Christmas Shopaholic Read online

  “I didn’t know what size I needed,” I retort. “And I didn’t know if I needed regular or long. Don’t blame me, Luke,” I add, warming to my theme. “Blame poor sizing standards in the fashion industry, which penalize the innocent consumer.”

  “Hmm. What about those eight cushions?” says Luke, his gaze turning to yesterday’s delivery, stacked against the baseboards. “Sizing issues there too?”

  “I couldn’t see the colors properly online,” I say defensively. “I had to order them all to have a proper look. I’m only keeping two; I’ll send the rest back tomorrow. Free returns. And do you know how much I saved on them? Fifty-two pounds!”

  “Becky, I would pay fifty-two pounds for our house not to look like a bloody depot,” says Luke, eyeing all the boxes and packages filling the hall. “All we need is a guy in a brown overall with a forklift truck.”

  “Ha ha,” I say, rolling my eyes sardonically.

  “And when are you going to send back those statues?” Luke gestures at the life-sized statues of Aphrodite and Hermes which are standing at the bottom of the stairs, still half-wrapped in brown paper. “We’ve had them a week. They’re grotesque!”

  “They’re not grotesque,” I say defensively. “They’re avant-garde. And I can’t send them back, because they’re ethical.”

  “Ethical?” Luke stares at me.

  “They were made by a disadvantaged youth group,” I explain. “Upcycled from bicycle parts and fridge components.”

  I have to admit, they’re pretty monstrous. And I didn’t realize they would be so big. But how can I send them back? If I do, the youth group will be devastated. All their self-esteem will vanish, and it will be our fault for not being open-minded about their statues.

  “Well, they’re giving Minnie nightmares,” says Luke flatly. “I had to put a bag over Aphrodite’s head.”

  “I think she looks more sinister with the bag over her head,” I counter. “She looks scary. She looks like a hostage.”

  “She looks even more scary when she’s gazing at you with her cold metal eyes.” Luke shudders. “Could we not just have given some money to the youth group?”

  “That’s not how ethical shopping works, Luke,” I say patiently. “You have to buy the stuff. Anyway, I need to try these on. When are we leaving?”

  “Eight minutes,” says Luke. “And counting.”

  I dash upstairs, clutching the packages, and quickly try the first jumpsuit on. Hmm. Too long. I grab the regular and put that on instead—then stare at myself in the mirror. At last!

  What happened was, last week I was watching a TV show and saw this really cool jumpsuit. So of course I instantly stopped concentrating on the show, grabbed my laptop, and started googling jumpsuits instead. It took me a while to find one that wasn’t sold out—but here we are!

  I survey myself, trying to be fully objective. It’s a great fabric. The navy color is elegant, and the flared trousers are really flattering. It’s just the front that I’m peering at uncertainly. Or, rather, the lack of front. It’s even more revealing than the one on TV.

  Can I get away with a jumpsuit slashed to the navel?

  Can I?

  Am I too old?

  No. No! Fashion is timeless. You should be able to wear what you like, when you like. All the old rules are gone.

  They wear outfits like this on the red carpet all the time, I remind myself, trying to bolster my own confidence. Ribs are the new cleavage. Besides, it’s not indecent. Not strictly speaking. I mean, you can’t see my nipples.

  Not quite.

  And, OK, so I’m not heading onto the red carpet; I’m heading for dinner with Mum and Dad at Luigi’s of Oxshott—but I can still wear something fashion-forward, can’t I? People will call me the Girl in the Iconic Jumpsuit. They’ll look at me in awe as I sashay past, wishing they could wear something so daring.

  Exactly.

  Defiantly, I grab a red lipstick and start applying it. I can do this. I can style it out. Go, Becky.

  The November air outside is crisp and chilly and I can smell the tang of a bonfire. Across the road they’ve got fairy lights up already. It’ll be Christmas before we know it. At the thought, I feel a warm, happy sensation spread through me. Christmas is just so…Christmassy. The tree. Presents. The Nativity set we’ve had forever (except we lost baby Jesus years ago, so we use a clothes peg instead). Carols playing and Mum pretending she made the Christmas pudding. Dad lighting a fire, and Janice and Martin popping in for a sherry in terrible Christmas sweaters.

