Christmas Shopaholic Read online

  “Suze!” I say. “That’s amazing!”

  “Oh, it’s nothing really,” says Suze modestly. “Shall we carry it in? Tarkie, be careful round the corner….”

  “Shit.” A low voice behind me distracts my attention. “Shit, shit.”

  I swivel away from watching Suze manhandle her homemade euphonium to see a mum called Steph Richards peering in dismay out the window at the road below. “Bloody traffic warden’s coming,” she says. “There wasn’t anywhere to park; I had to go on a crosswalk. Harvey, darling, let’s quickly get you into class.”

  Her voice is strained, and her face is lined with worry. I don’t know Steph very well, but I do know that she had Harvey on her fortieth birthday (she told us once at a parents’ event). She has some monster job in human resources, is the major breadwinner of the family, and always has a crease in her brow. She has a Yorkshire accent and once told me she grew up in Leeds but moved down for uni and never went back.

  “Don’t worry,” I say impulsively. “I’ll go and divert the traffic warden. Take your time with Harvey.”

  I dash out of the school and sprint along the street, which is always crowded with cars at drop-off time. I can see the traffic warden making his way along the road. And there’s Steph’s car, illegally parked.

  She won’t get a ticket, I vow. I won’t let it happen.

  “Hello! Officer!” Panting hard, I reach him when he’s still three cars away from Steph’s. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “Yes?” The traffic warden gives me a discouraging look, which I ignore.

  “I wanted to ask you about the rules for parking on Cedar Road,” I say brightly. “If there’s a double yellow line and there’s a sign saying ‘no stopping between six and nine’ but there’s a white zigzag as well…what are the rules for motorbikes?”

  “Huh?” The traffic warden peers at me.

  “Also, what does ‘loading’ actually mean?” I add, blinking innocently. “Suppose I’m moving house and I’ve got six sofas to transport and some really big potted plants—I mean, they’re more like trees—what do I do?”

  “Ah,” says the traffic warden. “Well, if you’re moving house, you may need a permit.”

  I can see Steph hastening along the street, clicking in her businessy heels. She passes me, but I don’t flicker.

  “A permit,” I echo, as though fascinated by every word he’s saying. “I see. A permit. And where would I apply for that?”

  She’s reached her car. She’s bleeping it open. She’s safe.

  “Or, actually, you know what?” I say, before the traffic warden can reply. “Maybe I’ll just look online.” I beam at him. “Thank you so much.”

  I watch as Steph pulls out of the dodgy parking space, drives along a few meters, then draws up alongside me on a newly vacated spot, her engine running.

  “Thanks,” she says out of her window, with a wry grin. She’s really thin, Steph, with dark hair and the kind of translucent skin that gives away when you’re exhausted. Which I’m guessing she is, from the shadows beneath her eyes. Also, her foundation needs blending at the jawline, but I don’t like to say so.

  “No problem,” I say. “Anytime.”

  “Mornings are a nightmare.” She shakes her head. “And it doesn’t help with half the mums turning up with the bloody London Symphony Orchestra. I know Suze Cleath-Stuart is your friend, but a euphonium?”

  I can’t help laughing—then immediately feel disloyal to Suze.

  “You know what ‘instrument’ I made with Harvey?” Steph continues. “A margarine tub and a wooden spoon to hit it.”

  “We filled a jar with beans,” I volunteer. “I didn’t even paint it.” I meet her eyes and we both smile—then, to my dismay, Steph’s eyes fill with tears.

  “Steph!” I exclaim in horror. “It’s only art and craft. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s not that. It’s…” She hesitates, and I can see the distress pushing at her face, as though it wants to burst out. “Harvey doesn’t know, OK?” she continues in a low, trembling voice, her eyes flitting around. “But Damian’s left us. Three days ago. Walked out, no warning. Harvey thinks he’s gone on holiday.”

  “No.” I stare at her, aghast. I don’t really know Steph’s husband, but I’ve seen him with Harvey a couple of times, so I can picture him. He’s older than Steph—a paunchy guy with close-set eyes and a gray beard.

  “Yes. Sorry,” she adds. “Didn’t mean to land that on you. Not what you expect on the school run.”

