Christmas Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Oh, you’re one of those,” says the man with a dismissive eye roll, and I glare at him indignantly.

  “What do you mean, ‘one of those’?”

  “Girls who insist on choosing new aftershaves for their blokes for Christmas.”

  “My husband asked me to buy him aftershave for Christmas, actually,” I say coldly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Maybe he did,” replies the man, unmoved. “But he meant, ‘Buy me the aftershave I always wear.’ ”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “You don’t even know my husband!” I glower at him.

  “I don’t need to. No one in the history of mankind has ever successfully chosen a scent for another person. L’Homme Prada Intense, please, one hundred ml,” he adds to Erik. “I’ll pay over there.”

  Erik hands him the glossy box and the guy walks off, saying, “Have a good Christmas,” over his shoulder.

  Hmph. People are so rude. I turn my attention back to Erik and smile at him. He understands me, at least.

  “I’ve narrowed it down,” I say, waving three strips of card at Erik. “These are my options.”

  “Great!” enthuses Erik. “Good choices! I’m sure he’ll love them!” He looks at the strips of card, then adds helpfully, “So you should really try them out on his skin? Because it’s all about body chemistry?”

  Oh for God’s sake. Now he says this? What if they all smell totally vile on Luke’s skin and make him gag? Or make me gag?

  I hate to admit it, but Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf has a point. Giving aftershave isn’t the easy option after all. It’s the impossible option. Either you buy an old favorite, which requires no effort and is really lame. Or you go out on a limb and choose something new, which he probably hates but has to say he likes. And your whole life you don’t know if he was just being polite, until on his deathbed he suddenly croaks, “I always hated Prada L’Homme!” and conks out.

  (You know. Worst-case scenario.)

  “Did you want to make a purchase?” Erik interrupts my thoughts, and I blink at him. I don’t want to buy an expensive mistake, but I don’t want to give up either.

  At that moment, Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf walks past, toward the exit, and shoots me a sardonic grin.

  “Still at it?” he says. “You should have a coffee break.”

  “Some people are happy to go the extra mile for their husband’s Christmas present,” I reply frostily.

  He raises his eyebrows, looking amused, and heads out the door. I watch him go, feeling a bit ruffled—but the exchange has only fueled my determination. I can blow Luke away with a perfect new aftershave. I just need to be scientific.

  “So, I was wondering,” I say, flashing my most charming smile at Erik. “Do you have any little sample bottles?”

  * * *

  —

  As I let myself into our house three hours later, I feel a quiet pride. No one can say I wasn’t thorough. I smelled every single aftershave in that bloody place, and now my Letherby Hall Gift Shop tote contains thirty-one sample bottles of aftershave, which I must hide from Luke. I must also hide the big glossy Selfridges shopping bag slung over my—

  Oh. Too late. Here he is.

  “How did you do?” he says, coming forward with a sympathetic smile. “You look exhausted!”

  “I’m OK,” I say bravely. “Not bad.”

  “Let me take that for you.” Luke reaches for the Selfridges carrier. “What’s in there, decorations? Presents?”

  “Oh, um, just Christmas stuff,” I say in vague tones, holding tightly on to it. “I’ll put it away.”

  Before he can quiz me any more, I hurry up the stairs.

  “So, did you tick a lot of items off your list?” Luke’s voice follows me. “Did you make good progress?”

  “Er…kind of!” I throw over my shoulder. I hurry into our bedroom and shut the door. I dump the bag of aftershave samples on the bed, then turn to the glossy carrier. I survey it for a moment, then reverently pull out a tissue-wrapped package. As I rip the tissue off, I hear myself inhale deeply. I can’t quite believe what I’m holding. An Alexander McQueen dress, 70 percent reduced just because it has a pulled thread on the back! I’m going to look awesome on Christmas Day!

