Editor
Norwegian National Dictionary
A week has passed and I’ve put Craig and Nadine out of my mind. Because the best thing to do in life is move on from embarrassing encounters and not look back, even when your husband keeps teasing you about them. He sent me a text yesterday:
John at work has invited us for dinner in the new year with his wife. NB: Fairly sure he means dinner, not a foursome in a hot tub.
Ha ha, hilarious.
But I’m also quite preoccupied with Jess, because Tom’s email troubled me. No one sends an email like that if their marriage is fine. Tom actually sounds a bit deranged, if you ask me. Although, let’s face it, he’s never been what you might call “standard issue.” It’s not so long ago that he was building a monster summer house in Janice and Martin’s garden and announcing he was going to live there.
As I ice Minnie’s birthday cake on Saturday morning, I’m feeling quite concerned—although I’m even more concerned by the stupid cake. The sponge keeps falling apart every time I try to smear the buttercream on. I thought this job would take about ten minutes and I could get it all done while Minnie was at her ballet lesson, but this is a disaster.
“Suze, help,” I say desperately as she strides into the kitchen. “My cake keeps falling to bits when I try to ice it.”
“Did you cover it with a crumb coat first?” she inquires.
“Of course not.” I stare at her. “Crumb what? How did you know about that?”
Suze shrugs vaguely, which probably means she learned it at finishing school. She’s always coming out with some life tip that she learned there, like how to lay a table for six courses or address an envelope to a bishop. I’m about to say, “Is it too late to do the crumb-whatsit thing now?” when Luke walks into the kitchen.
“Jesus,” he says, and breathes out hard.
“What?”
“I’ve just been on the phone to Nadine.”
“Nadine?” I put down my smearing knife and stare at him. “How come?”
“She called me about her business pitch.”
“On a Saturday?”
“She said she’d been waiting impatiently for my call.” He winces. “She seemed to have…let’s say the wrong idea about how things had gone when we met.”
“In what sense?”
“In the sense that she thought I was about to write her a check, give her a car, and rename my company ‘Brandon and Nadine’s Communications.’ ”
“Oh my God.” I stare at him, half-horrified and half-wanting to giggle. “But that’s ridiculous! You didn’t promise anything. You just said, ‘There’s a lot to think about.’ I heard you with my own ears.”
“Of course I didn’t promise anything!” says Luke. “She’s a chancer. Or deluded. Or both. Hi, Suze,” he adds.
“Hi, Luke,” says Suze blithely. “So Craig and Nadine aren’t your new best friends after all? Shame.”
I shoot a suspicious glare at her. I can sense a big old “told you so” in her voice, although if I confront her, she’ll say, “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Tell you what,” says Luke, starting to make some coffee. “Nadine got quite nasty on the phone. She implied they need the money.”
“Need the money?” I stare at him. “How can they need the money?”
“She pretty much implied that Craig is broke.” Luke shrugs. “I’m just going on what she said.”
“But he’s a rock star!” I say, bewildered. “He went to Warsaw! He can’t be broke!”
“That’s right, Bex,” says Suze in a deadpan voice. “Because rock stars never go to Warsaw when they’re broke. They take in extra washing and cut coupons.”
“Ha ha.” I roll my eyes.
“Poor Bex.” Suze suddenly relents. “I see you’ve washed the blue dye out of your hair. And where are your killer slutty boots? Are you ever going to wear them again?”
“They’re upstairs,” I say with dignity. “And of course I’ll wear them again, upon the right occasion.”
“I like the killer slutty boots,” says Luke cheerfully. “Don’t knock the killer slutty boots. Does anyone want coffee?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “We’re about to go and meet Jess for lunch, and you’re picking up Minnie, remember?”
“Actually, those boots are really nice,” says Suze, her eyes focusing on my feet. “Are those new?”
“Yes! Brand new!”
They’re a pair of caramel ankle boots, which I’d forgotten I ordered until they arrived this morning. I turn this way and that to show them off to Suze—then it hits me. Is this a hint?