  “It’s not…You didn’t…” I flounder desperately. “Do you want to talk? Go for coffee? Is there anything I can do to help?” But Steph’s shaking her head.

  “I’ve got to go. Big meeting. And you already did help, Becky. Thanks again.” She gives me a wan smile, then puts her car into gear.

  “Wait,” I say, before I can stop myself. I grab a tissue from my bag, lean into the car, and blend her foundation. “Sorry,” I add. “I just had to.”

  “No. Thanks.” She shoots a wry look at her reflection in the mirror. “Makeup’s not top of my agenda right now.” She hesitates, then adds, “Could you keep it to yourself? About Damian, I mean. You know what school gossip’s like….”

  “Of course,” I say fervently. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Thanks. See you, Becky.”

  She drives away and I watch her, feeling as if I’d quite like to bash her husband’s head, hard. I think I’d do a pretty good job at it, and I even know what I’d use: my new Zara bag. It’s got really sharp corners.

  * * *

  —

  As I arrive at work, I’m longing to share Steph’s awful news with Suze, but I promised I wouldn’t. And, anyway, Suze isn’t here yet. So instead I quickly scroll through my emails, feeling a tad wary as I see the ones from Jess, headlined Christmas—a few more points.

  I don’t know why I’m wary. Jess and I have exchanged some friendly emails and she’s already said she appreciated that we weren’t vegan and understood if we wanted to eat a turkey on Christmas Day. (Although on another level she didn’t understand it at all and never would.)

  But it also became increasingly clear that she thinks tinsel is evil and glitter is monstrous and fairy lights are the work of the devil. How are we going to decorate the Christmas tree? And what about Mum’s light-up plastic reindeer?

  I love and admire my sister with all my heart. She’s steadfast and honest and she only wants to do good for the world. When she’s not researching rocks in Chile, she’s always off volunteering for unglamorous charities—she once spent a whole week digging latrines. (When I exclaimed, “Oh my God, Jess!” she just looked puzzled at my shock and said, “Someone’s got to do it.”)

  She’s kind of serious, but when she cracks a smile you feel like she’s made your day. Basically, she’s awesome. It’s just that I do find it a tiny bit hard to live up to her principles.

  Anyway, it’ll be fine, I tell myself yet again. It’s only Christmas. It’ll work itself out.

  Putting my phone away, I head into the Letherby Gift Shop and glance around, checking that everything looks OK. We sell clothes, cushions, greetings cards, boxes of toffees…a bit of everything. It’s fairly random, but I’ve been trying to organize it into themes and displays, and I’m really proud of my hygge table. It has blankets, scented candles, tins of hot chocolate, Letherby organic-cotton pajamas, and some alpaca hoodies in a lovely soft gray.

  I pause to tweak the display lovingly, then look up to see Suze striding in, wearing a Letherby pale blue tweed miniskirt that looks amazing on her. (It was my idea that we should all wear the merchandise. Mainly because if anyone can make a tweed skirt look hot, it’s Suze.)

  “Hi!” I say. “Amazing euphonium!”

  “Oh, thanks!” Suze’s face brightens. “Don’t you love Miss Lucas? She has su
ch wonderful ideas for craft projects!”

  “I suppose,” I say reluctantly. “Although there are quite a lot of craft projects, don’t you think?”

  “But they’re such fun!” enthuses Suze. “I should have been a primary school teacher. I love all that stuff.”

  She unlocks the till and neatens a pile of leaflets on local walks. Then she clears her throat. As I look up, I notice her long legs are twisted around each other. In fact, she looks really awkward. What on earth is up?

  “By the way, Bex,” she adds in a super-casual voice, “I’ll take the statues after all.”

  “What?” I stare at her.

  “I’ll take the statues. We’ll have them here.”

  “You’ll take them?” I say in astonishment. “Just like that?”

  “Yes!” she says evasively. “Why not? It’s no big deal.”

  “Suze,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Why would I want something?” she retorts hotly. “God, Bex, you’re so suspicious! I’m volunteering to take your statues. I went to have another look at them, and I thought, Actually, they’re quite impressive.”

