Mini Shopaholic Page 9

  ‘What?’ I say feebly, but he doesn’t listen. Now he’s making the sign of the cross on her forehead in oil.

  ‘Welcome to the church, my child. The Lord bless you and keep you.’ He feels in his pocket and produces a candle, which he gives to me. ‘Congratulations, Rebecca.’ Then he turns to Mum. ‘Did you say there was sushi?’

  I can’t speak for shock.

  Minnie? Just Minnie?

  ‘You mean she’s christened now?’ I find my voice. ‘She’s done?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Reverend Parker says smugly. ‘Having started a job, I do like to finish it. Again, I do apologize for the slight hiatus. Good afternoon, everyone.’

  He sweeps out before I can even draw breath, and I stare after him, outraged. He didn’t even ask about middle names. And I’d almost decided!

  ‘Minnie Brandon.’ Luke hoists her up cheerfully on to his shoulders. ‘A fine name.’ I shoot him a baleful look. ‘I’m going to a grab a bite,’ he adds. ‘See you in a sec.’

  As Luke closes the door behind him, I exhale like a deflating balloon. The others seem a bit shell-shocked too.

  ‘Well, that was a bit sudden,’ says Tom.

  ‘So we don’t need to hold 7 April any more?’ says Danny.

  ‘Probably for the best,’ says Jess. ‘Becky, I hate to say it, but you would never have pulled that party off.’

  ‘Yes I would.’ I glower at her.

  ‘Well anyway!’ says Suze hastily. ‘It doesn’t matter now, because it’s not going to happen. It’s irrelevant.’

  I feel a pang of resentment. Everyone’s just assuming I’ll give up on the idea, aren’t they? Everyone’s assuming I can’t do it. These are supposed to be my friends. They’re supposed to believe in me.

  Well, I’ll show them.

  ‘It’s not irrelevant. And it is going to happen.’ I look around the room, feeling my resolve grow. ‘I’m not going to let that stupid vicar ruin my plans. I’m still going to throw Luke a surprise birthday party. And I’ll do it on a budget, and I’ll keep it totally secret from Luke and I’ll blow his socks off.’

  I just about manage to stop myself adding, So there.

  ‘Bex …’ Suze glances around at the others. ‘It’s not that we think you can’t do it—’

  ‘Yes it is!’ I say indignantly. ‘That’s exactly what you said! Well, you’ll all be eating your words.’

  ‘So what’s going on?’ Danny looks up from his BlackBerry, which he’s been tapping at yet again. ‘Is the party on or off?’

  ‘On,’ I say resolutely. ‘Definitely on.’

  People Who Know About Party

  Me

  Suze

  Tarquin

  Danny

  Jess

  Tom

  Total = 6

  SIX

  I’m already making good progress with this party – in fact I’m quite proud of myself, bearing in mind I’m not a professional party planner or anything. I’ve bought a special notebook which I’ve disguised by writing ‘High-heeled boots – possible options’ on the front. And already I have an extensive to-do list, which goes as follows:

  Party – To-Do List

  Marquee – where get? Where put? How big?

  Fire-eaters – where get??

  Jugglers – where get???

  Theme – what?

  Food – what? how? (Chocolate fountain?)

  Drink – NOT peach wine

  Dancing – need dance-floor. Shiny? Black and white, lights up like in Saturday Night Fever?

  Guests – who? Track down old friends? (NOT Venetia Carter or Sacha de Bonneville)

  Outfit – Balmain black sequinned dress with Zanotti crystal sandals and Philippe Audibert cuff? Roland Mouret turquoise dress with strappy Prada shoes? Azzaro red minidress and black Louboutins?

  OK, so a few issues are a bit unresolved as yet. But the most urgent thing is to make sure Luke stays free on 7 April and doesn’t book a business trip or anything. Which means I’m going to have to rope in an accomplice.

  I wait until I have a moment alone in the kitchen, then dial his office number.

  ‘Luke Brandon’s office, how may I help?’ come the perfectly modulated tones down the phone.

  Luke’s personal assistant is called Bonnie, and she’s been with him for a year. She’s in her forties and has mid-blonde hair which she always arranges in the same classic chignon. And she always wears understated tweed dresses and court shoes and speaks in the same soft voice. At Brandon Communications parties she’s always the one on the fringes, cradling a glass of water, looking happy just to watch. I’ve tried to chat to her a couple of times, but she seems quite reserved.