“Suze, have them,” I say impulsively.
“Have them?”
“For Christmas!” I start tugging one off. “Try them on!”
“No! I’m not having your brand-new boots that you’ve never even worn!” says Suze, almost crossly. “Put that back on, Bex. We should get going. What are you going to do with your cake?”
“Dunno,” I admit, squirming my foot back into its boot.
“That’s a cake?” says Luke in astonishment, peering at the misshapen pile of sponge and buttercream on the counter. “I thought—” He stops himself. “I mean, Minnie will love it, whatever.”
“Put it in the freezer,” advises Suze. “Then make some more buttercream and pile it on top. You can’t have too much buttercream. And spray it with edible glitter,” she adds airily. “It’ll be fine. Come on, let’s go.”
* * *
—
I’ve been really looking forward to visiting a packaging-free shop—and as I walk into Waste Not Foods, I feel a blinding revelation. This is where we should shop. All the time! Here!
I mean, look at it. There are rustic wooden boxes filled with earthy potatoes and carrots. There are eggs with feathers still on them. And there are loads of big glass jars, like in old-fashioned sweets shops, filled with nuts and oats and stuff like that. You just help yourself! It’s genius!
“Hi,” says a girl behind the till. She has a nose ring and hair tied up with twine and is wearing one of those brown linen artist-type tops that I always half-want to buy but that actually make me look like a sack.
Not that she looks like a sack.
I mean, OK, she does a tiny bit, but she probably doesn’t mind looking like a sack.
“Hi!” I beam at her. “Fab shop!”
There are festive brown burlap stockings hung up by the door, each containing a fair-trade chocolate bar wrapped in recycled paper, an eco–coffee cup, and a copy of a book called How We’re All Doomed. I am so coming back here to buy one for Jess. She’ll love it!
“Are you going to buy anything?” I say to Suze.
“Yes, I need rice,” she says, pulling two plastic ice-cream tubs out of her tote. “And maybe some pasta. And the sweet potatoes look good, don’t they?” As she speaks, she produces an extra cotton shopping tote and shakes out a couple of brown paper bags.
I stare at all her bags and tubs, feeling discomfited. “Did you bring those with you?”
“Well, yes,” says Suze, sounding surprised. “Of course I did. There isn’t any packaging, Bex. You have to bring your own receptacles.”
Right.
I mean, obviously, I knew that. It’s just…
Oh God. Why didn’t I bring a few tubs and things? I haven’t even got a bag for life with me, I realize with a jolt of horror. But I’m not going to admit that. No way.
As I wander around the jars of spices and pulses, I feel both inspired and stressed out. I want everything here! Only I need some packaging. I need a tub or bag or something….
Then, thankfully, I spot a shelf behind the till holding some glass wide-necked jars. Excellent. I’ll buy a load of jars and pretend that’s what I intended to do all along.
�
�Hello!” I say, approaching the girl at the till. “Your shop is so inspiring. I’m totally giving up on packaging.”
“Oh, good,” she says.
“So, could I have thirty jars, please? Fifteen tall and fifteen short?”
“Thirty jars?” She stares at me.
“To put stuff in,” I explain.
I’m never having packets again, I’ve decided. I can just see my kitchen, looking like something out of Livingetc, with labeled matching jars lined up neatly. It’ll be amazing!
But the girl is frowning dubiously.
“I don’t even have thirty jars in stock,” she says. “Can you carry thirty glass jars?”
Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.
“Most people bring old plastic tubs,” she continues. “We encourage recycling as much as possible. Didn’t you bring anything?” She looks at my empty hands. “Nothing at all?”
She doesn’t need to sound so condescending.
“I’m plastic-free,” I retort in a supercilious voice. “All right, I’ll have six jars for now, please.”
The girl raises her eyebrows, which I think is needless, but reaches behind her and puts six glass jars on the counter.