  And OK. I know Buy new dress wasn’t on my original to-do list. But everyone knows the key to successful shopping is being flexible and spotting opportunities. I was heading toward the Christmas department, absolutely intending to buy decorations, when I happened to pass through the fashion department. And I happened to see a discounted designer rack, where the most amazing Alexander McQueen dress was waiting for me. It’s got gorgeous ruffled sleeves and sequined stripes and the only slight issue—teeny-weeny point—is that it’s a bit too small for me.

  Only a tad. A smidgen.

  Here’s the thing: It was the only one they had and it was 70 percent off and I couldn’t bear not to buy it. Plus, it’s not like I can’t get into it. It’s just a bit…tight. But you don’t need to breathe much on Christmas Day, do you? Or move your arms much. And I’ll probably lose some weight before then.

  Perhaps. Oh God…

  I peer anxiously at the dress, which seems to be shrinking as I look at it. Even with the discount, it was expensive. I can’t not fit into it on Christmas Day.

  I should go on a health kick before Christmas, it occurs to me. Start exercising and drinking green juice or whatever. Then I’ll lose weight and get into the dress—and the bonus is, I’ll be healthy too. Perfect!

  I gaze at the dress lovingly for a few more seconds, then stash it away in the wardrobe and get my notebook out of my handbag. I write Buy new dress for Christmas Day and tick it off with satisfaction.

  Then I turn toward the bed and survey my bag of aftershave samples. I have a plan, which will definitely work—it just requires Luke to fall asleep and stay asleep. I hide the bag in my bedside cabinet, then head downstairs, trilling in my most innocent voice, “Luke! I feel like celebrating! Let’s have some more wine!”

  * * *

  —

  Three hours later, I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, seething lightly with frustration. I never knew it took Luke so long to fall asleep. What’s wrong with him?

  I keep prodding him very subtly to see if he’s dropped off, and he keeps saying, “Huh?” or “What?” to which I say “Sorry—stretching!” Until he opens his eyes and says irritably, “Becky, I’ve got an early flight to Madrid and I’m knackered. Could you stop doing bloody yoga in bed?”

  So I leave off for a bit, silently drumming my fingers with impatience, until at last he genuinely seems to be asleep and doesn’t even stir when I say urgently, “Luke, I think I can hear a burglar!”

  Then I worry that I really can hear a burglar, so I creep downstairs clutching a high-heeled shoe as a weapon, turn all the lights on, wander around, find no burglar, turn them off again, check on Minnie, and come back to bed.

  I feel pretty knackered myself by now. But I have a plan to execute. Silently, I get the bag of aftershave samples out of the bedside cabinet and remove four tiny bottles. I spray a little of Royal Oud by Creed on Luke’s neck, under his left ear. I dab the Luna Rossa by Prada under his right ear. Then I mark them both in discreet felt tip, L and R, so I won’t lose track. I spray his right wrist with Quercus and his left wrist with Sartorial, and mark those Q and S. I inhale the scents in turn and scribble scores in my book. So far, Sartorial is winning; it’s gorgeous.

  Luke is sleeping so peacefully, I think I can risk one more. So I take another sample out of the bag, Pacific Lime. I lean over to spray it discreetly on his chest—but as I’m pressing the nozzle, a huge moth flies out of nowhere, making me shriek in shock and fling my arms up.

  “Argh!” Luke sits bolt upright, clutching his eye. “Becky! Are
you OK? What happened?”

  He’s blinking at me, still half-asleep. Suddenly I see that his eye is wet. Shit! I sprayed his eye with Pacific Lime! But maybe he won’t notice.

  “I’m fine,” I say breathlessly. “Sorry. Just a moth.”

  “Fuck. Ow. Something’s up with my eye.” He’s still clutching at his eye, which is starting to look red.

  My heart is gripped with horror. Oh God, please don’t say I’ve blinded my husband. I can see the Daily World headline: IRONY AS WIFE BLINDS HUSBAND IN BID FOR PERFECT PRESENT.

  “Let me get you a wet cloth,” I say desperately. “Can you see? Is your vision blurred?”

