugged. ‘Somehow we will deal with it.’
Then it was time for her examination. Luc didn’t appear to enjoy the pelvic part. Not that he was able to see much from where he was standing, wearing an expression of extreme pain.
His face lightened with relief when the doctor finally peeled off her gloves and pronounced her healthy, and, as far as she could ascertain, l’enfant progessing normally.
L’enfant. Shari’s heart skipped a beat.
And that was just the beginning. By the time the doctor had informed them of the sort of changes to expect along the way, the routine tests and ultrasounds Shari would undergo and her dietary requirements, her head was spinning.
‘We will book your ultrasound for twelve weeks. Then we can measure your baby, check for certain of the possible abnormalities, the heart, et cetera. If we have any concerns at that point there’s a remote possibility we might schedule you for an amniocentesis test.’
‘I’ve read about that.’ Shari couldn’t help wincing. ‘Is that where they insert a needle into your womb?’
For Luc’s benefit, the doctor explained the procedure and its purposes fully.
‘It is not routine these days to take this test. Only if there are particular concerns, and of course even then it is your own choice whether or not you have it,’ the doctor continued. She produced a booklet that described the whole thing in detail.
Luc looked worried. ‘But it sounds … How safe could it be?’ He glanced from Shari to the doctor.
‘Bien sûr, any intervention carries a risk, monsieur,’ the doctor replied. She indicated the booklet with all the different tests profiled. ‘The risk is there, but it is quite small. The statistics are tabled in here. I advise you to study everything carefully.’ While encouraging, her cool professional smile revealed no clue of her own feelings on any matter.
Out in the street, floating, dancing, pirouetting the few blocks to where they’d left the car, while Luc was absorbed in some deep Gallic thinking, Shari was infected with an Australian need to babble.
‘It’s beginning to feel very real.’ She fanned herself with pamphlets. ‘I’m actually creating a new person. I’m turning into a mother before your very eyes. Me. Who would’ve thought?’
Luc roused himself from his reverie and slipped his arm around her. ‘It isn’t so impossible to imagine.’
‘You think? Have you imagined it? What about you? Do you see yourself as a papa?’
He shrugged nonchalantly, straightened his shoulders and flexed a thousand or so muscles, but his gorgeous eyes glowed. ‘Maybe.’
‘I can imagine it. You’ll be stern and thoughtful and très très vraiment strict.’
He grinned at her mimicry. ‘Me— Zut, I am thinking of that ultrasound. It will be—amazing.’
‘I know,’ she breathed. ‘To hear the little heartbeat.’
He grabbed her hand. ‘Come. I’m not ready to be with other people. Let’s