Mini Shopaholic Page 5

  ‘And … ta-daah!’

  I pull out my prize purchase. My Ally Smith limited-edition cardigan with the famous signature button.

  ‘Oh my God!’ squeaks Suze. ‘Where did you get that? Was it on sale?’

  ‘Sixty per cent off! Only a hundred and ten pounds.’

  ‘Look at the button.’ Suze reaches out and strokes it lustfully.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ I beam back happily. ‘I’m going to wear it so much, it’ll easily pay for itself …’

  The door opens and Luke comes in.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ Instinctively, before I quite realize I’m doing it, I push one of my sale bags under the bed.

  It’s not that he disapproves, exactly. I mean, it’s my money, I earned it, I can do what I like with it. It’s just that when Mum and I were up at 7 a.m. on Boxing Day, ready to hit the sales, Luke just looked at us in bafflement, then looked at all the presents still under the tree, and then said, ‘Didn’t you get enough stuff yesterday?’

  Which just shows how little he understands about anything. Christmas presents and the sales are totally different. They’re like … different food groups.

  ‘Bex got the most amazing bargains at the sales,’ says Suze supportively. ‘Don’t you love her new cardigan?’

  Luke looks at the cardigan. He turns and studies me for a moment – then the cardigan again. Then he frowns as though something is puzzling him.

  ‘How much was it?’

  ‘A hundred and ten,’ I say defensively. ‘Sixty per cent off. It’s designer, limited edition.’

  ‘So … you’ve just spent a hundred and ten pounds on a cardigan which is exactly the same as the one you’re wearing.’

  ‘What?’ I glance down at myself in bemusement. ‘Of course I haven’t. It’s nothing like.’

  ‘It’s identical!’

  ‘No it isn’t! How can you say that?’

  There’s a short pause. We’re both staring at each other as though to say ‘Have I married a lunatic?’

  ‘They’re both pale cream.’ Luke ticks off on his fingers. ‘They both have one large button. They’re both cardigans. Identical.’

  Is he blind?

  ‘But the button’s in a different place,’ I explain. ‘It changes the whole shape. And this one has flared sleeves. They’re nothing like each other, are they, Suze?’

  ‘Completely different.’ Suze nods fervently.

  It’s obvious from his expression that Luke doesn’t get it. Sometimes I wonder how someone so unobservant can be so successful in life.

  ‘And this button’s red,’ adds Suze helpfully.

  ‘Exactly!’ I point to the oversize button with trademark Ally Smith crystals. ‘That’s the whole point of the piece, this amazing button. It’s like … a signature.’

  ‘So you spent a hundred quid on a button.’

  God, he’s annoying sometimes.

  ‘It’s an investment,’ I inform him frostily. ‘I was just saying to Suze, I’ll wear it so many times, it’ll totally pay for itself.’

  ‘How many would that be? Twice?’

  I stare at him with utter indignation.

  ‘Of course not twice. I’ll probably wear it …’ I think a moment, trying to be absolutely realistic. ‘A hundred times. So each time will cost £1.10. I think I can afford £1.10 for a designer classic of its time, don’t you?’

  Luke makes a kind of snorting noise. ‘Becky, have you ever worn anything a hundred times? I’ll count it a success if you wear it once.’

  Oh, ha-di-ha.

  ‘I bet you I’ll wear it a hundred times. At least.’ Determinedly, I shrug off my cardigan and start pulling on the Ally Smith one. ‘You see? I’ve already worn it once.’

  I’ll show him. I’ll wear it a thousand times.

  ‘I must go, Tarquin’s waiting for me.’ Luke shoots Suze a quizzical look. ‘Quite a business you’ve inherited.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ says Suze. ‘Poor Tarkie was getting in a state about it so I said, “Ask Luke, he’ll know what to do.”’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you did.’ Luke has been rifling in his cabinet for some papers. He bangs it shut and heads out again. ‘See you later.’

  ‘What was that about?’ I say, puzzled. ‘What business?’

  ‘Oh, it’s this Shetland Shortbread thing,’ says Suze vaguely. ‘It’s quite a big deal, and now it belongs to us …’

  Hang on a minute. Rewind.

  ‘You own Shetland Shortbread?’ I stare at her in amazement. ‘Those red tins you can buy in Waitrose?’

