Christmas Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Oh, I’m interested,” I say. “Definitely.”

  “I’m Edwin,” says the man, clasping my hand and shaking it. “Delighted to meet you. Might I buy you a quick drink and discuss your campaign for membership?”

  “You mean…in there?” I point back inside the club.

  “Of course! As my guest. Female guests are allowed, at least.”

  “Well, OK!” I say, beaming at him. “Thanks. Only it’ll have to be quick, because I’ve got to go Christmas shopping.”

  “Oh, just a snifter,” says Edwin, nodding conspiratorially. “Absolutely.”

  He leads me back into the club and signs me in under the disapproving gaze of the old man, while I smile smugly. Then he ushers me into the massive grand room with the old chairs and the mantelpiece and the sherry trolley.

  “Now, let’s find somewhere nice to sit,” he says, peering around. But the place seems to have filled up. Every chair has a trousered leg poking out from it or a newspaper visible over the top.

  “Lord Tottle?” says a man in an apron, coming over to us. “Everything all right?”

  “All the chairs are full,” Edwin says fretfully. “No one’s moving. In fact, Baines over there looks quite dead. You must stop the members dying in their chairs, Finch.”

  “You come this way, my lord,” says Finch soothingly, and he leads us into another room, where he establishes us by the fire. “Shall I send the sherry trolley over?”

  “Good God, no,” says Edwin, looking appalled. “We want the good stuff. Can I tempt you with a gimlet, Becky?”

  “Yes!” I say, taken aback. “Fab! Thank you!”

  It’s a tad early—but maybe a gimlet will help me do my Christmas shopping. In fact, I’m sure it will.

  “Finch is on our side,” murmurs Edwin, as Finch moves away. “We’ve been pushing for a decade, you know. Never managed it. But I have a good feeling this time. I think you’ll make it. I’ll be your proposer, of course, and I’ll find you three seconders from the club, which is what you need.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I beam at him again.

  “I know the Cleath-Stuart family,” he adds conversationally. “Never knew that about inventing billiards.”

  “Oh, it’s just a legend,” I say hastily. “In fact, it’s more of an urban myth.”

  Finch deposits our drinks on the table, and Edwin lifts his up in a toast.

  “To your membership!” he exclaims. “Now, if it’s not too much to ask, might I draft your letter to Sir Peter? I know exactly what to say to press his buttons, the pompous wretch.”

  “Of course! Thank you.”

  “And then the matter will go to the AGM in December. The annual general meeting, you know.” Edwin eyes me over the top of his drink, and I notice he has the most amazing pink enameled cuff links. “Could you speak out at a meeting, Becky? I’m very happy to draft your speech, if you could perform it with gusto?”

  “Definitely,” I say firmly.

  “Marvelous.” He touches my glass with his again. “I’ll send you the details and we’ll fight them together. I’m a friend of the disenfranchised, my dear, always have been, and I will be very glad if we can prevail. And it’s splendid to find such a keen supporter of billiards as yourself,” he adds, his face lighting up. “So unusual. So refreshing.”

  Oh, right. I’d forgotten about the billiards bit.

  “Well,” I say after a pause. “You know. I mean, billiards. It’s just so…” I spread my hands expressively. “What’s not to love?”

  “Precisely!” Edwin says enthusiastically. He crosses his legs and I notice he has violet socks to match his cravat. “To find another aficionado is always a delight.”

  “I have only one question,” I say, trying to sound casual. “When will the raffle be held?”

  “The raffle?” Edwin looks puzzled.

  “The Christmas raffle. I saw something about it in the lobby?”

  “Oh.” Edwin’s brow clears. “That. Yes, that’s usually straight after the AGM. We have mulled wine and whatnot. Festive cheer.” He twinkles at me. “Let’s hope we’re the ones with the cheer, m’dear!”

