Shut Your Eyes (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 3), стр. 57

‘There isn’t one.’

With Lucy taking the lead, I’m practically dragged along Frith Street, past Soho Square and through a succession of minor streets.  Before long, we reach Liberty’s unmistakable mock-Tudor façade, take the main entrance and come to a halt in the atrium.  While Lucy examines the displays, poking at bags and threading scarves through her fingers, I gaze up at the four storeys rising above me, each one a dark timbered gallery illuminated by soft light tumbling from the chandeliers above.

‘Let’s go up to Homewares,’ Lucy suggests.  ‘They’ve got cooking stuff.’

‘Why would you want cooking stuff?’

‘D’uh … to cook with.’

She beckons me to follow her, navigating a path to the right, through the Jewellery department, before climbing a creaking wooden staircase.  Giving Women’s Clothing a wide berth, we climb another flight of stairs, and then a third, finally reaching Homewares.

Impressed that my heart’s opted for a mild tango rather than a full-blown quick-step, I stand still, taking in the random displays of teapots and tiles and trays indiscriminately arranged on a jumble of tables and shelving units. Immediately, Lucy begins to mooch, leaving me to my own devices.  Vaguely aware of Christmas music playing in the background, I head to the right of the gallery, past a display of Liberty-print dressing gowns.  Wondering how on Earth this can be classed as Homewares, I’m stopped in my tracks by a rail of tiny pastel-coloured clothes.  A young couple pause in front of me, the man waiting patiently while the woman examines the outfits.  It’s when she turns, revealing a huge baby bump, that my brain kicks into panic-laden overdrive.  Dragging my attention in her wake, she moves off to the right, into a small, brightly lit room. Little Liberty.  I shuffle forward and peer through the doorway, coming face-to-face with a display of cots and blankets and bibs.

Babies.

Shit.

Babies.

An abject failure to deal with a more than slightly pressing situation.

Babies.

‘You bloody idiot,’ I scold myself, raking through the past few days.

What with Gordon’s company and the paparazzi attention, I didn’t dare visit a pharmacy in Manhattan, deciding to seek one out at the airport instead.  Only there wasn’t a pharmacy at the airport, at least not one I could find.  After returning home to Camden and sleeping off the effects of the trip, I woke yesterday morning certain it was already too late.  True to form, I blanked it out, a tactic that’s worked pretty well for me in the past.  But it’s not the right tactic now.  Fixing my attention on a display of teeny-tiny boys’ clothing, I realise I’ve been a first-class idiot.  I need to seek some advice, and quickly too.

‘What’s up with you?’ Lucy demands, snapping me out of my reverie.  ‘Getting broody?’

I swallow, hard.

‘No way.’

‘Let’s go through there.  Kitchen department.’

Taking hold of my arm, she hauls me past a display of clocks, through a timber archway into another section, this one arranged around a balcony above the main light well.  Plates, cups, saucers, teapots, bowls: they’re everywhere – set out in piles on tables, displayed in cabinets, even perched precariously on chairs.

‘Christ, I’m crap at presents.’  Edging forward, I scan the wares.  ‘I never got Dad anything for his sixtieth.’

‘You were a bit distracted at the time.’

And I’m distracted now.  By visions of nappies and baby wipes.  Closing my eyes, I shake them out of my head.

‘So, what are you getting?’ Lucy touches a plate.

‘No idea.’

‘Who are you buying for?’

‘Mum, Dad, Sara.’

‘Gordon?’

‘What do you get for the man who’s already got everything?’

I pause, eyeing up a range of teacups, decorated with flowers.  If I’m not very much mistaken, I’ve just spotted a sweet pea.  Suddenly excited, I head for the display and pick up a cup.  It’s crafted from delicate porcelain, and yes, adorned with sweet peas, curling around the body of the cup and twisting up the handle.  I examine the rest of the display.  Amongst the teacups and saucers, there’s a matching teapot, a sugar bowl and a milk jug.  Perfect.

‘Is there something special about that cup?’ Lucy asks.

‘No.  It’s just pretty, that’s all.’

She picks up another, turns it over and draws in a breath.

‘Twenty-five pounds.’  She puts it back down, carefully, and waves at the matching teapot.  ‘I can’t imagine how much that is.’

‘I’m getting this for Gordon,’ I announce.  ‘Hold these.  I can’t see any baskets.’

I pass two cups and saucers to Lucy and equip myself with a teapot and a milk jug.

‘He’s American.  He won’t know what to do with it.  They’re all coffee, coffee, coffee …’

‘I’ll educate him in the ways of tea.’

Which is a downright lie.  In actual fact, the tea set’s for Dan.  As yet, I haven’t managed to locate a teapot in the apartment, and we can’t carry on like that.  He may well be a coffee man, but I’m sure I can convert him with this little lot.  Wandering further through the department, I choose a biscuit tin for Dad, and wedge it under my arm.  And then serendipity runs dry, leaving my brain to descend into its usual shopping-panic mode.

‘So, what do you want?’ I ask.

Lucy shakes her head.

‘Dunno.’

‘There are some electric mixers over there.’

She seems terrified.

‘Oh, I don’t know.  Electric mixers.  That’s a bit serious.’  She shrugs.  ‘Let’s leave it for now.’

Relieved of the tea set and biscuit tin by a helpful assistant, we skirt further round the gallery, finally arriving at a luminous sign that informs us we’re entering the Bath House.  A few more steps and I’m surrounded by oils and body butters, shampoo and lotions, candles and vanity bags.  And there’s soap too.  Mounds of the stuff – in all colours and sizes – laid out on tables and shelves and