  ‘Exactly!’ says Suze brightly. ‘It’s really scrummy. They make it on one of the farms.’

  I’m flabbergasted. What else does Suze suddenly now own? Chocolate HobNobs? KitKats?

  Ooh, that would be cool. I wonder how many free ones she’d get. Maybe … a box a year?

  No, that’s ridiculous. It would be at least ten boxes a year, wouldn’t it?

  After I’ve shown Suze all my clothes I pop downstairs and make some coffee and check the children are OK. I come back up to find Suze wandering around the cluttered room and picking over my stuff, like she always does. She looks up, holding a pile of old photos which I’ve been meaning to put in albums. ‘Bex, I can’t believe you’re moving out of here at last. It seems like you’ve been here for ever.’

  ‘It has been for ever. Two whole years!’

  ‘What did your mum and dad say?’

  ‘I haven’t told them yet.’ I glance at the door and lower my voice. ‘I think they’ll really miss us when we’re gone. In fact … I’m a bit worried how they’ll take it.’

  The truth is, Mum and Dad have got used to having us around. Especially Minnie. Every time one of our house purchases fell through, they were secretly really glad, Mum once told me.

  ‘God, of course.’ Suze’s face crumples anxiously. ‘They’ll be devastated. Your poor mum will need loads of support. Maybe you can fix up some counselling!’ she adds in sudden inspiration. ‘I bet they have Empty Nest Workshops or something.’

  ‘I do feel guilty.’ I sigh. ‘But we can’t stay here for ever, can we? I mean, we need our own space.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ says Suze supportively. ‘Don’t worry, your parents will come to terms with it. So come on, show me the house! What’s it like? What does it need doing to it?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t really need anything done to it,’ I confess as I hand her the details. ‘It’s been decorated by a developer.’

  ‘Eight bedrooms!’ Suze raises her eyebrows. ‘Wow!’

  ‘I know. It’s amazing! It’s so much bigger inside than it looks. And it’s all been freshly painted and everything. But still, we should put our stamp on it, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Oh definitely.’ Suze nods wisely.

  Suze is so much more with it than Luke, who, by the way, hasn’t even been inside the place. I told him we needed to put our stamp on it and he said, ‘Why can’t we be happy with someone else’s stamp?’

  ‘I’ve already made loads of plans,’ I tell her enthusiastically. ‘Like, in the hall I thought we could have a really cool hat stand with a single studded Alexander Wang bag hanging from it. It would make such a statement.’ I scrabble under the bed for the sketch I’ve done and show it to her.

  ‘Wow,’ breathes Suze. ‘That looks amazing. Have you got an Alexander Wang bag?’

  ‘I’d have to buy one,’ I explain. ‘And next to it, maybe a console table accessorized with some Lara Bohinc jewellery?’

  ‘I love Lara Bohinc!’ says Suze enthusiastically. ‘Have you got some of her stuff? You never showed me!’

  ‘No, well, I’d have to buy some of that too. But I mean, it wouldn’t be for me, would it?’ I add hurriedly at her expression. ‘It would be for the house.’

  For a moment Suze just looks at me. It’s the same look she gave me when I wanted us to set ourselves up as telephone fortune-tellers. (Which I still think was a good idea.)

  ‘You want to buy a bag and jewellery fo
r your house?’ she says at last.

  ‘Yes! Why not?’

  ‘Bex, no one buys a bag and jewellery for their house.’

  ‘Well, maybe they should! Maybe their houses would look better if they did! And anyway, don’t worry, I’m going to buy a sofa too.’ I chuck a load of interiors magazines at her. ‘Go on, find me a nice one.’

  Half an hour later the bed is littered with interiors magazines and we’re both lying in silence, wallowing in pictures of amazing oversized orange velvet sofas and staircases with built-in lights and kitchens with polished granite mixed with reclaimed wood doors. The trouble is, I want my house to look like all of them. All at once.

  ‘You’ve got a massive basement!’ Suze is looking at the house details again. ‘What’s that going to be?’

  ‘Good question!’ I look up. ‘I think it should be a gym. But Luke wants to store his boring old wine there and do wine-tastings.’

  ‘Wine-tastings?’ Suze pulls a face. ‘Oh, have a gym. We could do Pilates together!’

