Christmas Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  Ooh. Hang on a minute.

  I stop dead and stare upward. I’ve just spotted the most amazing dressing gown in a window. It’s navy blue, decorated all over with cheetahs, and it looks like it’s made of some gorgeous silk. It looks like the kind of thing a movie star would wear. In a movie called The Dressing Gown.

  I enter the shop, which is called Fox and Thurston and has lots of waistcoats and boaters and jaunty socks. There’s a section at the back with dressing gowns, and I head there straightaway. And there it is! It looks even more sumptuous up close, and Luke could definitely do with a new dressing gown.

  Casually, I examine it, but I can’t see a price tag. So I swiftly move away and get out my phone. My new rule in posh shops is: Don’t ask the price but google it. Then you can gulp in private, instead of under the snooty gaze of an assistant.

  I call up the website for Fox and Thurston and click on Unique Dressing Gowns. I scroll down various dressing gowns and suddenly spy the navy one. It’s called Cheetah Cloud, and it’s made from handwoven Chinese silk, and it costs…

  What?

  I stare at the figure in disbelief—£4,000 for a dressing gown? No way. The belt on its own is £350, I notice, and I clamp my lips tight so I won’t giggle. Who wants a dressing gown belt on its own?

  “Hi!” A very thin, pretty girl with swooshy blond hair is approaching me with a smile. “Can I help you?”

  For a split second I don’t quite know what to say—but then a brilliant idea hits me.

  “Oh, hello there,” I say in a businesslike way. “My name’s Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood.” I extend a hand. “I work in brand representation. Would you be the right person to talk to on a business matter?”

  The girl’s eyes widen and she says, “I’d better get Hamish.” A few moments later, a bearded guy dressed in red chinos and a striped waistcoat comes striding up to me.

  “Hamish Mackay,” he says. “I’m the manager. How can I help you?”

  “Hello,” I say, shaking his hand confidently. “My name’s Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood. I’m a brand ambassador consultant, and I just wondered who your brand ambassadors are currently?”

  “Right,” says Hamish, shooting me a curious look. “As far as I’m aware, we don’t have any brand ambassadors.”

  “Really?” I feign shock. “You know, all the big brands have them. I think it’s shortsighted not to avail yourself of this wonderful opportunity.” I can see Hamish opening his mouth to protest, so I quickly press on. “Luckily enough, I have a client on my books who’s available and I think would make a very fine ambassador for you. Very good-looking, very dapper, very high profile in the world of finance. He’s exactly who you need right now.”

  “I’m sorry, what is this?” says Hamish, looking puzzled.

  “It’s an arrangement,” I explain smoothly. “All you would supply is a few items of clothing, maybe a suit and dressing gown, for example, and in return he would wear the clothes in a variety of high-profile situations. It’s a win-win. Works every time.”

  There’s a pause as Hamish peers at me. Then he says, “What’s your name again?”

  “Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood. I can take an item or two with me now, if that’s easier,” I add casually, reaching for the dressing gown. “Why don’t I do that and send over the paperwork later? I know this particular gentleman has some very high-profile events coming up, and you’ll definitely want him to be wearing these garments.”

  “A dressing gown?” says Hamish incredulously, eyeing it in my arms. “How’s he going to wear a dressing gown at a high-profile event?”

  Oh. I hadn’t quite thought that through.

  “Well…what is a dressing gown these days?” I retort boldly. “Call it a dressing gown, call it a smoking jacket—”

  “It’s not a smoking jacket,” Hamish interrupts me. “It’s a dressing gown.”

  “All the old rules are over,” I continue, ignoring him. “My client might sling this garment casually over his black tie…he might go for the dress-down look…he might layer it over a coat….”

  “Layer a dressing gown over a coat?” says Hamish, looking repulsed.

  “Why not?” I say defiantly, trying not to picture the moment where I tell Luke he has to layer a dressing gown over his coat.