  The thing about our family Christmas is, it’s always the same. In a good way. Mum always buys the same things, from the crackers to the Waitrose chocolate roll. Now that we have Minnie, we all get even more excited—and this year she’ll be old enough to really understand it. I’ll buy her a cute Christmas outfit and we’ll look out for Father Christmas in the sky and leave out a mince pie for him….Basically, I can’t wait.

  Luke’s dad and sister are going to Florida for Christmas, and to be fair, they invited us along. His mum, Elinor, is going to be in the Hamptons, and she invited us too. But we’ve declined both invitations. We both want a nice, normal, happy family Christmas.

  As I buckle Minnie into her car seat, I look back at our house and feel a familiar tweak of disbelief at how life has changed for Luke and me over the last year or so. Once upon a time we lived in central London and I worked at a department store called The Look. We knew where we were heading, and everything seemed settled.

  Then we went on this massive, life-changing adventure to California—and while we were away, The Look went bust. And openings for other personal-shopping jobs were pretty thin on the ground. At the same time, my best friend, Suze, decided to expand her gift shop at Letherby Hall, the stately home where she lives. (It was more of a gift “cupboard” till then.) I was having a glass of wine with her one evening and bewailing the fact that I couldn’t find a job, while she was bewailing the fact that she couldn’t find anyone to help run the gift shop—and asking me for all my ideas—when the solution hit us.

  So now I’m an employee of Letherby Hall Gift Shop! Not only that, Luke and I have moved out of London to the village of Letherby. We’re three minutes away from Suze, living in a house owned by a family who have gone to Dubai for two years. We’ve rented out our London house. Luke commutes to his job, and Minnie has joined the village school with all of Suze’s kids. It’s perfect! The shopping isn’t that brilliant in Letherby—but you can get everything online, next-day delivery. So it’s all good.

  Mum and Dad are thrilled, too, because 1. Letherby isn’t too far from Oxshott, where they live, and 2. our rented house has off-street parking. Off-street parking is, like, my parents’ religion. That and double glazing. And “good quality” curtains.

  (Though Mum and I don’t exactly agree on what “good quality” curtains means. We discovered this when she dragged me to a curtain exchange place and tried to make me buy some wadded blue flowery curtains, which were “a fraction of what they’d cost new, Becky, love, a fraction.” At last I said, “Actually, I might get blinds,” and she looked devastated and said, “But these are such good quality!” and I said, “But they’re gross.” Which I shouldn’t have done.)

  (I mean, it was fine. Mum was only offended for about half an hour. And every time I visit her, I say, “Those curtains look great in the spare room, Mum, and the matching duvet is gorgeous.”)

  As we pull up in front of Suze’s massive front door, Minnie starts wriggling with excitement. She loves having sleepovers with Suze’s children so much, I almost get offended. I mean, what’s wrong with home?

  “Wilfie!” she’s already yelling, as he appears in the drive. “Wilfie! I’m here, I’m here! Let’s play monter tucks!”

  “Monter tucks” is Minnie-talk for “monster trucks.” Minnie, Wilfie, and Wilfie’s twin, Clemmie, spend h
ours happily running monster trucks up and down the endless corridors of Letherby Hall. I’ve even bought Minnie her own truck to keep there.

  I’ve also made sure to mention this fact when I write emails to Jess, who’s living in Chile at the moment. Jess and her husband have applied to adopt a child, rather than add to the world’s population problem, and meanwhile Jess is always lecturing me about bringing up Minnie in a gender-neutral way and sending me books called things like The Zero-Carbon Child.

  So last week I wrote her an email—I’m really encouraging Minnie in non-gender-aligned play—and attached a photo of Minnie clutching a truck, wearing a pair of Wilfie’s jeans. (She’d fallen in the mud and had to change out of her frilly skirt.) Jess wrote back: That’s sound thinking, Becky, we have to fight the sexist stereotypes, but couldn’t you find trucks crafted from sustainable wood?