  I rush to the bathroom and bring back a dripping flannel. I hastily plaster it onto Luke’s face and he curses.

  “I’m all wet now!”

  “Better safe than sorry,” I say, gazing anxiously at his eye. “Is it feeling better? How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Four,” says Luke curtly, and my heart falls.

  “Wrong!” I say in dismay. “Oh my God, Luke, we need to get you to hospital—”

  “I’m not wrong!” snaps Luke impatiently. “One, two, three, four. Use your eyes.”

  I peer at my own hand and realize I am holding up four fingers. Oh, right.

  “I’m fine.” Luke blinks a few more times, then studies me blearily. “But what the hell happened? I was fast asleep.”

  “A moth,” I say quickly. “Just a moth.”

  “A moth woke you up?” he says incredulously.

  “Er…it was a really big moth. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  I’m hoping Luke might lie down again, but his gaze falls on his wrist. He stares at the “Q” for a few seconds, as though trying to make sense of it.

  “Someone wrote ‘Q’ on my wrist,” he says at last.

  “Wow!” I say, trying to sound surprised. “How weird. It was probably Minnie. Anyway, it’s late—”

  “And ‘S’ on my other wrist,” says Luke. He suddenly gets out of bed and heads to the mirror. “What the fuck?” He’s staring at the letters on his neck. A moment later he swivels round to survey the bed and I see his eyes fall on the pen, which I left right there on the duvet. I’m an idiot.

  “Becky?” he says ominously.

  “OK, it was me,” I admit in a rush. “I was trying out aftershaves on you while you were asleep. For your Christmas present,” I add meaningfully, hoping his face might soften and he might say, “Oh, darling, you’re so thoughtful.”

  But he doesn’t.

  “It’s one A.M.,” he says, with the air of someone trying to keep his temper under control. “And I’ve got bloody writing all over me. I mean, did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  “You always shower first thing.” I can’t help sounding proud of my plan. “And it’s a washable pen. I knew it would all come off and you’d never even realize.”

  “Well, that’s something,” grunts Luke, heading back to the bed. Then he stops, his eyes focusing on the pen again. “Wait. You used a Sharpie. That’s permanent.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is!”

  “Only the black ones are permanent,” I explain. “I used a blue one.”

  “The blue ones are permanent too!” Luke erupts. “Look.” He grabs the pen and brandishes it at me, his finger jabbing at the word. “ ‘Permanent.’ ”

  What?

  I grab the pen from him and peer at it. Oh my God, he’s right. It is permanent. I never knew that. I’ve been using Sharpies all these years and I never realized! That’s quite funny, actually….

  Then I look up and see Luke’s expression and gulp slightly. Maybe it’s not that funny.

  “I have ‘L’ and ‘R’ on my neck,” says Luke in an über-calm voice. “On the wrong sides. And tomorrow I’m meeting the finance minister of Spain.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I swallow hard. “Um…you could wear a cravat?”

  Luke doesn’t even bother to reply. (I mean, I don’t blame him.)

  “I’m really sorry,” I say again in my humblest voice. “I just wanted to get you the perfect Christmas present. And since we’re talking about it,” I add hopefully, “do you prefer any of the aftershaves? I like the one on your left wrist.”

  I look at him expectantly, but Luke makes no move to smell his left wrist.

  “I like the aftershave I always wear,” he says. “Shall we get some sleep?”

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  The next morning, Luke is distinctly on the grouchy side. I say “morning,” but it’s more like the middle of the night. I would have thought that being the boss of your own company would mean you didn’t have to get up at silly o’clock to catch planes, but apparently it doesn’t work like that.

  I kiss him goodbye, wincing slightly at the furry texture of his new mustache. (It’s for charity, I keep reminding myself.) As his taxi pulls away, I wave, trying to look as loving and apologetic as I can. Then I head into the kitchen and slump on a chair.

