Christmas Shopaholic Read online

  “Er…kind of.” I avoid Luke’s gaze and add quickly, “Shall we have a drink?”

  Already an elderly waiter is bringing over a sherry for Mum, plus a gin and tonic for Dad. They know my parents here. Mum and Dad have lived in Oxshott since before I was born, and they come to Luigi’s about twice a month. Mum always orders the special, while Dad always looks at the menu for ages, as though expecting to see something new, before ordering the veal marsala.

  “Luke.” Dad shakes Luke’s hand before hugging me. “Good to see you.”

  “We have so much to talk about!” says Mum. “What are you two having?”

  We order our drinks and the waiter pours out water while Mum twitches impatiently. I can tell she’s got things she wants to discuss, but she never says anything in front of waiters, not even at Luigi’s. I don’t know what she thinks—that they’ll immediately go off and text the Oxshott Gazette the latest gossip? Bloomwoods intending to buy new lawnmower but can’t decide on brand.

  “So!” says Mum as soon as the waiter moves away. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Christmas,” says Dad.

  “Christmas.” I beam at him. “I can’t wait. I’ll bring the crackers. Shall we get the ones with the nail clippers and things or the ones with wind-up penguins?”

  I’m expecting Dad to answer, “Wind-up penguins,” because last year he won the wind-up penguin race and was ridiculously pleased about it. But to my surprise he doesn’t answer immediately. He looks at Mum. In fact, he looks shiftily at Mum.

  I have very acute parental radar. I know when something’s up. And almost at once I guess what it is: They’re going away for Christmas. A cruise. It’s got to be a cruise. I bet Janice and Martin talked them into it and they’ve already bought their pastel outfits.

  “Are you going on a cruise?” I blurt out, and Mum looks surprised.

  “No, love! What makes you think that?”

  All right. So my parental radar isn’t quite as acute as I thought. But, then, why the shifty look?

  “Something’s going on,” I assert.

  “Yes,” says Dad, with another look at Mum.

  “Something to do with Christmas,” I say, feeling Sherlock Holmes–like in my deduction abilities.

  “Well, Christmas is one factor,” allows Mum.

  One factor?

  “Mum, what’s going on? Not something bad?” I add in sudden fear.

  “Of course not!” Mum laughs. “It’s nothing, love. Just that we’ve agreed that Jess can move into our house. And Tom, of course,” she adds. “Both of them.”

  Tom is Janice and Martin’s son, and he and Jess are married, so we’re all kind of related now.

  “But they live in Chile,” I say stupidly.

  “They’re coming back for a few months,” says Dad.

  “Jess never told me!” I say indignantly.

  “Oh, you know how cautious Jess is,” says Mum. “She’s the type to keep back news till it’s one hundred percent confirmed. Look, here are your drinks.”

  As our drinks are deposited on the table, my mind can’t help racing ahead in speculation. Jess’s emails to me are quite short and curt, and Mum’s right: She’s the type to keep news back. Even brilliant, exciting news. (She once won a big geology prize and didn’t tell me and then said, “I thought you wouldn’t be interested.”)

  So could this be because— Oh my God! As soon as the waiter has gone, I say excitedly, “Tell me! Have Jess and Tom adopted a child?”

  At once I can see from Mum’s expression that I’ve misfired again.

  “Not yet,” says Mum, and I see Dad wince slightly. “Not quite yet, love. The wheels are still turning out there. Bureaucracy and so forth. Poor Janice has given up asking.”

  “Oh,” I say, deflated. “I thought maybe…Wow. It takes a long time, doesn’t it?”

  When Jess showed me a photo of an adorable little boy, ages ago now, I thought we’d meet him really soon. But that adoption fell through and we were all a bit devastated. And since then, Jess and Tom have been pretty cagey about their prospects.

  “They’ll get there,” says Dad with a determined brightness. “We have to keep the faith.”

  As Luke pours tonic into his G&T, I’m picturing Jess and Tom, out in Chile, waiting and waiting for news of a child to adopt, and my heart squeezes. I really feel for Jess. She’d be a brilliant mother (in a strict, vegan, recycled-hemp-clothes kind of way), and it seems so unfair that adoption takes so long.

