Nonsense? I gaze at her, feeling insulted. How dare she call my lovely table nonsense?
“Hygge is a Scandinavian word,” I explain as charmingly as I can. “It means coziness and warmth…friendship over the cold winter…lighting lots of candles and making yourself feel good. Like Christmas,” I add, suddenly resolving to host a totally hygge Christmas. God, yes. I’ll have a million candles and woolly throws and warming glasses of glogg. (Glug? Glygge?)
As the women walk away, I start making a mental list—candles, throws, glogg—then realize I really need to start writing this stuff down. I’ll buy a special Christmas planning notebook, I decide. And a gorgeous new festive pen. Yes. And then it will all fall into place.
That evening I sit down on the sofa with my brand-new Christmas-planning notebook and pen. (Both from the Letherby leather range, 15 percent staff discount.) Minnie’s quietly playing with her tea set before bed, so I’ve got time to start on my master list.
I write down Christmas on the first page and look at it with satisfaction. There. Started. People get in such a flap about Christmas, and there’s no need. It’s simply a matter of itemizing the tasks you need to do, calmly completing them, and ticking them off. Exactly.
Briskly, I write down: Buy vegan turkey.
Then I stare at the page. Where am I going to find a vegan turkey?
OK, maybe I’m doing this wrong. Maybe what I need to start with is a very simple task, which I can accomplish straightaway. I write down Buy Luke’s present and open my laptop. I’ll order it in two minutes, tick it off, and I’ll be on the way.
I find the webpage for the coat and squint at the photos. It’s lovely. It’s perfect! It comes in navy and gray, I notice. Which would Luke prefer? I try to imagine him in the navy one…then the gray one…then the navy one again….
“Hi, sweetheart.” As I hear Luke’s voice, I put an arm across the screen, look up—and freeze. Luke’s standing in front of me, in exactly the same navy coat that’s on my screen. How did that happen? Did I somehow will it into being? Am I psychic? I suddenly feel like I’m in one of those films with tinkly wind chimes and weird stuff going on.
“Are you OK, Becky?” he says, surveying me curiously.
“Luke…” I falter. “Where did you get that coat?”
If he says, “But I’ve always had it, darling,” in a toneless voice, I will seriously freak out.
“I bought it today.” He swings it around. “Nice, isn’t it? I’ll take it to Madrid day after tomorrow.”
“You bought it today? But…”
My shock has been replaced by indignation. Luke bought it for himself? How could he? No one should ever buy anything for themselves in November or December, just in case.
“What?” says Luke, looking puzzled.
“That was going to be your Christmas present!” I say reproachfully. “You knew it was.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did! We saw it in Hector Goode a month ago, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” Luke peers at me as though I’m mad. “That’s why I went back to buy it.”
“But I told you I was going to get it for you for Christmas!” I erupt in frustration. “You should have waited!”
“Becky, I remember our conversation very well,” says Luke calmly. “You didn’t mention Christmas presents once.”
Honestly. Luke is so literal. It’s a major character flaw of his, actually. I often tell him so.
“I was subtle! I said, ‘Well, maybe a little elf will get it for you!’ What did you think I meant by ‘a little elf’?”
“Look, Becky,” says Luke, clearly amused. “Don’t fret. This can still be my Christmas present. I love it. Thank you very much.” He drops a kiss on my head, then turns toward the door, but I’m not mollified.
“You can’t have your Christmas present in November,” I call after him. “You have to have something to open on Christmas Day.”
“Get me some aftershave,” says Luke over his shoulder.
Aftershave? Is he for real? Aftershave? Aftershave is the most unimaginative present for a man you could ever choose out of a Presents for Dad catalog full of golf tees and bad ties.
On the other hand…it’s quite easy.
I turn to my Christmas planner and, after Buy Luke’s present, I add, Aftershave. But I won’t get the same one he always uses, I decide as I write. Ha. I’ll get a fab new surprise aftershave.
Then I turn my attention to Minnie, who’s playing by the fireplace with her adorable little tea set. She’s handing out cups to all her teddies and pouring out “tea” from the dinky teapot.