  I feel fairly grouchy myself. I didn’t get enough sleep either, and I feel awful that I nearly blinded Luke. The whole thing was a total disaster. I spent ages collecting all those aftershave samples—and all for nothing. Luke doesn’t want a new aftershave. He wants the same old thing. It’s totally against the spirit of Christmas! Imagine if Father Christmas opened his letters and they all said, Dear Santa, please give me the same old thing. He’d go into a decline.

  As I switch on the kettle, I remember that annoying guy in Selfridges, telling me that my husband didn’t want a new aftershave. I hate that he was right—and I stand by my reply. Some people are happy to go the extra mile for their husband’s Christmas present. So the coat didn’t work out and the aftershave didn’t work out. I’m undeterred. I feel all the more determined to find something that makes Luke’s jaw drop.

  (In a good way. Not because it’s a purple mohair jacket. Although to be fair, I kept the receipt for that purple jacket, and I still think it suited him. It was all Mum’s fault for exclaiming, “Dear God!” in such appalled tones when he tried it on. Sometimes I don’t understand how I came from such a fashion-illiterate family, I really don’t.)

  As I drop Minnie at school, I look around for Steph—in case she wants a chat or anything—but I can’t see her, so I head to work. I make myself a coffee, then lean against the cash desk, looking around the shop for present inspiration. But I’ve already given Luke the hip flask and the gentleman’s handkerchief set and the caramel sea salt chocolate. (Well, OK, that was mostly for me.)

  I heave a gusty sigh, cursing myself. I should never have bought him the hip flask. I should have mentally earmarked it for Christmas.

  “Are you OK, Bex?” Suze comes up, peering at me in surprise.

  “Didn’t sleep very well,” I say morosely. “Actually, Luke and I had a row.”

  “What about?”

  “Christmas presents and stuff,” I say vaguely.

  I won’t mention that I drew on Luke with a Sharpie; it sounds a bit weird.

  “Oh, Christmas presents.” Suze rolls her eyes sympathetically. “We had a row too. Tarkie wants to give the children each a lamb, but I want to get them a piglet. Who wants a lamb when they
could have a piglet?” She looks at me expectantly.

  “Er…” Personally, I wouldn’t want either, but that’s probably not the answer Suze is hoping for.

  “Does Minnie want a piglet?” Suze’s eyes light up. “Shall I get her one too?”

  A piglet? In our garden? Oinking everywhere and making a mess and growing into a massive hog? I love Suze to bits, but there are certain areas of life where we simply don’t see eye to eye.

  “I don’t think so,” I say carefully. “She’s not really a piglet girl. In fact, the only useful thing I’ve done so far for Christmas is buy Minnie’s present,” I add. “She’s desperate for a picnic hamper, and I’ve already ordered it.”

  I’m expecting Suze to exclaim, “Well done!” or ask to see it online, but instead she looks doubtful.

  “You’ve ordered it already?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Hmm.” Suze twists her mouth up. “Isn’t that a bit early? What if she changes her mind?”

  Changes her mind? That hadn’t even occurred to me.

  “She won’t,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “She’s wanted that hamper for ages.” But Suze just shakes her head.

  “They’re totally fickle. I call it ‘the swerve.’ They say, ‘I really want a pogo stick, it’s all I want, please, please, please can I have a pogo stick?’ Then, three days before Christmas, they go to a friend’s house and see a talking mermaid on a TV ad and suddenly they want that instead. But it’s already sold out,” she ends in gloomy satisfaction. “So you have to find it on eBay at three times the price.”

  “Minnie won’t change her mind,” I insist. “She loves that hamper.”

  “You wait,” says Suze, sounding like a grizzled old fisherman predicting a storm. “She’ll see a talking mermaid on telly, and the hamper will be toast.”

  “Well, she’s not allowed to see a talking mermaid,” I say crossly. “I’m banning the telly until Christmas.”

  “Yeah, right,” scoffs Suze. “Are you going to move to an Amish village?”