  Then my thoughts turn to Suze, and my heart squeezes again. Just after we got back from the States, she had a miscarriage, which was a shock to all of us. And although all she ever says about it is, “I’m so lucky already….It wasn’t meant to be….” I know she was crushed.

  As for me, we’d love another baby, but it just hasn’t happened.

  By now my heart is feeling squeezy all over. Life’s weird. You can know you’re the luckiest human being in the world. You can know you don’t have anything to complain about. But you can still feel sad because you don’t have that one extra little person in your life.

  “Cheers!” says Luke, lifting his glass to everyone, and I hastily smile. “And here’s to…what exactly?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” says Dad, after we’ve all sipped our drinks. “Jess and Tom are coming back to the UK for a while. Janice was fretting about giving them space…and the upshot is we’re offering them our house for a few months.”

  “They’ll be next door to Janice, but not on top of her,” puts in Mum. “And Janice won’t have to cook chickpeas every night. Poor love, she was getting quite agitated about it! I mean, Janice is as vegan as anyone, but she does like a boiled egg for breakfast.”

  “How long are they back for?” asks Luke, before I can ask Mum if she knows what “vegan” actually means.

  “Well, this is the thing!” says Mum. “Till January at least. Which means we won’t be able to host Christmas. So we thought, Becky…” She pauses and turns to me with a flourish. “Now you’re in your lovely house, maybe it’s time for you to host Christmas!”

  “Me host Christmas?” I stare at Mum. “But…”

  I feel as though all this time someone has been gently playing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” on a vinyl record in the background—and now the needle’s been scraped off, into stark silence.

  I don’t host Christmas; Mum hosts Christmas. She knows how to do it. She knows how to unwrap the chocolate roll and put it on a doily and sprinkle icing sugar on it.

  “Right.” I swallow. “Wow. Host Christmas. That’s pretty scary!” I laugh to show I don’t really mean it. (Although I half-do.)

  “You can do it, love.” Mum pats my hand confidently. “Get a good turkey and you’re halfway there. I’ve invited Janice and Martin,” she adds, “and Jess and Tom, of course. I mean, we’re all family now, aren’t we?”

  “Right.” I take a gulp of G&T, trying to get my head round all this information. Jess and Tom are coming back, and we’re hosting Christmas, and—

  “Wait a minute.” My head jerks up as my thoughts rewind. “So when you say you’re offering Jess and Tom the house, do you mean you’re having them to stay? Or…”

  “We’re moving out for a bit,” says Dad, his eyes twinkling. “We’re having an adventure, Becky.”

  “Another adventure?” I say, and exchange looks with Luke. After our trip to the States, I would have thought my parents had had enough adventures to last them forever.

  “A change of scene.” Mum nods. “We got back from America, and it made us think, love. We’ve lived in the same house for all these years. We haven’t tried anything else. And Dad’s always wanted to keep bees.”

  “It’s always been a little dream of mine,” says Dad, looking a bit embarrassed.

  “If not now, then
when?” chimes in Mum.

  “Wow,” I say again, digesting this. I mean, it’s true: My parents haven’t really experimented much. Good for them, branching out. I can just see Dad pottering around in a little country cottage with a beehive and an orchard. We can come to visit and Minnie can pick apples and I can buy a drifty linen “apple-picking” skirt from the Toast catalog….

  Actually, I’m really into this idea.

  “So where are you looking?” I ask. “You could move to Letherby. There must be some cottages to rent. In fact, yes! There’s a thatched cottage for rent on Suze’s estate!” I almost choke with excitement as I suddenly remember. “It’s adorable. Move there!”

  “Oh, love.” Mum exchanges amused looks with Dad. “That’s not really what we’re after.”

  “Letherby is suitable for you and Suze,” says Dad kindly. “But we want somewhere with a bit more ‘buzz.’ And I’m not talking about the bees!” He laughs at his own joke.

  Buzz? My parents?

  “So where are you moving to?” I say, baffled. “Dorking?”

