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tiny kitchen area at the back of the shop. The filling had been Ruby’s idea—not that Chanel had objected. Like Ruby, she was always up for a bacon sandwich smothered in ketchup, but of the two of them, Ruby was far and away the worst junk food junkie. Ruby was the only person she knew who had watched
Supersize Me
and salivated throughout. Afterward she demolished two Big Macs, large fries and a Coke.
    She was aware that for somebody committed to opening a baby-wear shop devoted to all things organic, her love of junk food was—to put it mildly—something of a contradiction. These days, though, she’d stopped trying to explain it. She reasoned that vices were part of being human and lusting after fatty, processed comfort food was hers.
    To her credit, she did try to limit her intake of rubbish. She had no wish to end up with a quadruple bypass before she reached menopause, or turn into one of those wobblyarsed lard people you saw on documentaries about Texas. Tonight she would atone for the bacon sandwich with a chickpea salad in a low-fat dressing, but it wouldn’t give her anything like the same olfactory satisfaction or serotonin hit as a hamburger.
    While they ate they glanced up at the CCTV screen from time to time, looking out for customers.
    “Ooh, look,” Chanel said, picking up her magazine again. “Claudia Planchette’s expecting again.”
    “I know,” Ruby said. “There was a piece about it in
Hello!
”
    Ruby looked down at the picture. It was very different from the
Hello!
photograph. In that one she had been caught unawares with her hair all over the place and no makeup. In this—clearly posed—picture she was a vision of fresh-faced, high-cheekboned loveliness—or as Chanel put it: “Bloody ’ell, look at her. She’s got the hair, the figure, the tits, everything.”
    Ruby pointed out that the star was six months pregnant and even though she looked pretty stunning she wasn’t exactly her usual svelte self. Chanel grunted, turned sideways and pointed at her not inconsiderable stomach. “She’s six months gone and she looks smaller than me. God, why do some women get all the blinkin’ genes?”
    Ruby laughed and told her it wasn’t about genes, it was about being rich enough to have dieticians, personal trainers and makeup artists on tap.
    Chanel kept staring at the photograph. “So, where’s her spiritual guru, then? That Raj Bhojan or whatever he’s called. You never see her in a photograph without him in tow.” Claudia wasn’t simply a staggeringly rich Hollywood actress and mother of Avocado, aged two, she was also a self-proclaimed seeker after truth and spiritual enlightenment.
    “Probably off somewhere, putting drops in his third eye,” Ruby remarked. Chanel laughed so much she almost choked on her sandwich. She carried on devouring the article and reading bits out to Ruby. “Blimey, get this: ‘St. Luke’s has agreed to Planchette bringing in her own Ghanaian midwife to deliver the baby. After the birth, in an ancient Ghanaian ritual, the midwife will bury the placenta in the garden of Planchette’s £7.5 million home to ensure the child doesn’t wander from its roots.’
    “So, what do you think she’ll call this one?” Chanel went on. “My money’s on Lychee or Quince. Or Pomegranate. Pomegranate Planchette. It’s got a certain ring about it, don’t you reckon?”
    They spent the next couple of minutes convulsed with laughter as they came up with even more bizarre names like Paw Paw and Papaya.
    “Oh, by the way,” Chanel said when they couldn’t think of any more, “I forgot to mention…Strange coincidence—while you were at St. Luke’s this morning, one of their hospital managers rang to speak to you.”
    She explained that the manager, whose name was Jill McNulty, was in charge of the prenatal department. She wanted to know if Ruby would be prepared to give a regular talk to first-time mothers about what they needed to buy for a new baby. “I think