  ‘Exactly! It would be so cool! But Luke’s got all this valuable old wine in storage, and he’s really excited about getting it out again.’

  That’s one thing I’ll never understand about Luke. His love of zillion-pound wine, when you could buy a really nice Pinot Grigio for a tenner and spend the rest on a skirt.

  ‘So, there’s one bedroom for you and Luke …’ Suze is still perusing the details. ‘One for Minnie …’

  ‘One for clothes.’

  ‘One for shoes?’

  ‘Definitely. And one for make-up.’

  ‘Ooh!’ Suze looks up with interest. ‘A make-up room! Did Luke agree to that?’

  ‘I’m going to call it the library,’ I explain.

  ‘But that still leaves three bedrooms.’ Suze lifts her eyebrows significantly at me. ‘Any plans to … fill them up?’

  You see? This is why I should have married Suze. She understands me.

  ‘I wish.’ I heave a sigh. ‘But guess what? Luke doesn’t want another baby.’

  ‘Really?’ Suze looks taken aback. ‘How come?’

  ‘He says Minnie’s too wild and we can’t cope with two and we should just enjoy what we’ve got. He won’t budge.’ I hunch my shoulders gloomily and flick through an article on antique baths.

  ‘Could you just … jump him?’ Suze says after a while. ‘And forget to take your Pill accidentally-on-purpose and pretend it was a mistake? He’ll love the baby when it arrives.’

  I can’t pretend this idea hasn’t crossed my mind. Secretly. But I just couldn’t do it.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t want to trap him. I want him to want another baby.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll change his mind at the christening.’ Suze’s eyes brighten. ‘You know, it was at Ernie’s christening that we decided to have another one. Ernie looked so adorable, and we thought how lovely it would be to give him a brother or sister, so we decided to go for it. Of course we ended up with two more,’ she adds as an afterthought. ‘But that won’t happen to you.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I’m silent a moment, gearing myself up for the big question. I don’t want to ask it. But I have to be brave. ‘Suze … can you be honest with me about something? Really, truly honest?’

  ‘OK,’ she says a bit apprehensively. ‘But not if it’s about how many times a week we have sex.’

  What? Where did that come from? OK, now I instantly want to know how many times she has sex. It must be never. Or maybe all the time. God, I bet it’s all the time. I bet she and Tarkie—

  Anyway.

  ‘It’s not sex.’ I force myself to return to the topic. ‘It’s … do you think Minnie’s spoiled?’

  I can already feel myself wincing with trepidation. What if she says yes? What if my best friend thinks Minnie’s a monster? I’ll be totally mortified.

  ‘No!’ says Suze at once. ‘Of course Minnie’s not spoiled! She’s lovely. She’s just a bit … feisty. But that’s good! No children are perfect.’

  ‘Yours are,’ I say morosely. ‘Nothing ever goes wrong with them.’

  ‘Oh my God! Are you kidding?’ Suze sits upright and discards the house details altogether. ‘We’re having such problems with Ernie. His teacher keeps calling us in. He’s hopeless at everything except German, and they don’t even teach German.’

  ‘Oh, Suze,’ I say sympathetically.

  I don’t need to ask why Ernie speaks German so well. Tarquin thinks Wagner is the only music worth listening to and he plays it to all his children, every night. Don’t get me wrong, Ernie is my godson and I love him to bits. But last time I visited he told me the whole story of something called the Something-singers and it went on for hours and I nearly seized up with boredom.

  ‘I’ve got to go and see the headmistress,’ Suze continues, looking upset. ‘What am I going to do if she asks him to leave?’

  Forgetting all about my own problems, I put an arm round her shoulders and squeeze, feeling incensed. How dare anyone upset Suze? And who are these morons, anyway? I’ve seen Ernie’s school when I’ve gone with Suze to pick him up. It’s very snooty with lilac blazers and costs a million pounds a term or something, and they don’t even include lunches. They’re probably too busy counting the fees to appreciate real talent.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I say robustly. ‘And if they don’t want Ernie, then it’s obviously a rubbish school.’

  If I ever see that headmistress, I’ll give her my opinion, very pointedly. I’m Ernie’s godmother, after all. In fact, maybe I should come along to the meeting at the school and express my views. I’m about to suggest this to Suze when she slaps her hand on the bed.