  Anyway, apparently she’s a total star. Luke had had a couple of disasters before he hired Bonnie and I’ve never known anyone enthuse as much as he did when Bonnie first started. Apparently she’s incredibly efficient and discreet, and almost telepathic at knowing what he’s going to need. I’d almost be worried, if it weren’t for the fact that I can’t actually imagine Bonnie having sex.

  ‘Hi, Bonnie?’ I say. ‘It’s Becky here. Luke’s wife.’

  ‘Becky! How are you?’

  That’s the other thing. She always sounds pleased to hear from me, even though she must be thinking, ‘Oh bloody hell, it’s the wife again.’

  ‘I’m good, thanks. And you?’

  ‘I’m very well. Can I put you through to Luke?’

  ‘Actually, Bonnie, it was you I wanted to speak to. I’m throwing Luke a …’ I pause and glance around in sudden paranoia, just in case Luke’s come back early from work to surprise me and is even now silently creeping up behind me on tiptoes, arms outstretched. But he’s not.

  Huh. Why doesn’t he ever do that?

  Just to be doubly sure, I go and shut the kitchen door and pull a chair across it. This is all so cloak and dagger. I feel like those French Resistance girls in ‘Allo ‘Allo!

  ‘Becky, are you still there?’ Bonnie’s saying. ‘Becky? Hello?’

  ‘Listen very carefully, I will say this only once.’ I whisper into the phone in sepulchral tones. ‘I’m throwing a surprise party for Luke’s birthday. It’s top secret and you’re only the seventh person in the world to know about it.’

  I almost want to add, ‘And now I’ll have to shoot you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Becky …’ Bonnie sounds confused. ‘I can’t hear you. Could you speak up?’

  For God’s sake.

  ‘A party!’ I say more loudly. ‘I’m throwing Luke a party on the seventh of April. And I want it to be a surprise, so could you block off the date in his diary and make something up?’

  ‘The seventh of April.’ Bonnie sounds unruffled. ‘That should be simple enough.’

  You see? This is why she’s a brilliant PA. She behaves as though she’s done this kind of thing a million times.

  ‘And I want to invite all his friends from work, so could they all block off their diaries too? But don’t make it look suspicious or anything. And don’t tell anyone what it’s about yet. Maybe you could say it’s a big fire practice? And you should have a decoy birthday card going around the office,’ I add as the thought suddenly crosses my mind. ‘You know, nearer the time. And if Luke ever mentions his birthday, which he won’t, but if he does, you should just say—’

  ‘Becky …’ Bonnie cuts me off kindly. ‘Should we perhaps meet to discuss all this?’

  Result! As I put down the phone I’m beaming. Everything’s falling into place. Bonnie’s already offered to put together a guest list and we’re having lunch next week. Now I just have to decide on a party venue.

  My gaze drifts outside. The garden would be perfect. But we’d never be able to keep it secret from Luke.

  ‘Have you heard the latest?’ Mum comes hurrying into

  the kitchen, followed by Minnie. Her face is pink and she’s breathing fast. ‘It’s not just Bank of London! All the banks are like Swiss cheese! Full of holes! Have you heard, Graham?’ she adds agitatedly to D
ad, who is just coming in. ‘The entire banking structure is going to collapse!’

  ‘It’s a bad business.’ Dad nods, flicking on the kettle.

  I’ve stopped watching the news because it’s too depressing, but the Bank of London crisis is still going on like some kind of soap opera. Now they’ve stopped the cashpoints working and a few people have thrown stones at the windows. The Prime Minister appeared on the TV last night and told everyone to please stop taking their money out. But all that did was make everyone freak out even more. (I knew it would. Didn’t I say? They really should make me an adviser at Number 10.)

  ‘Luke says we won’t all lose our money,’ I venture.

  ‘Oh Luke does, does he?’ Mum bristles. ‘And would Luke like to tell us if any other financial institutions are about to fold? Or would that be too much trouble?’

  She’s never going to forgive him, is she?

  ‘Mum,’ I say for the millionth time, ‘Luke couldn’t have told us. It was confidential and sensitive. And you would have told the whole of Oxshott!’

