Christmas Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Suze.” I glare at her. “Are you still obsessing about that?”

  “I know, I know.” Suze looks abashed. “It’s none of my business. But, anyway, I found this interview online, and…Well. I think you should see it.” She proffers her phone and I stare at an incomprehensible stream of text, accompanied by a photo of Craig.

  “It’s in…” I make a face. “What’s that language?”

  “Oh, sorry, that’s the original,” says Suze without blinking. “It’s Latvian. You have to put it through Google Translate.”

  “Which I assume you’ve done already,” I say pointedly. “Because you’re an obsessive stalker.”

  “Just look at this,” says Suze, holding out an English version. “I’ve highlighted bits.”

  As I take the phone, I suddenly wonder if he mentioned me in the interview. Oh my God! What if he says all his inspiration is down to his first love, Becky Bloomwood, and he should never have let me go? What if I’m famous in Latvia?

  But as I peer at the screen, I can’t see the name “Becky” anywhere. Instead, a different word jumps out at me: orgies.

  “Orgies,” says Suze, pointing at it as though I can’t read, and I roll my eyes at her.

  “What do you mean? Suze, what is this? Does he mention me?” I can’t help adding.

  “No,” says Suze. “But he mentions plenty of other things. Read on.”

  Puffing out in exasperation, I look at the text again, my eyes landing on one highlighted phrase after another.

  “…don’t believe in monogamy,” says Curton…regular member of the sex-party scene in Moscow…met his current girlfriend at a notorious club…“experimental sex is the only way”…“Since when was one-on-one enough? Never,” he laughs….

  I lift my head and meet Suze’s gaze, my mind spinning a bit.

  “OK, so he leads a wild life,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “What are you saying?”

  “Maybe he wants a wild life with you and Luke.” Suze waggles her eyebrows meaningfully at me. “With you and Luke, Bex.”

  “What—” I break off as I realize what she’s driving at. “No! Suze, you’re mad! Where on earth did you get that idea?”

  “Let’s look at the facts.” Suze starts striding around as if she’s a barrister making a case in the Old Bailey. “You’re sitting there last night, wondering what Craig’s girlfriend and he have in common. I’ve seen Craig flirting with you, and he’s pretty hot. Now they’re both all over Luke. The truth is…” She pauses for effect. “They’re after both of you.”

  “No, they’re not,” I scoff, but Suze ignores me.

  “I put it to you that the missing factor linking Craig and his girlfriend is nothing more than sex. Multiplayer sex,” she adds with a flourish.

  “Multiplayer sex?” I echo incredulously. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “Dunno,” admits Suze. “But you know what I mean. I bet they met in a club and that’s what they’re into. And now they want to do it with you and Luke. Swinging. Multiplayer. Whatever it is.”

  “Rubbish,” I say vehemently.

  “What else is the hot tub for?” she retorts, as though slapping down a trump card.

  “The hot tub?” I stare at her.

  “Yes! The hot tub! It’s a sex-party tub! I don’t know what Tarkie’s going to say,” she adds fretfully, transforming into landlady mode. “It’s visible from the road. We’ll have complaints!”

  Her face is so outraged, I can’t help giggling.

  “OK, Suze,” I say in soothing tones. “Well, if Craig invites us to a sex party, I’ll let you know, and you can call the police.”

  “You think it’s funny?” says Suze. “You wait till you go round there and Craig says, ‘Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable,’ and Nadine appears and she’s already in a sexy dressing gown and she goes, ‘Wow, Becky, you look so hot,’ and she starts slipping it off your shoulders, and…Anyway.” Suze stops dead, as though that’s as far as she can get with this particular fantasy.

  “You’re sick!” I clutch my stomach. “Stop it!”

  “I’m prescient,” says Suze, unabashed. “I’ve seen the sexual tension between you and Craig. They’re going to ask you and Luke round to the hot tub for multiplayer sex.”

  “Actually, he already has done,” I admit. “I mean the hot tub, not the multiplayer sex,” I hastily clarify—but Suze jabs a triumphant finger at me as though this proves everything.

  “You see?”