  I smile back at him happily and swig my gimlet. This is all falling nicely into place. I’ll go to the AGM, read out whatever brilliant speech Edwin writes for me, join the club, enter the raffle, and get the portmanteau. And Luke will be blown away. Ha!

  * * *

  —

  I’m still glowing as I arrive back at Letherby station. I’ve had a fantastic afternoon. Not only did I make major strides toward getting Luke an awesome present, I went back to Hamleys and found a fabulous fluffy unicorn that Clemmie will adore. I’m so ahead of the game!

  I’m supposed to be picking Minnie up from Suze’s house, but I decide to pop home first and hide the unicorn. It’s pretty enormous, but I can just about manhandle it—

  “Becky.”

  As I hear a familiar raspy voice, I jump and turn round. Craig is loping toward me out of the station, dressed in the same battered leather jacket as before and black jeans covered in some sort of graffiti.

  “Oh, hi!” I exclaim, shifting the unicorn to see him properly. “Craig! How are you?”

  “We must have been on the same train and didn’t know it.” He smiles at me. “Here, give me something to carry.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” Awkwardly, I hand over the unicorn. He peers curiously at it, then falls into step with me as we head along the main street.

  Craig walks with a different rhythm from Luke—in fact, everything he does has a different rhythm. He’s far more measured. And he won’t be rushed. I’m remembering that now. (I used to find it really annoying.)

  He lights a cigarette, then looks at me. “You want one?”

  “No, thanks,” I say. I watch as he inhales and blows out a cloud of smoke, then add, “How are you finding Letherby?”

  “It’s just what I need,” he says musingly. “A bit of quiet, you know? Somewhere totally sleepy, middle of nowhere, nothing going on. Perfect.”

  I feel a bit defensive on Letherby’s behalf. There’s not exactly nothing going on here. There’s the village shop and Suze’s shop, and there’s the Lamb and Flag, which does a really good Sunday lunch. But I don’t point that out; instead, I say, “That’s probably what you need.”

  “Telling me.” He nods heavily. “I’ve just been on tour for two months solid. Before that I was in Kiev for six months. I mean, you know the scene in Kiev.” He glances at me. “The partying’s insane.”

  Kiev? I don’t know anything about Kiev except I’ve eaten chicken Kiev. But I’m not admitting that.

  “Oh, Kiev!” I nod, trying to sound world-weary and experienced. “God, yes. That scene. Extreme. It’s like…crazy!”

  “It’s the new Berlin.” Craig blows out another puff of smoke.

  “Yes,” I agree fervently. “That’s what I always say too. It’s the new Berlin.”

  “Now, Tbilisi,” continues Craig thoughtfully. “That has a great scene.”

  “Tbilisi!” I nod enthusiastically. “Awesome. It’s the new Kiev,” I risk.

  Where’s Tbilisi, again?

  “So you’ve been?” Craig looks at me with interest. “When did you go there?”

  “Go there?” I echo, playing for time, and crinkle up my eyes as though trying to remember. “Hmm. Was it Tbilisi…or Tenerife? Anyway, are you still in touch with the others from the band?” I add, hastily changing the subject.

  “Jeez, no.” Craig looks surprised at the idea. “I lost touch with those losers. But, hey, Becky.” He focuses on me as though for the first time. “A bunch of us are going to Warsaw for the weekend, check out a new club. The guys from Blink Rage, a few others…You want to come?”

  I stare at him, gripped. He’s inviting me to go partying in Warsaw with Blink Rage? For a
moment I’m there, wearing electric-blue eye shadow and amazing shoes (which I would need to buy), jumping around to some banging song in a nightclub, and people are calling me “the Girl with the Great Eye Shadow,” except in Polish….

  And then I blink and remember that Minnie’s got ballet on Saturday. And I’ve promised Suze to look after her three children all day Sunday while she and Tarkie go to some family friend’s memorial service. And we’re having a supermarket delivery.

  “It sounds amazing,” I say regretfully. “But I have commitments. Another time, maybe?”