  ‘I would not have told the whole of Oxshott!’ she says sharply. ‘I would have warned Janice and Martin and a few other dear friends and that is all. And now we’ll probably lose everything. Everything.’ She shoots me a resentful look as though it’s all my fault.

  ‘Mum, I’m sure we won’t lose everything.’ I try to sound confident and reassuring.

  ‘I heard a commentator on the radio this morning predicting anarchy! Civilization will collapse! It’s war!’

  ‘Now, now, Jane.’ Dad pats her on the shoulder. ‘Let’s not overreact. We simply might have to tighten our belts a little. Pull in our horns. All of us, Becky.’ He gives me a significant look.

  I can’t help feeling a bit offended. What was that look for?

  Excuse me, I’m an adult. I’m a mother. You move back in with your mum and dad and they immediately start treating you like a teenager who’s spent her travelcard money on a pair of legwarmers.

  Which I only did once.

  ‘Poor Janice has taken to her bed with the strain, you know.’ Mum lowers her voice discreetly, as though Janice might hear us from inside her house. ‘It was bad enough for her hearing Jess and Tom’s news.’

  ‘Poor Janice,’ Dad and I say, in automatic unison.

  ‘She had her heart set on that wedding. I mean, I know the younger generation like to do things differently, but really, is it so hard to walk down an aisle in a veil? Janice had already planned the table decorations and the wedding favours. What’s she going to do with all that silver fabric?’

  Mum keeps on talking, but I’ve been gripped by a sudden idea.

  Janice’s garden. Of course! We could put up a marquee there and Luke would never suspect a thing! He’d just think Martin and Janice were having their own bash!

  ‘… and not a single wedding picture for the mantelpiece …’ Mum is still in full indignant flow.

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ I interrupt. ‘Listen. Don’t tell Luke, but I’m going to hold a surprise birthday party for him. And I was just thinking – do you reckon Janice would let me do it in her garden?’

  There’s silence. Both Dad and Mum are eyeing me weirdly.

  ‘A party, love?’ Mum sounds tense. ‘You mean, a few friends over?’

  ‘No! A big party! With a marquee and everything.’

  Now Mum and Dad are exchanging looks.

  ‘What?’ I say, rankled.

  ‘It sounds rather … big.’

  ‘It will be big,’ I say defiantly. ‘And brilliant. I’m going to have a dance-floor that lights up, and fire-eaters, and Luke will be completely blown away.’

  I think about this every night; in fact I always conjure up the same image in my head: Luke staring in shock at the most amazing party in the world, and being literally unable to speak. I can’t wait.

  ‘Fire-eaters?’ echoes Mum, looking perturbed. ‘Becky, love …’

  ‘It’ll be George Michael all over again,’ Dad mutters darkly to Mum, and I give a sharp intake of breath. That is against our family code. No one was supposed to mention George Michael ever again. We even turn off ‘Careless Whisper’ whenever it comes on.

  ‘I heard that, thank you, Dad.’ I give him a furious stare. ‘And it won’t.’

  The George Michael incident was so painful, I can barely bring myself to remember the details. So I won’t. Except that I was turning thirteen, and my whole class thought George Michael was entertaining at my birthday party. Because I’d said he was. And they all came with their autograph books and cameras …

  I feel a bit queasy, just thinking about it.

  Thirteen-year-old girls are mean.

  And I had not made it up, like everyone said. I had not. I phoned the fan club and the man said he was sure George would have loved to be there and I kind of … misunderstood.

  ‘And do you remember the fairies, Graham?’ Mum suddenly claps a hand to her head. ‘All those sobbing, hysterical little girls.’

  Why do parents have to remind you of things all the time? OK, so maybe I shouldn’t have told my schoolfriends that I had real fairies in my garden and they were coming to my fifth birthday party and everyone would get a wish. And then I shouldn’t have said the fairies had changed their minds because no one had given me a nice enough present.

  But I was five. You do things when you’re five. It doesn’t mean you’re going to do them when you’re twenty-nine.

  ‘Anything else you want to bring up from my past?’ I can’t help sounding hurt.

  ‘Love.’ Mum puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m just saying … birthday parties haven’t been your strong point. Have they, now?’

  ‘Well, this one will be,’ I retort, but Mum still looks anxious.