  “No, you didn’t!” I reply disbelievingly. “You’re softening me up to ask me a favor.”

  “No, I’m not!” Suze turns bright pink.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “OK!” She suddenly cracks. “I am! Bex, you have to ask us for Christmas. Tarkie’s Uncle Rufus has invited us to his castle in Scotland, and I just can’t do it. I can’t!”

  She looks so despairing, I stare at her, wanting to giggle.

  “What’s wrong with Tarkie’s Uncle Rufus? It can’t be that bad, surely?”

  “It’s awful,” says Suze desperately. “He doesn’t believe in heating, and his housekeeper runs freezing cold baths for everyone each morning, and there’s no cornflakes for breakfast, only haggis, and the children have to peel potatoes all day.”

  “The children?”

  “He thinks it’s good for them. He brings in extra potatoes for them to do, and if they leave any peel on he shouts at them.”

  “Wow.”

  “Exactly! And he phoned last night to invite us. My parents are going to be in Namibia, so he knew we weren’t going to theirs, and I didn’t know what to do. So I said, ‘Gosh, Uncle Rufus, that sounds lovely, but my friend Becky’s mother has already invited us for Christmas Day.’ You don’t have to actually have us,” she adds hurriedly. “Just be our excuse. And I’ll take the statues,” she finishes breathlessly.

  “Mum’s not hosting Christmas this year,” I inform her.

  “Oh God.” Suze’s face falls. “Don’t tell me you’re going away or something. Can I still tell Uncle Rufus we’re spending it with you?”

  “Even better, you can actually spend it with us!” I say with a flourish. “Because guess what? I’m hosting Christmas!”

  “You’re hosting Christmas?” Suze’s face freezes in a stunned rictus.

  “Don’t look like that!” I say crossly. “It’ll be great!”

  “Of course it will!” Suze hastily recovers herself. “Sorry, Bex. I was just a bit…surprised. Because you’re not exactly…”

  “What?” I say suspiciously. “I’ve hosted parties, haven’t I? And they haven’t turned into fiascos, have they?”

  Now I think about it, most have turned into some sort of fiasco. But still, Suze doesn’t need to look like that.

  “Not at all!” Suze backtracks. “It’ll be lovely! You’ll do it brilliantly! But how come your parents aren’t hosting?”

  “OK, get this,” I say with relish, because I’ve been longing to share this news with Suze. “Jess and Tom are coming back to the UK for a bit!”

  “Wow!” says Suze in excitement. “Does this mean their adoption’s gone through?”

  “No,” I say, temporarily halted. “Not yet. Although it won’t be that much longer,” I add, determined to be positive. “I’m sure of it. Anyway, they’re going to live in Mum and Dad’s house while they’re here—and my parents are moving to a flat in Shoreditch!”

  “Shoreditch?” Suze’s eyes widen in shock. “Your mum and dad?”

  “I know! I said, ‘Why Shoreditch?’ and Dad said he wants smashed avocado.”

  “Smashed avocado?” Suze looks so gobsmacked, I can’t help giggling. “Does he know you can get avocados in Waitrose in Cobham?” she adds earnestly, and that sets me off again.

  “Good morning, girls!” Irene, our other sales assistant, comes bustling up, dressed in Letherby tweed trousers and a merino wool sweater.

  Irene is in her sixties and very sweet. She’s worked for the gift shop ever since it was basically a cupboard with a few boxes of fudge, and she still remembers “Mad” Lord Cleath-Stuart, who was Tarkie’s great-great-uncle and commissioned the pink-tiled hall with the erotic murals that no one ever mentions.

  “Good morning, Irene!” Suze greets her. “How were things in the shop yesterday?”

  “Very good,” says Irene, nodding. “Nothing to report. Oh, except that a customer asked me to say hello to you, Becky.”

  “To me?” I say in surprise. Usually it’s old family friends of Suze’s, called things like Huffy Thistleton-Pitt, who pop in to say hello.

  “He said he understood that you worked here and seemed very disappointed not to see you.” Irene nods. “Asked me to pass on his regards. What was his name now?” Irene’s brow crumples deeply. “Arnold? I wrote it down somewhere, I wonder where….”