  “That’s a very expensive garment,” says Hamish, removing the dressing gown from my arms. “Please don’t touch it anymore. What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Luke Brandon of Brandon Communications,” I say proudly, and something clicks in Hamish’s eyes.

  “So this guy’s your husband?”

  Drat. I should have taken a pseudonym.

  “Perhaps he is,” I say, lifting my chin. “But that’s irrelevant. We’re utterly professional—”

  “And you’re just trying to score some free clothes,” he continues, unmoved.

  I stare at him, offended. Free clothes? What a nerve! They should be delighted that Luke would wear their clothes.

  “It seems you fatally misunderstand the principles of the brand-ambassador concept,” I say loftily.

  “No, I think I understand exactly.” Hamish seems amused. “Nice try.”

  Hmph. He’s not going to give me the dressing gown, is he? I might as well quit while I’m ahead.

  “Well, if that’s what you think,” I say with my most dignified air, “then I will leave you, always wondering what could have been. Always thinking: Was Luke Brandon our perfect brand ambassador…? You will repent at leisure for giving up this opportunity; I can only pity you.”

  Tossing my hair back, I head for the exit, half-hoping he might exclaim, “Wait! You’re right! Here’s the dressing gown!”

  But he doesn’t. Pah.

  I close the door behind me and stomp along the street, feeling quite grumpy. What am I going to do now? I’ll go to Fortnum’s and have a cup of tea, I decide. I probably need a bit more blood sugar or something. I’ll have a scone too.

  I’ve been walking without paying much attention to where I’m going, so I turn my steps back toward Piccadilly. And I’m striding along, glancing automatically into shop windows as I go—when something catches my eye. I stop dead and my heart leaps in amazement.

  Yessss! I’ve found the perfect thing! First of all, it’s luggage.

  Luggage.

  I’ve always had a soft spot for luggage, ever since the day that Luke and I tried out suitcases together when we hardly knew each other. (They were actually for Sacha de Bonneville, it turned out, but let’s not go there, and, anyway, who married him? Exactly.)

  Second of all, it’s beautiful. It’s like a suitcase that opens up into a wardrobe with all hangers and compartments and things. (I feel like it has a special name, but I can’t think of it right now.) It’s made out of amazing dark brown leather and is so elegant.

  Then, as I lean closer, I feel a jab of disbelief. It’s lined with silky material with a repeat pattern of “LB.” Luke’s initials! And there’s “LB” engraved on the side. And—oh my God—a brass “LB” charm dangling from the handle.

  I gaze at it in bewilderment. How can something so perfect just be waiting for me? Did the Christmas-present gods see me coming?

  I raise my head to see which shop I’m at, but it’s not a shop. It’s in the window display of…what on earth is this place? I stare confusedly at the façade of what seems to be a house. It’s a white stucco building with a large painted front door.

  Then I spot a discreet metal sign to one side of the front door: LONDON BILLIARDS. And underneath in smaller writing: The London Billiards and Parlour Music Club, Est. 1816. Oh, right, of course. It’s a club. This entire area of London is stuffed with posh clubs. Luke is a member of one, actually, and he’s taken me along a few times, but it’s deathly. There’s no music and they don’t even do mojitos.

  (To be
fair, Luke finds it quite deathly, too, but he says it can be useful for business. Why it’s useful to sit in an ancient armchair and eat potted shrimp, I don’t know, but there you go.)

  Anyway. Doesn’t matter what it is. The point is, I want to buy their suitcase-thingy. Without further hesitation, I press the metal doorbell and a moment later I’m buzzed in. As I push the door open, I find myself in a hall with old patterned tiles, a staircase with red carpet, and, sitting behind a desk, a man who looks about ninety-three and is talking on an old-fashioned telephone. He puts his hand over the receiver and says, “One minute, young lady,” then resumes talking.

  Since he’s busy, I wander over to the other side of the hall and peep through a pair of massive wooden double doors into a large room. It has a marble mantelpiece and lots of ancient armchairs, just like at Luke’s club. But, oh my God. Luke’s club seems totally vibrant and down with it compared with this place. For one thing, it’s half-empty. And for another, everyone here looks as if they’re ninety-three. Even the young people look as if they’re ninety-three. I’ve never seen so many leather elbow patches.