  ‘Just don’t make too many promises, darling.’

  ‘Why don’t you take Luke out to dinner instead?’ suggests Dad. ‘The King’s Arms does a lovely set meal.’

  OK, I officially give up on all my friends and family. The King’s Arms?

  ‘I don’t want a dreary old set meal in a pub! I want to throw Luke a party. And I’m going to, even if you think it’ll be a disaster!’

  ‘We don’t!’ says Mum hastily, shooting a glance at Dad. ‘That’s not what we were saying, and I’m sure we can all help—’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ I say haughtily. ‘I have all the help I need, thank you.’

  And I sweep out of the kitchen before either of them can reply. Which I know is really immature and teenagery of me. But honestly. Parents are so … annoying.

  And anyway, they’re all wrong, because hosting a surprise party is a doddle. Why don’t I do it more often? By that evening, I’ve got it all sorted. We’re having a marquee in Janice’s garden on 7 April. Janice and Martin are totally on board and sworn to utter secrecy. (So is the plumber who was fixing their tap and listening in to the whole conversation. He’s absolutely promised not to say a word.)

  On the less good side, Mum’s even more hysterical than before. She’s heard some scare story on the radio about how Britain’s national debt is a big black hole and pensions are all going to collapse, and basically money won’t exist any more. Or something. So we’re having a family conference. Minnie’s in bed and a bottle of wine is open and we’re sitting round the table in the kitchen.

  ‘So,’ Dad begins, ‘clearly the world is in a bit of a … state.’

  ‘I’ve just looked in the cellar.’ Mum sounds a bit tremulous. ‘We’ve still got all that bottled water we bought for the Millennium bug. And eight boxes of canned food, and all the candles. We’d be all right for three months, I think, although what we’d do about little Minnie …’

  ‘Jane, we’re not under siege,’ says Dad a little testily. ‘Waitrose is still open, you know.’

  ‘You never know! We need to be prepared! It said in the Daily World—’

  ‘But there may be financial worries ahead,’ Dad interrupts, looking grave. ‘For all of us. So I suggest that we all look at way
s that we can CB.’

  There’s a gloomy silence round the table. None of us is very keen on CB. It’s Dad’s shorthand for Cut Back and it’s never any fun.

  ‘I know where all the money’s going,’ says Mum adamantly. ‘It’s on those luxury roasted nuts from Marks & Spencer you insist on buying, Graham. Do you know how much they cost? And you sit there in front of the TV, eating handfuls at a time …’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Dad heatedly. ‘You know where our money goes? It’s on jam. How many pots of jam do we need? Who needs …’ He reaches into a cupboard and grabs a pot at random. ‘Gooseberry and elderflower?’

  I bought that, actually, at a craft fair.

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’ exclaims Mum indignantly. ‘Survive on one miserable jar of cut-price goo made out of food-colouring and turnips?’

  ‘Maybe! Maybe we should be shopping at some of those lower-priced stores. We’re pensioners, Jane. We can’t afford to live the high life any more.’

  ‘It’s coffee,’ says Mum. ‘Those whatsit capsules of Becky’s. Nexpresso.’

  ‘Yes!’ Dad suddenly wakes up. ‘I utterly agree. Overpriced waste of money. How much is each one?’

  They both turn and stare accusingly at me.

  ‘I need good coffee!’ I say in horror. ‘It’s my only luxury!’

  I can’t live with my parents and drink bad coffee. It’s not humanly possible.

  ‘If you ask me, it’s the TV,’ I throw back at them. ‘You have it on too loud. It’s wasting energy.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ retorts Mum tartly.

  ‘Well, it’s not coffee!’

  ‘I think we could cut out all jam, starting tomorrow,’ Dad is saying. ‘All jam, all spreads—’

  ‘Well, if we’re going to do that, I’ll cut out food, shall I?’ retorts Mum shrilly. ‘I’ll just cut out all food, Graham, because that’s obviously a waste of money too—’

  ‘Anyway, Nespresso is a million times cheaper than going to a coffee shop,’ I’m trying to point out. ‘And you don’t even pay for it, I buy it myself on the internet! So—’

  We’re all so busy arguing, it’s a while before I realize that Luke is in the doorway, watching, his mouth twitching at the edges in amusement.