“Last Christmas you made us all listen to ABBA’s Greatest Hits,” Luke reminds me.
“I’m eclectic,” I say frostily. “People can be eclectic, you know.”
Luke’s mouth is twitching, but I’m going to ignore him. I put a leather cuff on over my tweed jacket and look at myself with satisfaction. Meanwhile, Luke’s eyes have drifted downward to my new black boots.
“Now, those are great,” he says.
“Oh, these?” I shrug carelessly.
I’m not sure I can actually walk in these boots, but they’re the edgiest things I’ve ever possessed. I got them online, next-day delivery. They have killer heels, eyelets, metal rivets, and little chains swinging on the backs of them.
“They’re hot,” says Luke, still transfixed.
Ah. Right. These boots have clearly made an impression. Luke’s voice has got deeper by about five notches, and when at last he meets my gaze, his dark eyes are gleaming.
“Glad you like them,” I say, and preen a little.
“Oh, I like them.” He nods slowly.
Luke has a real thing for boots. I should have put these on last night. And now, just the way he’s looking at me makes me catch my breath. I stare back silently and feel my heart start to beat harder.
I’ve often thought I should write Becky Brandon née Bloomwood’s Guide to Marriage. I could jot down helpful observations here and there. And my first observation would be that love in marriage is like one of those wavy graphs where the pen keeps zooming up and down and you can’t predict it at all.
Obviously, I love Luke all the time, like constant thumpy background music. But those exhilarating guitar-solo moments when I think, Oh my God, I want you now, seem to come at random. (Is this just me? I must ask Suze.)
And this is a perfect example. Last night we had a nice supper a deux in the kitchen, which should have been romantic. But all I could do was stare at Luke’s upper lip and think, Why did you have to grow a mustache; couldn’t you have made a donation? Whereas now, this morning, when we’re in a rush and need to leave, all I can think is, I don’t care about the mustache; you’re my total love god. In fact, I feel quite hot and flustered. It’s the way he’s looking at me purposefully.
“What time are you back?” I ask huskily. “Do you have any late meetings?”
“I’ll cancel them,” says Luke, his eyes not leaving mine. “If you keep those boots on.”
“Mummy!” Minnie comes running into the room, breaking the mood. I blink a couple of times, then shoot a rueful grin at Luke. “Mummeeee!” She clutches my hands and pulls at them. “Where is my darden on a tray?”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I say. “It’s all ready.”
“I must dash,” says Luke, giving me a similar rueful look. “See you later. Oh, and the school sent an email,” he adds as he leaves the room. “Something about a nit check?”
Honestly. Every time I try to do anything edgy, the school has to bring up nits. I swear they’re doing it on purpose.
* * *
—
As I grab my trench coat out of the hall cupboard, I decide I’ll wear my trainers to walk Minnie to school and bring my edgy boots in a bag. Not because I can’t walk in these spiky heels but simply because the road gets a bit muddy in places. Also, I need to do about seventy thousand steps today, to make up for a few steps I haven’t quite accomplished recently.
Ooh, I wonder if sex counts? That burns calories, doesn’t it?
As we walk along, I’m half-listening to Minnie chatter about getting a hamper for Christmas and half-keeping an eye on the “winter garden on a tray,” balanced in my other hand. Every time I glance at it, I sigh inwardly. I meant to ace the next craft project, but I forgot about it till we got back from Shoreditch, and I had to run round the garden assembling a few hastily gathered twigs and berries. It doesn’t look like a winter garden on a tray; it looks like random crappy stuff on a tray.
As I’m helping Minnie hang up her coat, I see Steph enter with Harvey, and I wait so that we both head toward the classroom together. Her face is pale and strained, but she gives me a wan smile.
“Nice garden,” I say, although hers is even worse than mine, just a clump of muddy grass with a brown leaf balanced on top.
“Yup,” she says shortly. “Whatever. Oh God.”
I follow her gaze and my eyes widen. Suze has already arrived and looks radiant as she holds up the best winter garden on a tray I’ve ever seen (out of three total). It’s got moss and branches and snow and acorn figures having a picnic. How long did that take?
