Christmas Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Stop! Bex, stop!” I’m jolted out of my reverie by Suze charging toward me, her hands waving frantically.

  “Shh!” I recoil. “Quiet! What’s the problem? Is there a fire?”

  “No!” says Suze breathlessly. “But I want to show you the surprise!”

  Oh God, the surprise. I’d forgotten about that. It’s probably just a new way of displaying handbags or something. But I must be supportive. So somehow I gather enough energy to smile at Suze and say, “Of course! I can’t wait! Show me!”

  “OK, shut your eyes,” says Suze excitedly. “I bet you can’t guess….”

  I close my eyes (which is actually quite a relief) and let Suze lead me into the shop, stumbling over the step.

  “Ta-daah!” she cries—and I open my eyes dazedly to see a large banner reading, THANK SPRYGGE IT’S FRIDAY!

  I stare at it for a confused few moments, wondering if this is some weird hangover delusion.

  “Wh-huh?” I manage at last.

  “Look!” Suze gestures excitedly at the display table beneath. “Look at everything!”

  Dumbly, I lower my eyes to the table, which has a brand-new sign: EXCLUSIVE—NEW “SPRYGGE” COLLECTION. There’s a stack of greetings cards with bold type, announcing, We wish you a sprygge Christmas! Next to it is a cushion on which is emblazoned, Don’t worry, be sprygge! There’s a row of mugs with the slogan Keep spryggering on and a basket full of key rings, with fobs printed with #sprygge.

  I can’t quite speak. But Suze doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  “It’s our new sprygge range!” she enthuses. “That’s what I’ve been working on in secret. Oh, Bex, it’s so popular. It was flying out of the shop yesterday! Only you need to write down exactly what sprygge means,” she adds as an afterthought, “because customers were asking us yesterday, and Irene and I couldn’t quite remember. It’s like feeling happy, basically, isn’t it?” She blinks at me. “Something like that? I tried googling it, but I couldn’t find it.”

  “Oh, Becky, you’re here!” says Irene, bustling up. “Now, is it ‘sproog-uh’ or ‘sprigg-uh’? You’ll have to give us lessons in Norwegian! It’s been such a success,” she adds. “So novel. Are we the first sprygge stockists in the UK?”

  “I think we must be,” says Suze happily. “So many customers said they’d never even heard of sprygge!”

  “We’re ahead of the game.” Irene nods. “Trust Becky to know the latest thing.”

  “Oh, Bex always knows about new stuff,” says Suze confidently. “She’s a real trendsetter.”

  My stomach has started to churn, and not just because of the festive brandies.

  “Suze…” I begin, but my words dry up on my lips. I don’t know how to tell her. Oh God. I can’t tell her.

  But I have to. Somehow.

  “Suze, come here.” I hustle her away from the sprygge table, to a corner well away from Irene.

  “Suze, listen,” I say in a desperate undertone. “I made sprygge up.”

  “What?” She stares at me, uncomprehending.

  “I invented sprygge to annoy that snotty woman. I just plucked it out of the air. It’s not a real word.”

  Slowly, I see the truth dawn on Suze’s face.

  “No,” she falters. “You mean…” Her eyes dart to the sprygge table and back a few times. “You mean…Oh my God.” She swallows. “Bex, you’re joking.”

  “I’m not,” I say in agonized tones. “Sorry.”

  “But you gave a whole speech about it! You were so convincing! We all thought it was real!”

  “I know! I was going to tell you it was made up, but…” I wrinkle my brow, trying to recall why I didn’t—then suddenly remember. “Craig came in and I forgot,” I confess shamefacedly.

  Suze’s gaze is fixed on the sprygge table. I can see from her eyes that thoughts are crashing into her head, and not in a good way.

  “I can’t believe you’d make something like that up,” she says. “How could you do that?” She turns on me with an accusing gaze.

  “I didn’t think you’d go and make a stack of cushions saying, Don’t worry, be sprygge!” I retort defensively. “How could I have predicted that?”

  “But then this is against the Trade Descriptions Act!” says Suze, gesturing around the shop in agitation. “We’ve been telling everyone it’s Norwegian! We could be sued! We could be prosecuted! We’ll have to pulp the whole collection.” Her head descends into her hands, and I feel an almighty wave of guilt.