  I haven’t got back to her about that yet. (I did ask Luke if he could whittle a monster truck for Minnie out of sustainable wood, and he just looked at me.)

  Nor have I mentioned to Jess Minnie’s massive collection of dolls and sparkly fairy wings or the way she begs to wear a pink dress every day. Because you don’t have to tell your frugal, vegan, principled sister everything, do you?

  I just manage to kiss Minnie goodbye before she hurtles into the house with Wilfie, carrying her little backpack with all her overnight stuff. Next moment, Suze arrives in the drive, wearing yoga leggings and a sweatshirt, her blond hair piled up and secured with a bulldog clip.

  “I’ll make sure Minnie’s OK,” says Luke, heading into the house.

  “Thanks so much for having her, Suze,” I say as I hug her.

  “Anytime!” says Suze. “And give my love to your parents.”

  “Of course.” I pause before adding casually, “Hey, Suze. You know how you have that sculpture park bit in the garden here?”

  I’ve suddenly remembered the North Lawn at Letherby Hall, which is littered with metal orbs and carved bits of stone and stuff. It’s open to the public and has loads of room in it and is the perfect solution.

  “Yes?” Suze looks a bit surprised. “What about it?”

  “Well, I wondered if you’d like an art donation?”

  “An art donation?” She stares at me.

  “Yes, two statues. Very avant-garde,” I add carelessly. “If you can transport them, then you have them for free.”

  “Statues?” Suze peers at me in bewilderment—then her face suddenly changes. “Not those two monstrosities in your hall.”

  Drat. I didn’t think she’d seen them.

  “They’re not monstrosities,” I say defensively. “They’re art. When did you see them, anyway?”

  “When I dropped Minnie back home the other day. Bex, they’re vile. Why on earth did you buy them?”

  “Because they’re made by a very deserving youth group,” I say loftily. “And I think they have artistic merit, actually.”

  “Well, good for you,” says Suze. “I hope you enjoy them. Although if you think they’re so great, why is there a bag over the head of one of them?”

  Oh God. I can’t keep up the pretense any longer.

  “Suze, please have them,” I beg in a rush. “You’ve got so much room. You could hide them behind a tree, and no one would even see them.”

  “No way.” Suze folds her arms. “Just send them back.”

  Honestly. Wasn’t she listening?

  “I can’t send them back! They were made by a youth group!”

  “Well, give them to someone else.”

  “Who?” I say desperately.

  “Dunno.” Suze shrugs. “But they’re not coming here.”

  I’m about to plead their case further when Luke appears out of the house.

  “All set?” he says to me.

  “What are you wearing?” says Suze, glancing at my navy satin legs. “Is that a new pair of trousers?”

  “Jumpsuit,” I say smugly.

  “Ooh, I want one of those!” says Suze at once. “Show me!”

  I automatically start unbuttoning my coat—then pause.

  “It’s a bit…adventurous.”

  “Great!” Suze gestures at me to carry on unbuttoning, but my fingers don’t move. For some reason, I’m feeling apprehensive at revealing my whole outfit.

  “I mean, it’s quite out there,” I add, playing for time.

  “Sounds fab!” says Suze enthusiastically. “Go on, Bex, show me!”

  Even Luke is looking interested now.

  Ribs are the new cleavage, I remind myself. Then, almost defiantly, I throw open my coat and say, “Ta-daah!”

  I feel the November evening air on my chest and silently thank God for my silicone stick-on “mini bra replacements,” although if either of them falls to the floor I will die.

  No one seems able to speak. Luke’s jaw has actually dropped. Suze takes a step back, and she blinks about twenty times.

  “Wow,” she manages at last. “That’s…”

  “Is there a part missing?” inquires Luke, deadpan. “In the front-ish area?”

  “No!” I say boldly. “It’s the look.”

  “Well, I think you look amazing.” Suze rallies. “It’s really cool, Bex.”

  “Thank you. What?” I add, turning to Luke.

  “No. Nothing. Great. Let’s go.” His mouth twitches a tiny bit. “I’m sure your parents will be blown away.”

