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the corners of his mouth and folded his arms in defiance.
    “Come on. Say it. Say the magic word. Pl…”
    “Plain!” the child exclaimed, holding out a tiny chubby hand. Since he couldn’t have been more than three, it was clear to Ruby and Chanel that this had been said without a hint of sarcasm or cheek. His mother didn’t see it that way. Just as she was about to explode with fury, Chanel stepped in and suggested she take the child off to the play area. Introducing a play area with a miniature slide, climbing frame and pedal cars had been Chanel’s idea. It had also turned out to be a stroke of absolute genius. It was another reason mothers returned to Les Sprogs again and again.
    Coat woman was beginning to calm down. “Ooh, isn’t that exciting,” she cooed to her son. “Now then, off you go with the nice lady while I browse.” Finn took Chanel’s hand and the two of them trotted off. “Oh, by the way,” coat woman called out after Chanel, “Finn’s educational psychologist says he is gifted, so he might find the Play-Doh a bit beneath him.”
    Neither Ruby nor Chanel reacted. They were used to shallow, haughty women like the coat and their long-suffering trophy brats. It was at times like this that Ruby wished she had been able to fulfil her dream of opening a more mass-market baby shop with an ethnic, Body Shop–style spin. She had even come up with a name for it: Baby Organic. She would often lie awake and let her imagination run away with her as she imagined herself pioneering the first global baby-wear chain, which sold affordable clothes—and maybe later on, even baby food—made entirely from organic products.
    The two women made a beeline for the Gucci baby wear. They oohed and aahed over the fabulously expensive outfits. Finally the coat selected a pair of blue suede baby slippers with a £100 price tag. As the pair carried on picking things up and putting them down, Ruby caught snippets of their conversation. At one point the coat patted her bump and informed papoose woman that she had booked herself in for a planned cesarean at the Portland.
    “Oh really?” papoose woman simpered, her tone giving more than a hint that she was about to claim the moral high ground in this conversation. “So you’re not going to do it naturally, then? Such a shame. I always think natural childbirth is better for the baby.” She looked down beatifically and stroked her baby’s head. “But of course your mind has to be centered and you have to be in a place where you see the labor as work rather than pain. Not everybody is capable of doing that. When I had Serendipity I went for seventeen hours without any drugs. But it was worth it for the whole water-birth experience. And then afterward we buried the placenta under a tree in the garden.”
    “That’s absolutely fine,” the coat came back, her languid smile no disguise for the venom she was clearly feeling, “if you don’t mind the aftereffects. Personally, I always worry about the structural damage caused by natural childbirth. Your husband may not mind finding your hallway a great deal roomier than it once was, but I know mine would be less than happy.” At this point the women exchanged taut, tension-charged smiles and went their separate ways. For the next ten or fifteen minutes each looked round the shop alone. In the end neither woman bought very much. Papoose woman bought a dream catcher and a pair of newborn Navaho moccasins. The coat bought Finn a £40 T-shirt with “I’m a genius” written across it.
    There was only one more customer before lunch, but Chanel managed to sell her a Silver Cross Balmoral pram and a whole load of nursery furniture and baby clothes—including half a dozen Guatemalan romper suits.
    “Kerrr-ching,” Chanel declared after the woman had gone. Chanel was on commission and worked out the sale had earned her over £50. She insisted that lunch was on her.
    They sat eating bacon and fried egg sandwiches in the