  “Suze, calm down.” I put my arms round her shoulders. “No one’s going to sue you.”

  We both watch as our first customers of the day come in: two middle-aged women. They head straight to the sprygge table, and I can hear them exclaiming with interest.

  “I need to go and tell them it’s all fake,” says Suze in dispirited tones.

  “Suze, don’t!” I say impulsively. “Don’t pulp the collection. It would be such a waste. It’s only a word. And you’ve made such gorgeous things. Does it really matter if a few people have cushions saying sprygge in their house?”

  “But we’re saying it’s Norwegian,” says Suze in hopeless tones. “We’re not being honest.”

  “Well, then…let’s not say it’s Norwegian,” I suggest after a moment’s thought. “Let’s say, ‘Some people believe it comes from Norway.’ That’s true enough. All the customers from yesterday believe that, for a start. And anyway,” I continue, hit by a new idea, “language is constantly evolving. It’s fluid. There are new words in the dictionary every year! Why shouldn’t one of them be sprygge?”

  “What do you mean?” Suze stares at me suspiciously.

  “If we start using the word sprygge a lot, then maybe other people will, too, and then it’ll get into the language. That’s what language is,” I impress on Suze. “That’s how language develops. If anyone asks, we can say it’s practically Norwegian. We can say it’s ‘pending’ Norwegian.”

  One of the customers is filling her basket with sprygge mugs, her eyes sparkling.

  “My daughter will love these,” she’s saying to her friend. “So different!”

  “So original!” agrees her friend, reaching for a cushion. “I’ve not seen them anywhere else.”

  “You see?” I say to Suze. “They both look so thrilled. If we tell them the truth, we’re total spoilsports, and is that the Christmas spirit? No. It’s not. Here’s what I think: If the word sprygge makes people happy, then who are we to curtail that happiness?”

  “It is a good word,” allows Suze reluctantly.

  “It’s a brilliant word,” I agree, trying to imbue her with confidence. “It’s a positive, joy-spreading word, and it doesn’t matter where it came from.”

  I’m about to go and help the customers with their purchases when my phone buzzes with a text. I open it up and read it. Then I read it again, swallowing hard.

  “What?” says Suze, watching me.

  “Um. Nothing. Just, um, Craig, asking Luke and me to go round later on for a glass of wine.” I attempt a casual tone. “He says, ‘Let’s have a special evening, the four of us.’ ”

  Suze’s eyes widen dramatically.

  “A special evening, the four of you?” she echoes, looking scandalized. “Bex, you know what that means!”

  My mind has already jumped to exactly the same thought, but I’m not admitting it to Suze. Or even to myself.

  “No, I don’t,” I say robustly. “Suze, you have way too much imagination.”

  “Do I, Bex? Or maybe you’re too naïve to see what’s right in front of you.” She puts both hands on my shoulders and gives me an earnest look. “Just promise me you’ll have a safe word, OK?”

  “A safe word?” I can’t help bursting into laughter. “I’m not choosing a safe word! What, you think he’s going to lock us in a dungeon?”r />
  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says darkly. “You don’t know what he gets up to.”

  “Does the cottage have a dungeon?”

  “Well, no,” she admits, after a moment’s thought. “But he might have made a sex room out of the second en suite.”

  “Suze, you’re mad! We’re going round there for a civilized glass of wine and that’s all. End of discussion. And now I’ll go and help our customers, like I’m paid to do,” I say pointedly.

  As I stride off toward the sprygge display, my phone buzzes again. I glance down to see a second message from Craig and gulp inwardly.

  Bring your swimmers and we can all enjoy the hot tub together!

  Or go au naturel…? ;)

  I don’t think I’ll mention that to Suze.

  Oh God…

  * * *

  —

  By six-thirty, I’ve chosen an outfit to wear for our evening at Craig’s: black trousers together with a very high-necked, tightly tied pussy-bow top. Plus a buttoned-up evening cape. (I bought it in the sales and then thought, Oh God, what a mistake. When will I ever need a cape? Well, now I know.)