“Goodness!” Miss Lucas is exclaiming. “How wonderful, Lady Cleath-Stuart! Is that a real bird’s nest?”
“We found it in a tree,” says Suze. “It was already abandoned,” she adds hastily.
“A real bird’s nest,” echoes Steph in disbelief, and I can see her gazing at Suze’s garden with a kind of exhausted, wistful look.
“Oh, Bex!” says Suze, turning to leave. “Didn’t see you there—” She breaks off and gapes at me. “Your eyes.”
“Thought I’d try a new look,” I say carelessly. “What do you think?”
“Um…yes!” says Suze, after a pause. “Very…D’you want a lift to work?”
“No, don’t worry, I’ll walk. I need to do some steps.”
“Cool. Well, see you there. Hi, Steph!” Suze adds as she passes, and Steph mutters, “Hi,” while quickly turning so that her earthy, cloddy garden is hidden from sight.
Luckily, Minnie and Harvey don’t seem to have noticed how superior Suze’s garden is. (The brilliant thing about children is, they have no idea about anything.) Also, to give her credit, Miss Lucas looks just as delighted with our gardens as she did with Suze’s one.
“Harvey!” she says. “Minnie! What lovely winter gardens!”
“Yup,” says Steph again, in an undertone that only I can hear. “Ours has been short-listed for the Turner Prize.”
I shoot a quick grin—then notice that her eyes are glistening. Oh God. It’s the horrible bastard husband, I know it is, only I can’t ask her about it, standing here in the school corridor.
“Now, I’m glad I’ve caught the pair of you,” Miss Lucas says. “We’ve cast our Nativity play, and both Minnie and Harvey are playing kings!”
A king! I can’t help beaming at Minnie in delight.
“The costume is very simple,” Miss Lucas adds cheerfully. “Here’s the pattern….” She hands each of us a big envelope, and my smile freezes. Pattern? As in sewing? “Just use a simple running stitch,” Miss Lucas continues blithely, “with perhaps some pin tucks. If you did want to add some embroidery or ribbon, that would be wonderful, but it’s not at all essential.” She smiles at us brightly.
Pin tucks? Embroidery?
I clearly remember looking around this school, and I don’t recall the head teacher saying, “Of course, if your child comes here, you will be expected to be proficient at pin tucks and embroidery.” But I can’t say anything. Minnie’s gazing up at me expectantly.
“No problem!” I hear myself replying breezily. “I expect I’ll add some sequins, too, and some extra hand-stitched detail.”
“Wonderful!” Miss Lucas claps her hands together.
Steph, meanwhile, has made no response, just shoved the envelope in her tote, her eyes distant. When we’ve said goodbye to the children and are heading out again, she says, “See you, then, Becky,” and quickly ducks into the ladies’ before I can reply. I stare after her a bit anxiously—then follow her in. I want to make sure she’s OK.
Quite a few mums are in the ladies’, as always. No one’s there because they actually need the loo; they’re just gossiping. Steph makes her way to one of the two sinks, stares at herself miserably in the mirror, then starts redoing her eye makeup. I decide I’ll give her a moment to finish, then draw he
r aside for a supportive word.
She’s struggling to do her makeup, though, because her eyes keep watering and she keeps having to wipe it all off. After a bit, a woman I don’t recognize peers at Steph and says, “Excuse me…are you OK?”
“Me?” Steph jumps like a scalded cat. “Yes, I’m fine. Fine!”
She gives me a desperate look in the mirror, then quickly heads into a cubicle. Without pausing, I hurry into the one next door. I want to text her, but the signal in here is rubbish. If I whisper, everyone might hear…if I knock on the wall, everyone will definitely hear….
In sudden inspiration, I get out a pen from my bag and find an old receipt. It’s for three No7 serums from Boots, which were on special offer. Ooh. Where did I put those again?
Anyway. Not the point. I write on it, Are you really OK? Love, Becky xx, and pass it under the cubicle wall.
A few seconds later it comes back, and Steph has written underneath: No. Not really.
Knew it.
I write, Let’s go and talk. In your car? X, and send it back. Almost at once comes her reply: Yes, please. Thanks. X.