  “Arnold?” I frown. I don’t know anyone called Arnold.

  “Arnold was the surname. Or was it Irwin?” she adds thoughtfully.

  “Irwin?” I shake my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He was a young chap,” Irene elaborates. “Your sort of age. Striking.” She looks at me expectantly, as though I’ll say, “Oh, the striking guy. Of course, him.”

  “Well, let me know if you remember,” I say kindly. “If not, no worries.”

  Irene wanders off again and Suze grins. “A striking guy, huh, Bex?”

  “I wouldn’t trust Irene’s taste,” I retort, rolling my eyes. “It was probably my old geography teacher.”

  “Was he striking?”

  “His dandruff was pretty striking,” I say, and we both start giggling again.

  “So anyway,” says Suze, composing herself, “we didn’t finish talking about Christmas. Tell me what I can do to help. Let me know the plan. Except we must go to the morning service at St. Christopher’s,” she adds, “because the vicar’s written a special Christmas carol medley and he’s really proud of it. Can that fit in your plan of the day?”

  “Of course!” I say. “Definitely! I mean, I haven’t exactly got a plan of the day yet,” I add, feeling the need to be honest. “Or any kind of plan. But it’s early days.”

  “Oh, totally,” Suze agrees at once. “The most important thing when you host Christmas is, have enough booze.”

  “Mum said the most important thing was the turkey,” I counter, already feeling a bit anxious.

  “Oh, well, the turkey,” says Suze airily. “The turkey goes without saying— Wait.” She interrupts herself, suddenly looking stricken. “If Jess is coming, do we all have to be vegan?”

  “No, it’s fine, we can eat turkey,” I reassure her. “And I’ll buy Jess and Tom a vegan turkey.”

  “A vegan turkey?” Suze goggles at me. “Does that exist?”

  “I bet it does,” I say confidently. “There’s vegan everything. Oh, and by the way, Jess thinks we should give each other sustainable, non-consumerist, locally sourced presents that reflect the true spirit of fellowship rather than the hollow pleasures of shopping.”

  “Right.” Suze stares at me, looking a bit shaken. “Wow. I mean…good point. Definitely. We should only buy local things. It’s,
like, vital for the planet.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Totally.”

  Silence falls between us, and I feel like we’re both reappraising our Christmas lists.

  “I mean…Harvey Nichols is quite local, isn’t it?” says Suze at last. “Compared to some places.”

  “Compared to like…Australia.”

  “Exactly!” Suze looks relieved. “I mean, some people go on ridiculous shopping trips. My cousin Fenella once went on a Christmas shopping trip to New York.”

  “That’s so un-green,” I can’t help saying, a little censoriously. “Let’s agree, we’ll only shop locally at, you know, Selfridges and Liberty and places.”

  “OK,” says Suze, nodding earnestly. “We’ll do that. Only local shopping. Ooh, what are you going to get Luke?” she adds. “Have you got any ideas?”

  “I’m sorted,” I say smugly.

  “Already?” Suze stares at me.

  “Well, I haven’t actually bought it yet,” I admit, “but I know exactly what I’m getting him. We were in Hector Goode and we saw this lovely coat and Luke said he liked it. So I said, ‘Well, maybe a little elf will get it for you!’ ”

  “Lucky thing,” says Suze enviously. “I have no idea what I’m going to get Tarkie! Why haven’t you bought it yet?”

  “I wanted to see if it was going to be reduced,” I explain. “But the shop people won’t tell me. They’re so unhelpful.”

  “So unhelpful,” agrees Suze sympathetically. “What about waiting till Black Friday?”

  “It might sell out. So I’ve decided I’ll order it tonight—” I stop midstream as two women in Puffa jackets enter the gift shop, and I approach them, smiling. “Hello! Welcome to the Letherby Gift Shop. Can I help, or are you happy to browse?”

  The pair of them ignore me. A lot of people do that, I’ve noticed, but I always just smile even more brightly.

  “Hygge,” says one, looking dubiously at the sign. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that,” chimes in her friend. “Only isn’t it all nonsense?”