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table as Minnie drinks her milk, tapping words into my phone, feeling like I lead some sort of torrid double life. There’s my innocent child, drinking her milk—and here am I, choosing safe words. I’ve got about ten options so far, including “Chanel,” “Dolce,” and “Gabbana.”

  Then it occurs to me that they might not be very easy to work into conversation. Maybe a safe word should be something more nondescript, like “hello” or “water.”

  But then what if I want a drink of water?

  Honestly. How do safe words work, anyway? Surely the safest word is “stop”? Or “I’m going home now, I’ve had enough, and actually I’m not into multiplayer sex; I prefer shopping.” (OK, so that’s more of a safe sentence.)

  As Luke strides into the kitchen, I jump with nerves and blurt out, “So we’re really going, are we?”

  “What?” Luke gives me a puzzled look. “Of course we are. Unless—have you changed your mind? Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “I’m feeling fine!” My voice rises shrilly. “It’ll be super fun! Can’t wait! Um, Craig said something about going in the…um…” I clear my throat. “The hot tub.”

  “The hot tub?” Luke chuckles. “Well, let’s see if we get that far.”

  I stare at him uncertainly, wondering what exactly he means by “get that far.” Oh God. Is Suze right and I’m really naïve and everything has a double meaning that I’ve never understood before?

  Luke wouldn’t be into multiplayer sex.

  Would he?

  Just then the doorbell rings and Luke lets in the babysitter, Kay, who is a cheery lady in her sixties, full of local gossip. Between us we get Minnie into bed, whilst hearing all about Kay’s neighbor’s dog’s operation. And then, before I know it, we’re walking along the dark, chilly village road toward Lapwing Cottage.

  Luke is talking about the bottle of wine he’s bringing and how we should think about going over to France one day to tour some vineyards, and I’m nodding and saying, “Yes, yes, burgundy, fab,” without any idea of what I’m on about. With every step I feel more jittery. I’m being ridiculous, I keep telling myself. Nothing is going to happen.

  But what if it does? What will I do? Oh God, we’re nearly there. Should I quickly say something to Luke?

  Lapwing Cottage is off the main village road, down a little unlit lane. It’s not completely dark, though—there’s a glow ahead, which must be the cottage. As we get closer, the glow gets brighter and brighter, until I blink in surprise. Wow. The cottage has been covered all over in fairy lights, some white, some multicolored, and some flashing. Minnie would love it.

  We’re nearly at the house now and Luke whistles.

  “There’s the hot tub.” He gives a small chuckle. “Look. That’s quite something.”

  He’s pointing over the hedge into the back garden. I follow his gaze—and stare, taken aback. There’s not just a mammoth hot tub on the terrace; there’s also a Hawaiian-looking bar, three sunbeds, about six patio heaters, and some palm trees in pots.

  “Did they bring those palm trees with them?” Luke is saying incredulously. “And the sunbeds? It’s hardly the right time of year. As for the patio heaters, I read a piece the other day about those….” He starts talking about global warming, but I can’t listen, because I’m staring in slight terror at the palm trees.

  Palm trees. Isn’t that the sign? Isn’t that what swingers have in their gardens to alert other swingers?

  My heart is thumping hard as we walk up the path to the front door. It’s on. It’s real. Suze was right. I have to tell Luke, quick.

  As he lifts his hand to ring the doorbell, I grab his arm.

  “Luke,” I say in a desperate whisper. “I’m not sure they want to talk about wine. It’s all a front.”

  “What?” Luke stares at me.

  “I think they want…you know.” I gulp, then whisper even more quietly, “An orgy.”

  “What?” Luke gives a bark of laughter, then peers at me again. “Becky, are you being serious?”

  “Yes! Craig is into threesomes and foursomes and…everythingsomes. Suze saw it online. He goes to sex parties all the time. And look at the palm trees.” I gesticulate wildly toward the back garden. “It’s the sign! Swingers!”

  “I’m fairly sure the sign for swingers is pampas grass,” says Luke calmly.

  “Palm trees, pampas grass—it’s all the same. We need a plan,” I add urgently. “We need signals.”