  “Sure,” says Craig, in that easy way of his. We walk on a little longer, then he says casually, “I always used to think about you, Becky. Used to wonder what you were up to now.”

  “Me too,” I say at once. This isn’t strictly true, but I can hardly say, “Actually, I forgot all about you.” We walk a few more steps, then I add carelessly, “So, am I what you expected?”

  “Hmm.” Craig considers for a moment, then looks up. “Honestly? I thought you’d be more edgy.”

  I stare at him, stricken, More edgy?

  “I’m edgy!” I say, trying to laugh lightly. “God! I’m so edgy.”

  “Really?” says Craig quizzically. “Because what I’m seeing is a sleepy village, husband, kid, tweed…” He looks down at the unicorn. “And whatever this is.”

  “It’s a unicorn,” I say, and he raises his eyebrows.

  “There you go.”

  “That’s only part of who I am!” I say, a bit flustered. “I’m still totally edgy. I’m like…whatever. Bring it on. Smash it. Radical.”

  Oh God, what am I saying? No one says “radical” except million-year-old hippies.

  “It’s fair enough.” He shrugs. “People settle down. They have kids, go soft.”

  “I haven’t gone soft!”

  I try to push my hair back into an edgier style, wishing I had a tattoo to casually reveal.

  “Cool.” Craig smiles, but I can’t tell if he’s humoring me. We reach the turning-down toward his cottage and pause on the pavement.

  “Shall I carry this home for you?” he says, nodding at the unicorn.

  “No, don’t worry, I’ll be fine now.” I take it from him. “Thanks. And, you know, count me in next time you go to Warsaw!” I add. “I do still party, I am still edgy—”

  “Oh, Mrs. Brandon!” A cheerful voice greets me, and I look up to see Jayne, the school nurse, walking along, dressed up for an evening out. “What a super unicorn!” She strokes the white fluffy mane admiringly. “Now, I’m glad to bump into you, because I didn’t see you at pickup. I’m sorry to say, there’s a case of nits at school.”

  Nits. Of all the things she could mention, nits?

  “Oh dear,” I say hurriedly. “Well, thank you—”

  “So we’re asking if all parents could check their children’s hair tonight. Remember, the eggs are white, but the lice are brown.” She smiles brightly at Craig. “Hello!”

  “Hi,” says Craig, looking amused. “I guess I’d better leave you to it. See you, Becky.”

  He lopes off and I feel a burst of frustration. It’s not fair. No one looks cool when they’re talking about nits. Not even Kate Moss could look cool talking about nits.

  At last Jayne finishes telling me how to use a nit comb, and we wish each other a good evening. Then I continue on my way home, still clutching the unicorn, feeling ruffled. I know it was only a passing comment, but Craig’s judgment has really got under my skin.

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  I’m still edgy. I am. Kind of. Aren’t I?

  All the way to Shoreditch the next day, I can’t stop thinking about that conversation. I can’t stop remembering Craig’s pitying look. As we get out of the car, I’m so preoccupied, I can’t help saying, “Luke, do I look edgy?”

  “No, you look lovely,” he replies absently, and I feel a jerk of dismay.

  “So you’re saying I look crap,” I say morosely, and Luke’s head jerks up.

  “What?” He stares at me. “Becky, I just said you look lovely. How the hell can you twist that into ‘I look crap’?”

  “You said I wasn’t edgy. Edgy’s good.” I try to impress this point on him. “It’s good.”

  “Oh,” says Luke, sounding baffled. “Then, yes, you do look edgy. If I saw you in the street, I’d say, ‘Wow. That’s one edgy person.’ ”

  Hmph. He’s not taking it seriously, is he?

  As we walk along toward the building, I look critically at my own reflection in car windows. I mean, OK, so I’m not a student anymore. I don’t party every night anymore. But is it worse than that? Am I totally uncool?