“Minnie, poppet,” I say. “It’s going to be Christmas before too long, and maybe if you’re good, Father Christmas will bring you a present! What d’you think you would like?”
“I would like…” replies Minnie, still engrossed in her tea party, “a hamper. Please,” she adds as an afterthought. “Pleeeeeease, I want a hamper.”
I stare at her, puzzled. A hamper? Like…a Fortnum’s hamper full of smoked salmon? A laundry hamper?
Then my eye falls on the tea-set box, which advertises other products in the range. Of course! She’s been begging me for ages to buy the full picnic hamper with plastic glasses and napkins and pretend food. Well, that’s easy enough.
I quickly log on to the website where we got the tea set and search picnic hamper. It’s gorgeous, with a gingham lining and little knives and forks and even a sweet little vase of plastic flowers. There are only five left in stock, so thank God I asked her about this early enough. Plus my details are already stored on the site, so it takes me a minute to buy it. Done!
As the email arrives in my in-box—Confirmation of your order—I feel a jab of pride. I’ve started Christmas shopping! I grab my Christmas planner, write Get Minnie present, and tick it off. Ha! I’m so on top of things. I just need to continue like this, in a calm, orderly way.
* * *
—
Except of course, as soon as you want to be calm and orderly, life decides to trip you up. By seven-thirty the next morning, I’m not remotely calm or orderly. I’m rushing hectically round the house, helping Luke look for a vital set of papers that he needs for a meeting and has gone “missing.”
“Did you put them in here?” he says, yanking out the drawer of the dresser in the hall.
Immediately I bristle. Why’s he blaming me? Why would I put some boring old set of papers anywhere?
“No,” I say politely. “I didn’t.”
“What about in here?” He reaches for the cupboard doors of the dresser. “What do we keep in here, anyway?” As he speaks, he opens a door and a deluge of canvas bags falls out.
“That’s nothing,” I say hastily, rushing forward to stop him, but it’s too late. Damn.
“What on earth is this?” says Luke incredulously, looking at the mountain of bags at his feet.
“Just…er…some bags,” I say.
“What bags?”
“Bags! You know, bags! Maybe your papers are in the kitchen. Let’s go and look.”
I’m trying to hurry him away, but Luke doesn’t move. He stares at the massive, tangled pile of bags for a moment, then starts pulling them apart and reading the slogans on them.
“Bag for Life. Bag for Life. Tote for Life. Greener Bag. Tesco. Waitrose…Becky, what the hell?”
OK. So the truth is, I do sometimes buy a bag for life and then forget to take it out with me next time and have to buy another one. Which is not ideal, because I’ve ended up with a cupboardful.
But I’ve often found with Luke that attack is the best form of defense.
“I try to buy bags for life,” I inform him loftily, “because I’m a responsible consumer and I’ve given up on plastic bags. But you’re suggesting I should use plastic bags instead and choke t
he oceans? Well, that’s an interesting insight into your moral compass, Luke. Very interesting.”
Luke’s mouth twitches and I lift my chin defiantly.
“I’m not saying you should use plastic,” he says calmly. “I’m suggesting you use one bag, for life. The clue’s in the name, my love. ‘Bag for life,’ not ‘bag for one use, then stuff it in a cupboard and buy another one.’ ”
He opens the other dresser door, and an even bigger mountain of totes falls out. Shit. I was hoping he wouldn’t see those.
“Oh my God,” he says, looking genuinely appalled. “Becky, how many bloody bags for life do you need? How long are you planning to live?”
“They’ll come in handy one day,” I say defensively. “Anyway, you haven’t found your papers. You’re just procrastinating.”
At that moment, Minnie comes into the hall, pushing her dollies’ Moses basket on wheels. Luke glances down at it, then does a double take.
“There they are!” he exclaims, and grabs a stash of papers out of the Moses basket.
“That is miiine, Daddy!” says Minnie crossly, trying to snatch them back. “It is for my barkit.”