  As I watch, a shriveled waiter pushes along a wooden trolley covered with bottles. He pauses by an armchair and leans down to address one of the young ninety-three-year-olds.

  “Sherry?” he intones funereally, and I bite my lip to stop myself giggling. The waiter looks older than anyone; in fact, I’m amazed he can lift the sherry bottle.

  “Young lady?” I turn to see the man at the desk summoning me, and I hurry over.

  “Hello!” I say with a friendly smile. “My name is Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood. I saw your wonderful suitcase-thingy in the window, and I would very much like to buy it. Please,” I add hastily. “Thank you.”

  The man behind the desk sighs a weary sigh.

  “Young lady,” he says.

  “Becky,” I put in.

  “ ‘Becky,’ ” he echoes with disdain, as though he’s never heard the name “Becky” before and doesn’t care for it. “I’m afraid the portmanteau on display—”

  “Portmanteau!” I can’t help interrupting. “I knew it had a name!”

  “I’m afraid it is not for sale. It is the prize in our Christmas raffle.”

  A raffle? That’s just typical.

  “Well, can I buy a ticket for the raffle, please?” I ask. “In fact…several tickets?”

  I’ll buy as many tickets as I can afford, I instantly decide. I mean, someone’s got to win, haven’t they? And why shouldn’t it be me?

  “The raffle is only open to members,” says the man discouragingly.

  “Oh,” I say, deflated. “Right. I see.”

  How do I get round this? Could I ask one of the ninety-three-year-olds to buy me twenty tickets, maybe? I could compliment his elbow patches and take it from there….

  “How much are the tickets?” I ask casually. “Just out of interest.”

  “Twenty pounds,” says the man, and I stare at him, appalled.

  Twenty pounds? Twenty pounds? For one raffle ticket? That’s not right. It’s against the laws of raffles. If I were a member of this club, I would be complaining.

  “Was there anything else?” says the man, raising his eyebrows.

  Honestly, he doesn’t need to sound so snotty. I’m tempted to say, “Yes, actually, I’m a sherry inspector and I’ve come to see if your trolley’s up to scratch.”

  “I suppose not,” I say at last. “Thanks, anyway. So why are you called London Billiards?” I can’t help asking. “What happened to the ‘Parlour Music’ bit?”

  “The parlour music declined,” says the man disapprovingly, although whether he disapproves of parlour music or of the fact that it declined is hard to tell.

  They could do with a bit of parlour music round here, if you ask me.

  If the parlour music were Beyoncé, and the parlour were a disco.

  “Well, bye, then,” I say. “Good luck with the billiards.”

  I head unwillingly toward the door, my eyes fixed on the portmanteau. It would be so perfect…so perfect….And then suddenly a new thought strikes me.

  “Excuse me,” I say, striding back to the desk. “Could you please furnish me with the name and details of whoever made the portmanteau?”

  I’m quite pleased with “furnish me with.” It sounds suitably pretentious.

  I can tell the man is trying to think of a reason to say no but can’t quite manage it.

  “Very well,” he says at last. He opens a ledger, leafs through the pages, squints at an entry, then laboriously writes out all the information on a slip of paper. It’s someone called Adam Sandford, in Worcestershire.

  “Thank you so much.” I beam at him.

  This is even better. I’ll commission Luke his own special portmanteau! There’s no time like the present, so I send Adam Sandford a quick email, standing on the street. Then, feeling satisfied with myself, I decide to go to Hamleys toy shop. I cut through the Burlington Arcade, which is full of the most gorgeous twinkly trees and massive red baubles, and onto Regent Street, all lit up with angels.

  As I get near the iconic red banners of Hamleys, I feel a spring in my step. A machine is pumping bubbles into the air outside the shop, Christmas music is blasting through speakers, and two elves in stripy tights are handing out shopping baskets. I’m about to take one, when I feel a buzzing in my pocket and pull out my phone. It’s him! Adam Sandford has replied already!