  “No, I don’t see! Suze, people have hot tubs! They’re not all having multiplayer sex!” I catch Suze’s eye and she bites her lip, as though she can suddenly see the funny side.

  “Well, anyway,” she says. “You’ve been warned.”

  “Thank you,” I say with elaborate courtesy. “And I appreciate your concern. See you tomorrow.”

  “Be in denial, Bex,” says Suze, as we both head out the door. “But I’m right.”

  * * *

  —

  As I’m walking down the Letherby Hall drive, I give a giggle as I rewind our conversation. Honestly. Multiplayer sex. Suze is mad!

  Although—

  No. Stop it.

  But now I can’t help it—I’m remembering Craig last night, inviting us round. The way he came up so close to me. The way he said softly, “We’ll enjoy the hot tub and…whatever, yeah? Just the four of us, nice and private.”

  The way he put a hand on my arm. The way he looked at me, kind of intent.

  I mean…he wasn’t…?

  That wasn’t?

  No, Becky. Of course it wasn’t. Don’t be ridiculous.

  From: Myriad Miracle

  To: Becky Brandon

  Subject: Query!

  Hi, Mrs. Brandon (née Bloomwood):

  We hope you’re enjoying the Myriad Miracle Training System™!

  Our team have noticed your exercise activity so far is rated at “Negligible.”

  Are you having trouble with operating our interactive system?

  Please contact our friendly Customer Services Team, who will help you with your settings, so that all your exercise activity is correctly logged.

  Debs

  (membership assistant)

  But the idea won’t go away. At 9:30 A.M. on Thursday I’ve dropped Minnie at school and I’m sitting at the kitchen table, cutting out fabric for her Nativity-play costume, but my mind’s not on it. I’m half-thinking, Concentrate, and half thinking, Oh my God, I’ve never even been in a foursome.

  How does it work, anyway? Like, what are the logistics? I’m quite tempted to google sex parties what actually happens, only Luke might walk in and get the wrong idea. In fact, here is Luke, coming into the kitchen. Should I mention it to him?

  No, because it sounds crazy. It is crazy.

  “How’s it going?” He surveys the ocean of dark blue silk filling the table. “Looks good.”

  “Oh, right.” I force my attention back to Minnie’s costume. “It’s going pretty well. Thanks!”

  I don’t want to boast, but I’ve chosen fabulous material for Minnie’s costume. It’s the most sumptuous midnight-blue silk, embossed with gold spots. And, OK, it wasn’t the cheapest option—but then how often is your little girl a king in the school Nativity? I bought some gold velvet ribbon, too, and sequins. Minnie’s going to look spectacular.

  “Just cutting out the pattern,” I add briskly, picking my scissors back up and trying to sound like a sewing expert. I won’t mention that I’m cutting it out for the second time. Total disaster first time round—but I bought some pins this time. They’re so nifty! Someone should have told me about them before. And at least I had plenty of spare material. (I got a bit carried away in the fabric shop and thought maybe I’d make a matching dress for myself. Which is looking a tad less lik
ely, to be honest.)

  “I’m going to make a coffee to go,” says Luke. “You want one?”

  “Yes, please,” I say absently as I resume cutting. I love the metallic sound the scissors make as they slice through the material. It makes me feel like a pro. I work carefully round the curve of the sleeve, then look up to see Luke watching me, a fond expression in his eyes.

  “What?” I say.

  “Nothing. Just, lucky Minnie.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling a tiny glow inside. “Well, you know. I want her to have the best costume she can. Although she might not be lucky,” I add honestly. “It might be a disaster. I’m not exactly brilliant at all this craft stuff. Not like Suze.” I can’t help a gusty sigh. “You should see the stuff she makes—”

  “Becky.” Luke cuts me off firmly. “You’re you. Other people are other people. This is going to be an awesome costume, and Minnie’s going to be an awesome king. Has she got any lines to learn?” he adds with sudden interest. “Should we be practicing?”

  “No,” I say with a giggle. “They have to make it up. Miss Lucas is into improvisation. She thinks it makes the children creative.”