  “Sweetheart!” Mum peals with laughter. “Did you hear that, Graham—Dorking! No, love, London. Central London.”

  “Not Central London,” Dad immediately contradicts her. “East London.”

  “Graham, you’re talking nonsense. East London is Central London these days. Isn’t it, Becky?” Mum appeals to me.

  “Dunno,” I say, perplexed. “Where exactly are you talking about?”

  “Well!” says Mum knowledgeably. “It’s this super little area. Very tucked away. We came across it when Dad was showing me where his old office used to be. It’s called…” She pauses for effect. “Shoreditch.”

  Shoreditch? I gape at her, wondering if I’ve heard wrong. Shoreditch, as in…

  Shoreditch?

  “It’s on the tube,” Mum is saying. “Just a bit north of Liverpool Street. You’ll be able to find us quite easily, love.”

  “I know where it is,” I say, finding my voice. “But, Mum, you can’t move to Shoreditch!”

  “Why not?” Mum looks affronted.

  “Because Shoreditch is for young people! It’s where hipsters come from! It’s all craft beer and sourdough bread. It’s…” I whirl my hands hopelessly. “Not you.”

  “Well!” says Mum indignantly. “Who says it’s not us? I should say we’ll fit in perfectly! Your father’s very fond of beer.”

  “It’s just…” I try again. “It has a vibe.”

  “A ‘vibe’?” echoes Mum, rolling her eyes. “What a lot of nonsense. Oh, Carlo, I’m sorry,” she adds to a hovering waiter. “You’ll have to give us a moment. And then you must tell us how your daughter’s doing on her gap year.” She twinkles at Carlo before taking a deep gulp of her drink and glaring at me huffily across the top of it.

  “Look, Mum, of course you can live anywhere you like,” I backtrack. “But don’t you feel like you belong here?” I spread my arms around the cozy restaurant. “You know all the waiters. You know their families. You know the veal marsala. Shoreditch is…Shoreditch.”

  “Perhaps I don’t want veal marsala anymore,” says Dad suddenly. “Perhaps I want…” He hesitates, then says self-consciously, “Smashed avocado.”

  He lifts his chin almost defiantly, and I blink back at him. Dad wants smashed avocado?

  “Avocado?” says Carlo, perking up. “Avocado and prawns to start? And then the veal marsala?”

  I’m aware of Luke stifling a laugh and shoot him a look, although to be truthful I feel a bit hysterical myself.

  “Anyway, we’ve found an apartment,” says Mum defensively, “and it’s available immediately. It has lovely fitted blinds, Becky. All included.”

  “Views over the city,” puts in Dad, with satisfaction.

  “And a ‘wet room,’ ” says Mum proudly. “So practical for the older person.”

  “There’s a cooperative beehive on the roof,” adds Dad happily. “And a hot tub!”

  “Does it have off-street parking?” I can’t resist asking, and Mum shakes her head pityingly.

  “Love, don’t be so suburban. We’ll be using Uber!”

  I don’t know what to say. My parents are moving to Shoreditch. I’m actually a little envious, I realize. I wouldn’t mind an apartment with a hot tub and views over the city.

  “Well, bravo!” I lift my glass. “Here’s to a whole new lifestyle!”

  “I think it’s great,” says Luke warmly. “Good for you, Graham and Jane. Can we come and visit you in your flash new pad?”

  “Well, of course!” says Mum, whose indignation has already died away. “We’ll have a nice housewarming party with nibbles. It’ll be super.” She beams around the table—then suddenly her gaze narrows. She peers at my chest intently for a few seconds, before looking up in astonishment.

  “Becky, love! I’ve just noticed something! Your top matches the napkins!”

  From: Jess Bertram

  To: Becky

  Subject: Christmas

  Hi, Becky,

  I gather you know the news of our return. We’re really looking forward to coming back to the UK and seeing family. Your parents have been very generous with the offer of their house.

  Also: Thanks so much for hosting Christmas. We’re really looking forward to it. Obviously we’re hoping that it reflects our non-consumerist, sustainable values. I’m sure we’ll have a lot of fun.