“Barkit” is Minnie-talk for “basket.” And, yes, I know we ought to correct her pronunciation, but it’s so sweet. I mean, she can talk. She’s perfectly articulate for her age (Miss Lucas said so when I consulted her). It’s just that she misfires on a few words, like “monter” and “barkit” and “raffodils” for “daffodils.”
“They’re not for your barkit, poppet,” says Luke to Minnie. “They’re important papers for Daddy. Here you are.” He tucks a bag for life around Minnie’s doll Speaky in the Moses basket. “And there’s plenty more of them.” He kisses Minnie’s head, then straightens up. “So I’m picking up Minnie from Suze’s?”
“If that’s still all right.” I nod. “I’ll head into town straight after work. I’d better crack on with the Christmas shopping.” I heave a slightly browbeaten sigh. “It’s quite a tall order, hosting Christmas, you know.”
“I know,” says Luke, looking concerned. “Becky, I’m really willing to help. I do have to travel a fair bit before Christmas—but just give me jobs to do and I’ll do them.”
“OK.” I nod again. As he kisses me, his top lip feels a bit prickly and I blink in surprise. “Haven’t you shaved today?”
“Oh,” says Luke, looking a bit self-conscious. “Ah. I’m growing a mustache.”
“A mustache?” I stare at him.
“You know, for Movember,” he explains. “For charity.”
“Right!” I quickly plaster on a smile. “Of course. Good for you!”
I’m not massively keen on mustaches, truth be told. But doing it for charity is worthwhile, so I must be supportive. “It looks great already,” I add encouragingly, and kiss him again. “It really suits you. See you later!”
“Have fun shopping,” Luke replies, and I stare at him, a bit offended. Wasn’t he listening?
“I’m not shopping, I’m Christmas shopping. It’s totally different. It’s work. I have a list this long.” I make a dramatic gesture. “Presents, decorations, food items, extras…”
“Extras?” Luke crinkles his brow. “What are extras?”
“They’re extras! You know. Extras.”
I can’t actually think of any extras right now, but I know they exist, because every guide to hosting Christmas talks about “all those last-minute extras.”
“But wait.” Luke suddenly frowns in memory. “Becky, haven’t you done your Christmas shopping? At that country fair in the summer? Yes! You bought five handmade leather cushions and said they would be perfect for Christmas presents. Bloody heavy cushions,” he adds with a grimace. “I lugged them around all that day. Where are they?”
My face has gone hot. I’d kind of hoped he’d forgotten about those.
“We were asked for items for the school bring-and-buy sale.” I try to sound casual. “So I donated them. I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“You just gave them all away?” He seems astounded.
“It’s a good cause!” I say defensively.
I won’t add, “Also, I realized they were rubbish cushions when I tried to put them on the sofa and they slid off.”
It was all the stallholder’s fault for having such a nice face. He lured me into buying his stupid cushions and a leather elephant.
“Well, look…couldn’t we do all this online?” suggests Luke. “If we sit down together with a laptop, we could blast through it. Or give me a task. I’ll order decorations. Take me five minutes.”
Luke? Order decorations? Is he mad? Last time he ordered tree ornaments, he got six vile purple baubles and then, when I complained, he said, “Well, I think they look nice.”
“No, it’s OK,” I say swiftly. “I need to see them properly, in a shop. And, anyway, we need to support the British high street.”
“Well, couldn’t you go somewhere closer than Selfridges?”
“I don’t mind.” I give a slightly martyred sigh. “Someone’s got to put the effort in. See you later.”
Oh my God, I’ve missed shopping. And London. And all of it.
As I push my way in through the heavy doors of Selfridges, a Letherby Hall Gift Shop tote bag slung over my shoulder, I feel dazzled. Selfridges is so twinkly! It might only be November, but the festive season has truly arrived. There are Christmas lights and garlands everywhere. There are huge red baubles decorating the escalators. Carols are playing and the air is warm and scented, and I don’t know where to start. I’m feeling a mixture of euphoria and panic, almost. Where do I go? Up? Down? I haven’t been shopping for ages.