  “Improvisation?” Luke raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t that a high-risk strategy at that age?”

  “You’d think. Apparently at the last rehearsal one of the shepherds told his sheep to hurry up or he’d wallop him.”

  Luke laughs. “Well, rather Miss Lucas than me.”

  He puts a coffee in front of me, picks up his own takeaway cup (bamboo, present from Jess), and kisses me. “Have fun at the Christmas fair today.”

  “I will!”

  I watch Luke leaving, and when he’s almost through the door I say impulsively, “Hey, Luke. You know Craig and Nadine?”

  “Yes?” He turns back and I hesitate, not sure how to continue. What I really want to say is, “D’you think they want a foursome with us in their hot tub?”

  But I can’t. I mean, it’s ridiculous.

  “Nothing,” I say at last. “Just…It was nice hanging out with them.”

  “Yes.” He nods. “It was fun. See you later.”

  * * *

  —

  The Christmas Style Fair is being held at Olympia, and as I travel there I give myself a stern talking-to. I’ve been spending too much time thinking about Craig and sex parties and hot tubs. It’s all nonsense and it’s distracting me from the issue at hand, which is that I’m hosting Christmas. And it’s only a month away now. I need to focus.

  On the tube, I leaf through another Christmas magazine to reassure myself—but it does the opposite. It keeps asking tricky questions I can’t answer, like, Why not make lace-printed paper chains? and Why not fill a Scandinavian dresser with festive crockery, ready to greet your guests?

  I’m already googling Scandinavian dresser delivery before Xmas, before I realize that we don’t have room for a Scandinavian dresser, nor am I ever going to persuade Luke we need three life-sized stuffed reindeer to stand in front of it, like in the photo spread. I must stay down-to-earth, I tell myself firmly. Be realistic and practical and think about what I need.

  And, yes, OK, I know Christmas is about family and friends—but it turns out my family and friends are quite demanding. Janice keeps asking me what my “table theme” is, and I keep dithering. Should I go Scandi? Modern metallic? Highland tartan? Every time I turn a page of a magazine and see a new photo, I think, Ooh, that looks nice, and change my mind.

  Anyway, I’ve got a list, which begins Tablecloth, napkins, candles. I’ve decided I’m going to pick a theme today and stick to it. I’m not going to get distracted, and I’m not going to make pointless purchases that I don’t need. Exactly.

  But oh God. As I step into the massive hall, I can’t help feeling dazzled by the sheer…festiveness. There are stalls as far as the eye can see, all decked out with decorations. There are gifts and garlands and baubles and puddings, and already people are milling everywhere with a contagious sense of urgency. I text Janice to say, Let’s meet in row A, then plunge into the mêlée, feeling breathless with excitement.

  It’s all very well, focusing on what you need. But sometimes you don’t know what you need until you see it right in front of you. I mean, look at that stall with festive aprons! They’re made from rustic linen with adorable printed motifs like holly leaves and robins. I have to get a whole family set. Surely we’ll host Christmas better if we have matching festive aprons?

  I spend a bit of time looking at all the different designs before I decide on holly for me, robins for Minnie, and Christmas puddings for Luke. There’s a discount if you buy three, which is even better, and as I walk away with my linen tote, I feel a spring in my step. I’ve begun!

  The next stall is selling tiered mince-pie display stands made out of recycled vintage crockery. I didn’t know I needed one of those either, but I definitely do.

  “Shall I send that to the collection area?” asks the stallholder as I pay, and I beam at him.

  “Yes, please!”

  This is even better. I don’t have to lug the bloody thing around with me. I love this place.

  As I’m taking my collection ticket, I glimpse Janice in the crowd and wave frantically at her.

  “Becky!” She comes hurrying up, wearing a belted coat with a fur collar, which I know used to be Mum’s, and a new virulent mauve lipstick.

  “Janice!” I exclaim, kissing her. “Isn’t this fab? Have you bought anything yet?”

  “Yes!” She brandishes her tote at me. “Edible gold dust and chocolate-dipped orange peel. And I’ve seen a marvelous wreath made of red jingle bells.”