They are quite bulky. But they’ll look fab!
I pick up a wicker shopping basket, load it up with the glass jars, head to a big container full of pulses, and fill up a jar. Then I check to see what I’m buying. Mung beans! I have no idea what to do with mung beans, but I can find a recipe.
I’m about to fill up a second jar, with barley, when I get a text from Luke: Can you buy some eggs? We’re out. I quickly text back, No problem, and head to the rustic, feathery eggs in their tray. I pick up two—then wonder what to do with them. They aren’t in boxes, so how do you carry them?
“Did you bring an egg box?” says the girl behind the till, who’s watching me. “We tell all our customers: If they want to buy eggs, please bring an old egg box. Otherwise you can buy a reusable bamboo one for a pound, but obviously we encourage recycling. Did you want to buy a bamboo one?”
I can read her snide expression exactly. She means, “Do you want to pollute the planet even further, you moron who couldn’t remember an egg box?”
“No, thanks,” I say, lifting my chin. “I have receptacles already.”
“You can’t carry eggs in jars,” she says as though I’m an idiot.
“Yes, I can,” I contradict her.
I gently put two eggs into a glass jar and put the lid on, then do the same with three more jars. I’ll just have to carry them carefully.
“Hi, Becky.” Jess’s voice greets me, and I whip round.
“Hi, Jess!” I give her a hug. “This place is amazing!”
“What are you doing?” She peers at my jars, looking puzzled.
“Buying eggs.” I manhandle my basket of glass jars to the counter, where the girl stares at it. “Hi,” I say in a nonchalant manner. “I’d like to pay for these, please.”
“Why didn’t you buy an egg box?” says Jess incredulously.
“Because I don’t want to ruin the planet with hollow consumption,” I reply, raising my eyes. As if she needs to ask.
“But half of your eggs are already broken,” says the girl, looking through the glass.
Drat.
“They’re for scrambled eggs,” I say briskly. “So it’s fine. How much is that?”
“It comes to £45.89,” she says. “Have you got a bag or do you need to buy one?”
For a moment I’m silent. No way am I admitting I forgot to bring a bag for life.
“I don’t believe in bags, actually,” I say at last. “My rule is, ‘Buy only what you can carry.’ ”
“But you can’t carry all that,” says the girl.
“My sister will help me,” I say without missing a beat. “You’ll help me get all this out to the car, won’t you? And, Suze?” I raise my voice. “I don’t want to wreck the planet, so could you help me too?”
Between us we get all my jars into Suze’s boot and go back into the shop for Suze to pay.
“Excuse me?” the girl at the till says to me. “You forgot to take your last jar.” She holds out the empty jar and I take it nonchalantly, wanting to impress Jess in some way.
“Thanks,” I say. “Maybe I’ll fill it with…black turtle beans.”
I have no idea what you do with black turtle beans, but they sound totally worthy.
“I love black turtle beans,” I add to Jess. “They’re so vegan.”
I saunter over to a massive glass dispenser labeled Black Turtle Beans, place my jar underneath, and twist the handle. At once, small dried black beans start pouring out in a gush, and I smile at Jess. When the jar is nearly full, I casually twist the handle back—but it won’t go. I try again, but it’s stuck. Shit.
Shit.
To my horror, beans have started cascading over the top of my jar and clattering onto the floor. I desperately yank at the handle, but I can’t shift it, and the beans are coming faster and faster.
“What the hell?” says the girl behind the till, as everyone turns to stare at me and the torrent of beans. “Turn the handle back! Quick!”
“I’m trying!” I say, my face boiling. “What do you think I’m doing?”
The girl leaps up from her seat and hurries toward me, but even before she gets there, it’s too late. The clattering has come to an end. The dispenser is empty. There are beans all over the floor. I hear a sudden snort from Suze’s direction and look up to see her hand clamped over her mouth.
“I’ll buy them, obviously,” I say quickly, before the girl can utter a word. “All of them. They’ll be so useful for…dishes.”