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, I’ve heard more about Steph’s life, her husband Damian’s life, and their last toxic holiday in Cyprus than I could ever have predicted. To be honest, it’s shaken me up a bit. Marriages should be like Sellotape. They should be all safely stuck down. But they’re not—they peel off in the steam, and sometimes they never stick properly again.
Suze had a wobble with Tarkie in the States, and I feared the worst. Then there was Jess looking all bleak the other day…and now this. Apparently, Damian won’t listen to reason or do counseling. At first he said there wasn’t another woman—but then it turned out that there was. They work in the same company. He’s in the IT department and she organizes events. They had to go to Manchester for a conference, and it all kicked off in the Malmaison Hotel. (I feel I know slightly too many details about this, but I don’t want to interrupt Steph when she’s opening up her heart.)
We’re parked in a side road, and Steph keeps talking, then breaking off to check in a paranoid way if anyone’s watching us. Her main concern seems to be that no one must know. Because then Harvey might get to know. And what she really wants is for Damian to realize he’s being an idiot and come home and for Harvey never to know a thing about it.
“I mean, I suppose Damian’s right,” she says, staring miserably out of the window. “I’m not much fun these days. I don’t crack a lot of jokes. If we go out for dinner, chances are I’ll fall asleep at the table.” She heaves a great sigh. “But it’s hard, you know, doing the school runs and getting to the office on time, and I’ve had this mega project at work….” She rubs her forehead as though trying to massage away her thoughts. “We moved into our house six months ago, and I still haven’t chosen a paint color for the bedroom. Or even unpacked all the boxes. We rowed about that and he said I’d turned into a misery. And he was right.”
I feel a swell of fury at this guy, making someone as hardworking as Steph feel crap. I caught sight of him at school the other day and discreetly sized him up—and I wasn’t impressed. He was dressed in the faded jeans he always seems to wear and was constantly on the phone. He wasn’t even looking at Harvey, who was clutching his hand. Plus he’s got a really annoying laugh. I mean, who does he think he is?
“Steph, you’re not a misery, he’s a bastard!” I say fiercely. “You’re amazing! You’re strong and positive and always there for Harvey. Anyway, who has time for fun? We’re all too busy making pictures out of spaghetti!”
I’m trying to make Steph smile, and at last she gives a kind of half laugh.
“I’ve got three boxes I haven’t unpacked since I moved out of my flat in Fulham,” I tell her, for good measure. “I’ve got no idea what’s in them. And if your husband wants the boxes unpacked, why doesn’t he do it?”
Steph gives another half laugh, but she doesn’t answer the question, and I don’t feel I know her well enough to delve any deeper.
“What about your mum?” I venture. “What does she say about all this?”
“I haven’t told her,” admits Steph, after a pause. “You’re the only person I’ve told, Becky.”
“Tell her!” I say impulsively, even though I don’t know anything about Steph’s mum.
“Maybe.” Steph bites her lip, then musters a smile. “I’d better go. You must have to go too. Thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, a bit helplessly.
“You did.” She leans to give me a quick, tight hug. “I appreciate it, Becky. Let me drive you to work.”
Steph drops me at the gates to Letherby Hall and I hurry up the tree-lined drive to the main house. As I enter the gift shop, I’m all ready to explain away my delay to Suze—but instead it’s Tarquin, her husband, who greets me.
I’ve known Tarkie for years. He’s had his ups and downs, but he’s in great form at the moment. Since we all got back from the States, he’s thrown himself into running Letherby Hall with real drive. He’s had loads of good ideas for the business and talks to Luke a lot about it, and Luke says he thinks Tarquin is really stepping into his role.
On the other hand, he’s still quite weird. In a lovable, Tarkie-ish way. Today he’s wearing a shrunken, holey rugby shirt, which I’m quite sure he’s had since school, and his eyes have an intense look to them as he draws breath.
“I hear we’re coming to you for Christmas, Becky,” he says. “Marvelous!”
“Yes!” I say brightly. “I hope it’ll be fun!”
“I know it’s early days to talk specifics,” Tarkie presses on. “But you’re probably already thinking about entertainment on the day. I ask because the Met is broadcasting a performance of Parsifal on Christmas Day.”