  “Hi, guys! You made it!” Craig’s raspy voice greets us, apparently out of nowhere, and I jump. He’s leaning out of an upstairs window, wearing an open-necked shirt and beaming.

  Oh God. Did he hear us? No. I don’t think so.

  “Hi!” I say in a strangled voice. “We were just…Hi!”

  “Hi there!” Luke hails him easily.

  “I’ll be down in a sec….” Craig’s head disappears and I hear him calling, “Nadine, they’re here!”

  I can already hear high heels approaching on the other side of the door. Shit.

  “Our safe word is sprygge,” I gabble in panic. “OK?”

  “What?” Luke looks baffled.

  “Sprygge! Safe word! Sprygge!”

  I don’t have time to say any more before the door swings open and there’s Nadine, wearing a smart silk shirt that displays her amazing cleavage and wafting some musky perfume.

  “Guys,” she says, embracing Luke, then me. “Welcome!”

  “Hi,” says Luke. “We brought a little something.”

  Nadine takes the bottle and our coats and ushers us into a nice big room with a fire blazing in the hearth and fairy lights decorating the mantelpiece. The look is kind of half country cottage, half music studio. There are linen-covered sofas and chairs, but there are also three guitars on stands and a couple of massive amps.

  “Guys!” Craig comes striding in, wearing his usual ripped jeans and clutching what looks like an expensive bottle of wine. (The label’s really old and torn, that’s how I know.)

  He kisses me and shakes Luke’s hand warmly. Soon we’re sitting on the linen sofas, listening to the fire crackle, and watching the fairy lights on the mantelpiece flash on and off. Nadine passes round olives and nuts and Craig puts on some music and I start to relax a bit. It doesn’t feel like a sex party. Not that I’ve ever been to one.

  “What do you think of the wine, Luke?” Craig asks. “Can I pour you some more?”

  “Luke, come nearer the fire,” chimes in Nadine. “Is that sofa comfortable for you? Can I get you another cushion? More olives?”

  Instantly my radar starts to prickle. They’re both all over Luke, like they were in the pub. But maybe
they’re just trying to be friendly.

  “The house looks amazing!” I say, to make conversation. “All the fairy lights! Beautiful!”

  “I made Craig do those,” says Nadine with satisfaction. “I was like, babe, get up on your ladder, now.”

  “She’s the boss,” agrees Craig with a chuckle. “You should see her manage her team at work. More wine, Luke? What are you up to for Christmas?”

  “We’re hosting for the first time,” says Luke. “Becky’s the mastermind.”

  “Hosting Christmas for the first time!” says Nadine, with a sympathetic eye roll. “I remember doing that. I nearly went mad. All my family were like, ‘Can we have this, can we have that?’ In the end, I was like, ‘Enough! We’re doing it my way!’ ”

  “Oh my God!” I exclaim, feeling a bond with Nadine for the first time. “Same! I’ve started a Christmas WhatsApp group, and it’s sending me demented. Everyone wants different chocolates and mince pies and traditions. My sister’s vegan and my best friend wants to do children’s crafts and her husband wants to watch opera and our neighbor Janice wants a piñata. You can’t make everyone happy.”

  “How many did you invite?” asks Nadine sympathetically, refreshing my wineglass.

  “Well, actually, they all kind of invited themselves,” I reply, after a moment’s thought.

  “Invited themselves?” Nadine opens her eyes wide.

  “I mean, I wanted them to come,” I explain hurriedly. “I love them all to bits. It’ll be great! It’s just…you know. Quite a lot to do.”

  “I hear you,” says Nadine, nodding. “Believe you me, Becky, you have to put your foot down.”

  “It’s just so full-on.” I take a gulp of wine. “And now my mum’s fallen out with Janice, and they’re both supposed to be coming….”

  “Oh no!” exclaims Nadine, wrinkling her nose. “That’s not ideal.”

  “No. It’s not.” I emit a gusty sigh. I hadn’t realized how much all this Christmas business has been stressing me out. It’s quite a relief, sharing it with someone on the outside. “All I want is a lovely day, you know? Everyone enjoying being with one another and not caring about how we cook the brussels sprouts.”