  Ooh. Should red jingle bells be my theme? I’m about to ask Janice where the wreath is, when I notice that her eyes keep swiveling longingly to a nearby café area, so I say, “Shall we fuel up with some coffee and a mince pie?”

  “Super idea!” she exclaims, and bustles me toward an empty table. Soon we’re sitting with a cappuccino and mince pie each, and I gaze around happily at the Christmassy hubbub.

  “Well, thank you for inviting me, Becky,” says Janice. “Although, as I say, I’m surprised your mum couldn’t make it.”

  “Oh, well,” I say carefully. “You know. One of those things.”

  “She’s very busy these days,” says Janice, gazing off into the middle distance. Her eyes are flickering with thoughts, and I feel a tweak of apprehension.

  “Yes,” I say carefully. “Have you seen much of her?”

  “Not to speak of,” says Janice. “She’s got her new life to keep her busy, hasn’t she? In the famous ‘Shoreditch.’ Posting photos on WhatsApp all the time, showing off about everything. She’s forgotten about all of us in Oxshott.”

  She dabs at her nose with a tissue, although I can’t tell if she’s upset or angry or a bit of both.

  “Mum said she was going to invite you to lots of events,” I venture. “Hasn’t she done that?”

  “She asked us to a poetry reading,” says Janice after a pause. “And she mentioned some sort of dance class. But we didn’t go.”

  “Why not?” I say in surprise.

  “Oh, love, it’s not our scene,” says Janice fervently. “They’re all young. They have a different outlook. All these new foods and new words and new views about life…We’d never fit in, Martin and I. We’re not ‘artisty gin’ people.”

  “Yes, you are!” I say encouragingly. “You could be!”

  “It’s not us, love.” Janice seems so determined, I don’t know what to say. “But, luckily, I have a new friend in Oxshott,” she adds distantly. “Her name’s Flo. We’ve started having a coffee together after Zumba. You can tell your mum that.”

  I stare at her in dismay. This is even worse than the snippy WhatsApp messages. Are Mum and Janice actually falling out? They can’t. Mum and Janice have been friends since before
I was born. If they split up, I’ll be from a broken home!

  “Janice…” I begin—but I don’t know how to carry on. I can’t speak for Mum. I don’t know how to patch things up. I just know that this isn’t right.

  “Anyway!” Janice says briskly, before I can gather my wits. “Let’s not talk about that anymore. How’s your Christmas preparation going, Becky? I’ve had my delivery of cosmetics for the festive makeovers, so that’s one thing ticked off, although they sent the wrong highlighter stick, would you believe….”

  As she continues talking about her online orders, I gradually calm down. I’m overreacting. Mum and Janice can’t possibly fall out! They’ve been friends for too long. It’s only a little spat. I’ll talk to Mum about it and it’ll all be—

  Hang on. What was that?

  I’ve seen a glimpse of familiar-looking silver fronds. I whip my head round and peer through the crowd, eyes narrowed. They’re poking out of a woman’s shopper. Is that…? Could it be the must-have llama?

  I squint at it desperately, trying to see, but a moment later the woman is out of sight in the crowd. Maybe it was just a bit of tinsel. Guiltily, I turn my attention back to Janice, who seems to be on to a new topic now.

  “He simply wasn’t thinking!” she’s proclaiming. “I mean, you understand why I got cross, Becky.”

  “Er, sorry, Janice,” I say. “I missed that last bit. What did you say?”

  Janice heaves a sigh. “I was saying how Martin messed up my presents cupboard. All my labels ripped off, all my lists vanished—what am I supposed to do now?”

  “Have you put labels on your presents already?” I say in surprise. “That’s very efficient.”

  “I do the labels every year on Boxing Day, love,” says Janice.

  “Boxing Day?” I stare at her.

  “While we watch Oklahoma!” Janice nods. “Christmas Day we unwrap the presents.” She counts off on her fingers. “Boxing Day I label them and put them in the gift cupboard. Then the next December, I reassign them and wrap them again. It’s my system, love. And Martin knows that.”