“You’ll buy them all?” The girl in the sack eyes me in disbelief.
“Of course!”
“Uh-huh.” She thinks for a moment, then lifts her eyebrows. “How do you intend to transport them? Do you need a bag? By any chance?”
She sounds so snotty, I feel a flare of indignation.
“No, I do not need a bag,” I say coolly. “As I mentioned before, I’m an ethical, bag-free consumer. I will therefore carry them…er…in my skirt,” I say in inspiration.
“In your skirt?”
“Yes!” I say defiantly. I make a hammock out of my Rixo midi skirt—which is ideally shaped—and start to scoop beans into it. “See?”
Suze gives another sudden snort and comes over to where I’m kneeling on the floor.
“Bex,” she says, “that’s a great plan. Obviously. But if you didn’t mind compromising your ethical principles just a tad…we could use a cardboard box?”
* * *
—
Hmph. I still think I could have got those beans out of there in my skirt. I could have stored some in the glove compartment and some in the boot. The car could have been our black-turtle-bean storage facility.
On the other hand, I guess it was quicker to sweep them all into a box, pay for them, and head into the café. Now we’re sitting at a window table, all cozily together. We’ve ordered our food and we’re sipping our water, and Suze and I keep glancing at each other. It’s time to tackle Jess, with as much sensitivity and empathy as we can muster.
“Wait till you see your vegan turkey on Christmas Day,” I say to Jess as a preamble. “It’s going to be amazing!”
“Great,” says Jess.
I glance yet again at Suze and wonder how to proceed. Our plan was to help Jess “open up”—but how?
“So…how’s life in Chile?” I begin cautiously. “It must be hard. How’s…Tom?”
“He’s fine, thanks,” says Jess shortly. “Everything’s fine.”
But at once I can see the muscles in her neck twitching. And she’s clenching her water glass. Does she really think we’re fooled?
“Jess, you�
�re strong and independent,” I say earnestly. “I’ve always admired that. But I want you to know—we’re here for you.”
“We’re totally here for you,” affirms Suze.
“In case there was anything…” I trail off uncertainly.
“The whole adoption thing must be a real strain on both of you,” Suze says softly. “Isn’t it?”
There’s a much longer pause and I can barely breathe, because Jess’s eyes are starting to shimmer. Jess’s eyes never shimmer. I always thought they were made of granite, like her abs.
“Yes, it’s quite a strain,” she says at last, and her voice sounds choked. “It’s harder than we predicted. You think you’re patient, you think you’re philosophical…but…”
She breaks off into silence. Oh God. We need to tread so carefully. I look nervously at Suze, who makes an encouraging face back.
“Is it…I mean…” I hesitate. “Do you…”
I don’t even know what I want to ask. Actually, what I want is for Jess to blurt out all her feelings spontaneously and then I’ll say something wise in return and we’ll all hold hands.
But already she’s gathering herself. The shimmer has gone from her eyes.
“Maybe we should order some bread as well,” she says, glancing at the café counter.
“Jess, don’t talk about bread!” I say as supportively as I can. “We’re here. Just the three of us in a safe space. Why not talk about…”
“What?” She narrows her eyes at me.
“Anything!” I wave my hands vaguely. “Anything at all! Chile…Tom…”
As I say the word “Tom,” Jess inhales sharply.
“What is this?” she demands, looking from me to Suze. “You’re on about Tom again. I thought he emailed you and said that everything was OK.”
“Well,” I say after a pause. “Yes, he did.”
I don’t want to add, “And his email made me more concerned than ever!” Nor do I want to ask yet again, “When is he coming back to the UK?”
“Everything’s fine.” Jess glowers at me. “What are you expecting me to say, Becky? What are you implying?”
“Nothing!” I backtrack hastily. “No! I’m not. But…if there’s anything to share…I’m your sister after all.” I put a gentle hand on her arm and try not to notice her recoiling.
Christmas Shopaholic Page 20