I mean, I’ve shopped online, obviously. But that’s a whole different activity. In fact, I think they should invent a different word for it. Online ordering isn’t really shopping, it’s “procuring.” You procure stuff online. But you don’t get the buzz of actually stepping into a shop and seeing all the gorgeous stuff, feeling it, stroking it, being seduced by it.
I take a step forward, just breathing in the atmosphere. Living outside London is fab in many ways—but I do miss this. I miss passing shiny exciting window displays every day. I miss stopping to stare at an awesome Chanel jacket. I miss ducking into Anthropologie on the way somewhere and deciding to see what’s new in Zara and finding a bargain in Topshop.
On the other hand, it’s forced me to be efficient. The thing about living outside London is, you have to make the most of every trip in. You basically have to rush around and buy everything you can think of, because who knows when you’ll be in London again?
Luke and I don’t exactly agree on this theory. But, then, that’s no surprise, as we don’t agree on the meaning of “efficient.” Luke once said that buying the entire stock of TK Maxx’s discount Clarins range wasn’t “efficient,” it was “ridiculous.” But he knows nothing. Doesn’t he understand how much money I saved? And time! That’s all my skin-care needs sorted out, practically for my whole life. And it only takes up two boxes in the garage. Hardly anything.
(The only tiny issue—which I haven’t mentioned to Luke, because he doesn’t need to know every detail of my life—is that when I was putting them in the garage, I came across a box full of pots of discounted L’Oréal moisturizer that I’d forgotten about. But that’s OK, because you can’t have too much moisturizer. It’s a staple item.)
I suddenly realize I’m standing motionless in the Selfridges perfume hall and give myself a little mental shake. Come on, Becky. Focus. Christmas shopping. I get out my to-do book and look down the list—and at once feel daunted. I got slightly carried away last night, writing down ideas. There are about a hundred entries, from New fairy lights that don’t buzz to Festive placemats? to CHOCOLATE!!!
Where do I start?
A man with a massive bushy mustache passes by, and I find m
yself distracted by the sight of him. What if Luke grows a mustache like that?
No. He won’t. Don’t be stupid. And, anyway, it’s for charity. I must be positive. I take another step forward, trying to focus. Come on. I’m in the perfume hall. I’ll find Luke an aftershave. Yes. Good plan.
There’s a guy dressed in black nearby, promoting some new men’s fragrance called Granite. I take a cardboard slip from him—but the smell makes me choke. It’s a real mystery to me, the way so many expensive perfumes in this world are vile. Most of them smell as if someone just mixed together all the scents that no one buys, shoved the mixture in a new bottle, and gave it a new name like Celebrity Pow!
Luke has always worn Armani aftershave, but I want to get him something different. I’ll head to Prada, I decide, glimpsing the counter in the distance. You can’t go wrong with Prada, can you?
But after three minutes at the counter, I’m feeling even more bewildered. There’s so much choice. I sniff at L’Homme Prada, and Luna Rossa, and Marienbad. Then I go back to L’Homme Prada—and a nice salesman called Erik starts spraying samples on card strips for me to smell.
But by the time I’ve got eight strips lined up in front of me, I’ve lost track. Erik keeps talking about amber notes and hints of leather, and I keep saying, “Oh yes,” but truthfully it all just smells like aftershave.
“Could you spray this one again?” I say, gesturing at Desert Serenade. “In fact, could you spray them all again? And is there one that’s a bit like Babylon but not quite so…” I wave my hands vaguely.
“Excuse me.” A deep voice interrupts me, and I turn to see a guy in a gray coat and blue scarf frowning at me impatiently. “Are you going to take all day?”
“I’m buying aftershave for my husband,” I explain, as Erik starts spraying all my strips again.
“Well, could you please just hurry up and buy it?”
“No, I couldn’t ‘just hurry up and buy it’!” I retort, nettled by his tone. “I need to choose the right one.” I sniff Desert Serenade again and wince. “No. Definitely not.”
Christmas Shopaholic Page 5