  ‘I know, Bex! I’ve got it. You should get a nanny.’

  ‘A nanny?’ I stare at her.

  ‘Who looks after Minnie when you’re at work? Still your mum?’

  I nod. Since my maternity leave ended I’ve worked two and a half days a week at The Look, where I’m a personal shopper. While I’m there Mum looks after Minnie, which is brilliant because I can just leave her in the kitchen, having her breakfast, and she hardly even notices when I go.

  ‘Does your mum take her to playgroup?’

  I make a face. ‘Not really.’

  Mum’s not into playgroups. She went to Tick Tock once and had a disagreement with a fellow grandmother about who’s the best Miss Marple on TV, and never went back.

  ‘So what do they do?’

  ‘Well, it varies …’ I say vaguely. ‘They do lots of educational stuff …’

  This is a slight fib. As far as I can tell the programme never varies. They go shopping and have tea at the Debenhams café and then come home and watch Disney videos.

  God, maybe Suze is right. Maybe Minnie needs more routine. Maybe that’s what’s wrong.

  ‘A nanny will knock her into shape,’ says Suze confidently. ‘Plus she’ll organize her meals and washing and everything, and Luke will see how smooth everything can be. And he’ll change his mind instantly. Trust me.’

  I knew Suze would have the answer. This is the solution. A nanny!

  I have an image of a cross between Mary Poppins and Mrs Doubtfire, all cosy with an apron and a spoonful of sugar and lots of wise, homespun words. The whole place will be calm and smell of baking bread. Minnie will become an angel child who sits quietly making constructive Play-Doh in a pinafore, and Luke will instantly drag me off to bed and ravish me.

  I mean, it would be worth it just for the ravishing.

  ‘Everyone’s using Ultimate Nannies at the moment. They’re the latest thing.’ Suze has already opened up my laptop and found the website. ‘Have a look. I’ll pop down and check on the children.’

  I take the laptop from her and find myself looking at a website called Ultimate Nannies: raising well-balanced, accomplished children who will be the successes of tomorrow.

  My jaw sags slightly as I scroll down. Bloody hell. These nannies don’t look anything like Mrs Doubtfire. They look like Elle McPher
son. They’ve all got perfect teeth and perfect abs and intelligent-looking smiles.

  Our modern, trained nannies are loving, trustworthy and educated. They will take full control of your child’s routine and cook a balanced menu. They will stimulate your child’s development, physically, emotionally and intellectually. Ultimate Nannies are highly qualified in child nutrition, safety, cultural enrichment and creative play. Many are fluent in French/Mandarin and/or offer instruction in music, Kumon maths, martial arts or ballet.

  I feel totally inadequate as I scroll through pictures of smiley girls with long shiny hair cooking vegetable risottos, bouncing balls in the garden, or dressed up in judo kit. No wonder Minnie has tantrums. It’s because no one’s doing martial arts or making sushi with her. All this time, I’ve totally deprived her. Suddenly making jam tarts in the kitchen with Mum seems totally lame. We don’t even make the pastry ourselves, we get it out of a packet. We have to hire an Ultimate Nanny, as soon as possible.

  The only thing is – tiny point – do I want some shiny-haired girl dancing around the place in her tight jeans and sushi-making apron? What if she and Luke really hit it off? What if he wants ‘martial arts’ lessons too?

  I hesitate for a moment, my hand hovering over the mouse-pad. Come on. I have to be mature here. I have to think of the benefits to Minnie. I have to remember that I have a loving, faithful husband, and that last time I thought he was playing away with a shiny-red-haired girl whose name I won’t even deign to remember (you see, Venetia? That’s how little you mean to me), I’d got it all wrong.

  Plus, if the nanny is really sexy and swishy-haired, I can arrange her hours so Luke never sees her.

  Seized by determination, I fill in the form and press ‘Send’. This is the answer! Bring in the experts. The only person I’ll have to talk round is Mum. She’s not keen on nannies. Or day-care. Or even babysitters. But that’s only because she watches too many Real Life Dramas about evil nutcase nannies. I mean, not every nanny can be a stalker impersonating a dead woman with the FBI on her tail, surely?

  And doesn’t she want her grandchild to be accomplished and well balanced? Doesn’t she want Minnie to be a success of tomorrow?