  * * *

  —

  Luigi’s is one of those lovely warm, cozy restaurants that hit you with the scent of garlic and wine as soon as you enter. Our table is waiting for us—although Mum and Dad aren’t there yet—and as I let my coat slither from my shoulders, I feel insanely cool. This jumpsuit is fantastic. I should get it in every single color! I can see my reflection in the windows as I walk along, and I can’t help shimmying like a model, watching the satin ripple and shine.

  I even mentally itemize my outfit as if I’m in a magazine, which is an old habit of mine. Coat: Topshop. Jumpsuit: ASOS. Shoes: See by Chloé. Bracelet: model’s own (can’t remember where I got it).

  A teenage girl sitting with her parents is gaping at me, wide-eyed, and I smile kindly back. I remember what it was like to be a suburban teenager, looking enviously at sophisticated women with amazing clothes. An old man nearby splutters his soup as I pass, but he’s probably never even heard of Miranda Kerr, so he doesn’t count.

  I have sticky “fashion tape” attaching the jumpsuit to my skin, so I’m not too worried about anything popping out; I’m just loving my fashion-forward moment. As our waiter draws out my chair, I smile at him gracefully before sinking down into it and…

  Shit.

  Shit. Oh my God.

  It gapes. When you sit. It gapes.

  To my blood-chilling horror, as soon as I sat down, the satin ripped away from my fashion tape (which is not “fully secure in all emergencies”; they’re liars). The entire neckline has concertina-ed into a kind of horizontal letterbox shape, and you can see my…

  Oh God, oh God…

  My hands have instinctively grabbed the neckline back into place, but I’ve only got ten fingers. There’s still far too much flesh and tape and silicone on view. The waiter, after one aghast glance at my chest area, hastily dropped the leather-bound menus on the table and backed away. I’m frozen, my whole body stiff with stress. Did anyone notice? Is the entire restaurant staring at me? What do I do now?

  I lift my eyes desperately, to see Luke regarding me quizzically.

  “Is that the look?” he says. “Sorry, I know I’m not as fashion-literate as I might be.”

  “Ha ha, very funny,” I mutter furiously.

  It’s a cocktail-party jumpsuit, I’ve realized. Not a sitting-down jumpsuit. They should have made this clear on the website. They should have added a caption: S
uitable only for standing/posing with shoulders well back/laughing at witty quips.

  “Luke, I need your jacket,” I add in an agitated undertone. “Quick, pass it over.”

  “Don’t have one.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”

  He what?

  “How can you not have a jacket?” I demand. “You always have a jacket!”

  “Because you told me not to wear one,” Luke replies calmly.

  “What?” I stare at him. “No, I didn’t!”

  “Yes, you did. Last time we went out for supper you said, ‘You always wear a jacket, Luke. It’s so boring. Why don’t you mix it up a bit?’ ”

  Oh, right. Actually, that does ring a bit of a bell. Maybe I did say that.

  “Well, I hereby retract it,” I say frantically. “You should always wear a jacket, in case I have a wardrobe malfunction.”

  “Always wear a jacket.” Luke pretends to make a note on his phone. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Give me your napkin. Quick!”

  Thankfully, the napkins are really big and made of posh red damask material. I knot three together to make a kind of bikini top, tie it tightly around myself, then look up breathlessly. On the plus side, I’m decent. On the minus side, what do I look like?

  “Super hot,” says Luke, as though reading my mind.

  “Shut up.” I glare at him.

  “I’m serious. You do look hot.” He grins at me. “Bravo.”

  “Darling!” Dad’s voice greets me, and I turn to see my parents coming through the restaurant. Dad’s wearing a linen jacket with a paisley handkerchief in his top pocket, and Mum is in a pink floral two-piece, which I recognize from the wardrobe of Janice, our neighbor.

  Mum and Janice are always swapping clothes to “refresh” their wardrobes. Janice is about two sizes smaller than Mum, but it doesn’t put them off—Mum just leaves half the buttons undone, while Janice cinches everything in with a belt.

  “Becky, love! How are you? How’s Minnie?” Mum hugs me tight, then peers down at me. “That’s an unusual outfit! Is that what they call a ‘handkerchief top’?”