  But as I read his words, my delight evaporates.

  Dear Mrs. Brandon, née Bloomwood:

  Thank you so much for your inquiry regarding the portmanteau. I would be delighted to craft one for your husband, but I’m sure you will understand that it is a time-consuming process to make such a bespoke item and that I have a waiting list. I estimate I should have one ready for you in approx. 36 months. Would that suit?

  Yours kindly,

  Adam Sandford

  Thirty-six months? Three years? What good is that?

  “Excuse me!” says a woman holding about six Hamleys carrier bags, and I quickly turn away. I walk along disconsolately, thinking hard. Now I’ve seen that portmanteau, every other present idea for Luke seems really lame. Should I go and visit Adam Sandford? Or ask him to recommend another portmanteau maker? But why would he recommend a rival? Unless maybe his son went into the trade…

  And then, out of the blue, the answer hits me.

  * * *

  —

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside the London Billiards and Parlour Music Club, Est. 1816, again. Here’s my plan: I’m going to join the club and enter the raffle. And if I don’t win, I’ll persuade the person who does win to sell it to me. Perfect! You probably need references or whatever to join the club, but I’m sure I can busk that. OK. Let’s go.

  Straightening my back, I enter the club and stride up to the desk, where the same ninety-three-year-old man as before is sitting. He eyes me dubiously, but I draw breath before he can say anything.

  “Hello, again! My name is Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, and I would like to join the London Billiards and Parlour Music Club,” I announce grandly. “My reference is Tarquin Cleath-Stuart, whose ancestor founded billiards in 1743.”

  This might not actually be true, but they’ll never know, and I can easily make Tarkie go along with it.

  “His name was Billiard Cleath-Stuart,” I embellish for good measure. “Hence the name Billiards. My next reference is Danny Kovitz, the international designer, also a renowned supporter and campaigner for billiards.”

  I’ll get Danny to make a T-shirt with I B Billiards on it. It’ll be fine.

  “My third reference—” I begin, but the man lifts a hand. He doesn’t seem to be at all impressed by my list of references; in fact, he seems to be waiting to get a word in.

  “Young lady,” he s
ays testily.

  “Becky,” I correct him.

  “Young lady,” he repeats with emphasis. “The London Billiards and Parlour Music Club is open only to gentlemen members.”

  I stare at him, the wind taken out of my sails. Gentlemen members? That is so unfair.

  Ooh. Shall I identify as a man? Shall I say, “Actually, it’s not Becky, I forgot for a moment; it’s Geoff”?

  No. Because that would let them off the hook. They should let women join. Why can’t women join?

  “Well, I would like to dispute that,” I say briskly. “As a woman who is passionate about both billiards and parlour music, I feel it is discriminatory of this club to exclude me. To whom may I write on this matter?”

  The man gazes at me frostily for a few moments.

  “The chairman is Sir Peter Leggett-Davey,” he allows at last. “You may write to him at this address.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say, making a small bow. “I am, sir, yours, et cetera.”

  I’m not quite sure what I meant by that, but it just popped out.

  “Goodbye,” says the man in final tones.

  “Goodbye,” I echo, and whirl round, intending to make an impressive exit, only I bash my bag on his desk by mistake and have to add, “Oh, oops, sorry.”

  As I head out onto the street, I’m already composing letters to Sir Peter Leggett-Davey in my head—and I give a most almighty jump when I feel a hand on my arm and hear a voice exclaiming, “Young lady, you were tremendous!”

  I wheel round to see an elderly man gazing at me with shining eyes. He’s tall and thin, with liver spots and longish silver hair and a violet paisley cravat tucked into his shirt.

  “I heard you speaking and I couldn’t agree more!” he says emphatically. “This club is in the dark ages! I’ve been trying to find some like-minded woman to challenge the rules, only my niece wasn’t interested.”