“Is that…Wagner?” I hazard, because Tarkie is a total Wagner nut.
“His most sublime, transporting opera.” Tarkie blinks at me. “A masterpiece. And I was thinking we could gather around your television and watch it after lunch. I think it would be terribly stimulating for the children.”
A Wagner opera? On Christmas Day?
“Wow,” I say, trying not to give away my horror. “That sounds…you know. Fab. I mean, I love Wagner—who doesn’t? Only, I’m just thinking, is it very Christmassy?”
“It’s timeless,” says Tarkie earnestly. “It’s inspiring. The prelude alone is a Christmas gift for anyone. Taa daaah daaah hmm hmm…” He starts humming, his gaze fixed unnervingly on mine. “Taa aah daaa dee daaah—”
“Tarkie!” To my huge relief, Suze’s shrill voice interrupts him. She’s striding toward us, fixing Tarkie with a suspicious gaze. “Are you singing Wagner? You know the rule: no Wagner in the shop.”
“Tarkie was just saying how Parsifal is being shown on Christmas Day,” I say brightly. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“We’re not watching bloody Wagner on Christmas Day!” Suze erupts, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.
“I’m simply trying to help with entertainment,” says Tarkie defensively. “Opera is a form that everyone can enjoy, young and old.”
“No, it’s not,” retorts Suze. “It’s a form that turns most people into rigid statues because they’re so bored, but they can’t leave the room because the opera lover says, ‘Shhh!’ when they even twitch a muscle. And it goes on for six hours.”
“Parsifal does not go on for six hours…” begins Tarkie, but Suze ignores him.
“I think Christmas is all about the children.” She turns to me. “I think we should have craft activities, finger paint, glitter, all that kind of stuff.”
My heart slightly sinks. Craft again? We’re talking about Christmas Day here. Christmas isn’t about finger painting. It’s about sitting on the sofa, eating Quality Street chocolates, and watching Christmas specials on TV whi
le the dads try to find batteries for all the new toys and break half of them and the children end up crying. That’s tradition.
“We could do, I suppose,” I say carefully. “Except Jess thinks glitter is evil.”
“Hmm.” Suze bites her lip in thought. “We could make Play-Doh?”
“Maybe,” I say, trying to sound more enthused than I feel. “Or just watch telly?”
“OK, well, let’s wait till we see what’s on telly,” says Suze. “Then we can make a plan. Oh, and by the way, I can pick up Aphrodite and Hermes tonight,” she adds, changing the subject. “The forklift truck is back from the menders. I’ll bring one of the men.”
“Suze,” I say, immediately feeling bad. “Don’t take my hideous statues. You’re welcome to come and spend Christmas with us, whatever. You don’t want them.”
“No, I do!” says Suze eagerly. “I’ve had a brilliant idea. We’ll use them next Halloween. I’m going to call them Grotesque and Grotesqua.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling very slightly insulted. “Well, OK.” And I’m about to take off my coat when Suze touches my shoulder.
“Listen, Bex,” she says more quietly. “Another thing. Before any customers arrive, I wanted to ask you…I’ve been thinking.” She pauses, then continues, even more quietly, “D’you think Jess is OK? Yesterday she seemed a bit weird.”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “I thought the same thing! She was tense and kind of…odd.”
“Exactly! She froze up when we mentioned Tom, and I thought…I got worried that maybe…”
Suze’s face is all twisted up anxiously, and I know what she’s thinking.
“Khaki hot pants,” I say before I can stop myself.
“What?” Suze looks puzzled.
“I thought maybe Tom had gone off with some charity worker in khaki hot pants. Or she had. Or something.”
“Oh God.” Suze stares at me unhappily. “That’s kind of what I thought too. Only I saw cropped chinos and a bandanna.”
We lapse into silence, and I find myself picturing Tom snogging a girl in cropped chinos and a red bandanna. Then I change the bandanna to a horrible green one and make her nose bigger, because she’s too attractive. Then I make her chinos really unflattering and have her picking her nose. God, she’s gross. Why would Tom prefer her?
Christmas Shopaholic Page 12