  Jess

  From: Jess Bertram

  To: Becky

  Subject: Re:Re: Christmas

  Hi, Becky,

  Yes, I’m still vegan, and Tom is too.

  Jess

  From: Jess Bertram

  To: Becky

  Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re: Christmas

  Hi, Becky,

  No, we don’t have a “day off from being vegan” on Christmas Day as a “little reward.”

  As for presents, no, there is nothing I’m “hankering after.” Tom and I will be exchanging non-tangible gifts, in the spirit of creating a minimal footprint on our ravaged earth.

  If you can’t shake off the pressure to buy pointless items simply to follow “tradition,” could I suggest that they are sustainable, non-consumerist, locally sourced presents that reflect the true principles of fellowship rather than the hollow pleasures of shopping?

  Looking forward to a festive day.

  Jess

  As I arrive at school the next morning with Minnie, my head is in a whirl. Though I’m not sure whether my biggest preoccupation is that 1. Mum and Dad are moving to Shoreditch, or 2. I’ve got to host Christmas for the first time ever.

  It’s just one day of the year, I keep telling myself. It’s no big deal. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? (Actually, no. Let’s not start that thought process.)

  Anyway, it’s fine, because I’ve already begun. I’ve looked on Pinterest and found a million lists on How to Host Christmas. I’ve ordered two tickets for the Christmas Style Fair in Olympia. I’ll go with Mum and get some inspiration. Plus, I’m going to start my Christmas shopping now. It’s only November. There’s loads of time!

  I take Minnie into the cloakroom, help her hang her coat up, then head toward the classroom. At once I see Minnie’s friend Eva, together with her mum, Petra—and my heart slightly sinks.

  “Look!” exclaims Minnie, wide-eyed. “Look at the drum! It’s ’normous!”

  Petra is holding a massive tribal drum, made out of twigs and canvas and decorated with ribbons. Eva starts beating it with her hand while Petra beams smugly around and Minnie gawps. Did they make that?

  I close my eyes briefly, then open them again. I love the village school, and I love Minnie’s teacher, Miss Lucas, but does she have to be such a craft nut? She’s always coming up with “fun, optional activities,” which aren�
��t optional at all, because everyone does them. This weekend it was “Make a musical instrument” from “items around the home.” I mean, what?

  Minnie and I put some dried beans in an empty jar, and I thought we’d done really well—but this is on a whole other level.

  “Such a fun activity,” Petra is gushing to Miss Lucas. “The whole family got involved!”

  “I’m so glad!” Miss Lucas looks delighted. “Creativity is so important. Minnie, did you make a musical instrument?”

  “We made a shaker,” I say, trying to sound confident.

  “Marvelous!” enthuses Miss Lucas. “Can I see it?”

  Oh God.

  Reluctantly, I reach into Minnie’s book bag and pull out the shaker. I was going to paint it or something, but I forgot, so it’s basically a Clarins jar. I can see Petra’s eyes widen, and Miss Lucas seems momentarily stumped, but I keep my chin high. She asked for “items around the home,” didn’t she?

  “Super!” says Miss Lucas at last. “We’ll put it next to Eva’s drum in the display!”

  Great. So Eva has a tribal drum and Minnie has a Clarins jar.

  Thankfully, Minnie doesn’t seem to mind—but I’m feeling hot all over. Next time I’ll ace the craft project, I promise myself. I’ll make something drop-dead amazing, even if it takes me all weekend.

  “Bye, Minnie, darling.” I kiss her and she runs happily into the classroom.

  “Tarkie, careful!” Suze’s piercing voice makes us all turn, and I gasp. What the hell has Suze got there? It’s a complicated arrangement of tubing and funnels and duct tape, and it’s taking both her and her husband, Tarquin, to carry it, while the children trail behind.

  “Lady Cleath-Stuart!” exclaims Miss Lucas. “Goodness!”

  “It’s a euphonium,” says Suze breathlessly. “It plays three notes.”

  Suze loves art and craft, and she’s always been brilliant at them. She’s forever getting her children to make papier-mâché figures and pasta collages and leave them drying all over the kitchen. So I’m not surprised she can knock up a quick euphonium from household items.