  My new satin jumpsuit’s pretty edgy, I remind myself. But on the other hand, look at the block-heeled boots that I’m wearing with my skinny jeans. They’re comfy. They’re practical. They’re “busy working mum” boots, I realize, with a pang of horror. I have to throw them away! I have to take action! Edge myself up before it’s too late.

  “Hey, Luke,” I say casually as we turn the corner. “We should go to Warsaw one weekend. Don’t you think?”

  “Warsaw?” Luke looks puzzled—then his brow clears. “Have they opened a new shopping center there?”

  “No!” I say, a little offended. “I meant we should take in some of the clubs. There’s a great underground techno scene,” I add nonchalantly. “You know LL Dee is DJ’ing at Luzztro this weekend? She’s been on fire this year, apparently.”

  “I’m sorry, who?” says Luke, mystified, and I feel a flare of frustration. Here I am, trying to be edgy, and my husband’s never even heard of LL Dee!

  I mean, OK, I’d never heard of her either till I went on Google last night, but at least I made the effort.

  “I’m quite surprised you haven’t heard of LL Dee, Luke,” I say. “Your business is in communication. You should be aware of the world.”

  “I’m in financial PR, my love,” replies Luke politely. “Techno DJs aren’t really my remit.”

  Honestly. Luke can be so narrow-minded. I glance over at him, about to tell him so—but I’m halted by a pang of dismay. It’s about the thousandth pang of dismay I’ve felt since he came back from Madrid with his mustache looking so…mustache-like.

  I’m trying to be open-minded, I really am. I keep reminding myself it’s for charity. I just wish charity hadn’t ever had the idea of mustaches.

  It’s not yet fully grown, and I keep surreptitiously peering at it to see which way it might develop. Will it be one of those big bushy caterpillar-type ones? Or all thin and stringy? I keep googling mustaches to find one I like, but all I’ve found so far are ones I don’t like.

  “Look at dah wabbit!” Minnie interrupts my thoughts, pointing excitedly at a woman with pink hair, powe
r walking toward us with a buggy. “It’s in dah push chair, Mummy! In dah push chair!”

  I do a double take and realize that Minnie’s right—the woman’s pushing a live rabbit in a buggy. Oh my God. I watch the woman go by, then exchange glances with Luke. You definitely wouldn’t get that in Letherby.

  I’ve only been to Shoreditch a few times before, and it still feels exotic to me. It’s more like the Meatpacking District of New York than like London, all red-brick buildings and graffiti and interesting-looking shops everywhere and people pushing rabbits in buggies.

  My parents live in an edgier place than I do, it suddenly hits me. Oh God. That’s against the laws of nature, surely? Parents should be less cool than their children.

  Should we quickly move to Shoreditch too? Or somewhere even edgier, like Dalston? I’m tempted to get out my phone and google edgy postcode London really cool. But even as I’m considering it, I know I don’t want to. Minnie’s so happy at her school, and it’s fab being so near Suze. And, anyway, I can be edgy in Letherby, can’t I?

  “Are those presents both for your parents?” asks Luke, glancing at the gift bags in my hand.

  “The champagne’s for my parents, but this one’s a welcome-home gift for Jess,” I say, lifting up the smaller, squarer bag. “Herbal body lotion.”

  “A present for Jess!” exclaims Luke, looking amused. “Isn’t that a risky venture?”

  “It’s vegan,” I explain. “And it’s made by a collective. She’s got to like it.”

  I know why Luke looks amused. Just a few times in the past, I’ve slightly misjudged what to give Jess. Like the time I gave her this new high-tech mascara and, instead of saying, “Ooh, fab, thanks!” like any normal person would, she gave me this massive lecture about the environmental cost of cosmetics.

  But today I’m giving her the worthiest present in the world. It’s vegan and it’s eco and it’s a sludgy green color. I actually feel quite smug.

  “Here we are.” Luke comes to a halt and peers at a set of double doors. “The Group.”