Christmas Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Whatever’s easiest,” says Flo with a helpless smile.

  “Well, we’ve got both, so they’re both easy.” Suze holds out the tray of cups. “Tea? Coffee?”

  “I really don’t mind,” says Flo with a little gasp. “Either way.”

  “You decide,” says Suze pleasantly.

  “Oh…” Flo extends a hand, then withdraws it. “I’m not sure….”

  I can see Suze starting to lose patience, and I’m not surprised. All the tea and coffee’s getting cold while Flo stands there peering at it.

  “Well!” Suze says briskly. “Why not have tea, then? Bex, why don’t you take a cup of tea for Flo?”

  We exchange brief looks as I take the cup, then usher Flo toward the sofa.

  “Please have a seat,” I say politely.

  “Oh. Goodness.” Flo looks at the empty sofa as though it’s a minefield. “Where should I sit down?”

  “Anywhere!” I say, trying to sound as friendly as I can.

  “I see.” Flo edges to the corner of the sofa, then stops as though marooned. “Where does everyone else want to sit? Please don’t let me get in the way.” She gives her helpless smile again, and I quell a desire to say, “Just sit down, you drip!”

  “I’ll put your tea here,” I say kindly, placing the cup on the coffee table, “and you can decide.”

  Then I feel bad at calling Flo a drip, even inside my head. Maybe she’s feeling awkward in a new crowd of people. As she finally takes a seat, I make another effort.

  “So, did you see the new Poirot on TV, Flo?”

  “Yes, I did,” says Flo in über-cautious tones, as though she suspects I might use her answer somehow against her in court.

  “And what did you think of the adaptation?”

  “I don’t really know,” says Flo, looking blank. “It’s up to the experts, isn’t it?”

  “Right. Well…did you enjoy it?” I persevere.

  “I couldn’t say, really.” She gives me that helpless smile again.

  Oh my God. I was right the first time. She is a drip. How can Janice hang out with her?

  As though reading my thoughts, Janice comes over to the sofa with her own cup of tea and sits beside Flo. A moment later, Mum sits down opposite, and everyone sips their tea without talking. Everyone’s just staring into the middle distance. It’s all so awkward, I can’t bear it.

  “Cake!” I say shrilly. “Let’s have Minnie’s birthday cake!”

  I dash into the safety of the kitchen, carefully put the candles on the birthday cake, light them, and carry it back into the room, calling out to the children to gather. We sing “Happy Birthday,” and Minnie looks beside herself with joy as she blows out her candles. Then I set the cake on the coffee table to cut it, while Luke goes for some plates and forks.

  “What a large cake!” says Janice as I start cutting into it. “And what an interesting shape, Becky. Did you use a dome-shaped baking tin?”

  “Er…no…” I can’t answer properly, because I’m too preoccupied by trying to cut the cake. It’s weird. My knife keeps going through the buttercream without seeming to slice anything.

  “Is there a problem, love?” says Mum, watching me. “Let me try.”

  She takes the knife from me, briskly slices through the buttercream, then peers at it, puzzled. “Love, where’s the cake?”

  “It’s in there somewhere,” I say desperately, taking the knife back from her and prodding at it. “I know there’s a cake in there. I saw it. I made it!”

  “What proportion of buttercream to cake did you use?” inquires Jess, which is so like her.

  “You might need a spoon,” says Suze helpfully. “And we could eat it with spoons too. We could think of it as…a mousse?”

  “Here,” says Luke, handing me a spoon. “Serve it with this.”

  “I can’t serve everyone solid buttercream!” I whisper desperately to Luke. “They’ll all have heart attacks! I don’t know what’s happened.”

  “Cake!” says Minnie, holding up her plate, and all the other children join in, yelling, “Cake! Cake!”

  I stare anxiously at the cake—or, rather, mound of buttercream—and Luke says quickly, “I’ll take it out to the kitchen and have a proper look at it.” As he picks it up, he addresses the room: “Becky’s been making a wonderful costume for Minnie’s Nativity play. You should see it.”

  I feel a swell of love for him, because he’s so obviously trying to make me feel better—and everyone at once follows his lead.

  “Wow,” says Suze. “Awesome, Bex!”

  “Well done, darling!” says Dad.

  “Show us now!” suggests Suze, but I shake my head.

  “I want to keep it a surprise. Um, I’ll just see to this cake….”

  I hurry out to the kitchen, where I find Luke attacking the buttercream with a spatula.

  “There is some cake in there,” he says, peering closely at it, “but not very much. Shall we dig it out and give it to the children?”

  “I don’t know what went wrong,” I say dismally. “Has the cake dissolved into the buttercream?”

  “Does cake dissolve into buttercream?” inquires Luke.

  “I don’t know!” I say, as the doorbell rings. “Oh God, what now? You get the door and I’ll dig out the cake.”

  I scoop out as much cake as I can find and arrange it in four splodges on plates. At least children don’t care about presentation. I plonk the plates on a tray, and I’m carrying it out into the hall when I hear a nasal voice it takes me a moment to recognize.

  Oh my God. Is that Nadine?

  I put the tray on the floor and hurry toward the front door, which is ajar. Luke and Nadine are on the doorstep, and Nadine is talking in a quick, urgent way, while Luke tries to chime in. As I step outside, he’s saying, “Nadine, I’m sorry. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Just take this.” She brandishes a thick printed document at him, then shoots me an unfriendly look. “Oh, hi, Becky.”

  She’s all dressed up in a suit, even though it’s the weekend, and her perfume is overpowering. This is all a bit weird.

  “Hi!” I say cautiously. “What a surprise to see you!”

  “Nadine came round to talk business,” says Luke, sounding strained. “But, as I’m trying to explain, I don’t see a future for us in any kind of partnership.”

  “You haven’t given me a chance.” Nadine barely seems to be listening. “You can’t write me off. You can’t dismiss me.” Her voice is steady, but her chest is heaving, I notice.

  “I’m not dismissing you,” says Luke at once. “Absolutely not. But—”

  “It’s an opportunity for both of us,” she interrupts. “This is my only chance. You can’t just say no.”

  “Well,” says Luke, after a tiny pause, “I can. And this is certainly not your only chance—”

  “Read this.” Nadine tries to hand him the document again. “Read it. It’s different from the version you saw before. I listened to you. I’ve changed it. Already. See?” She turns to the second page and jabs at a paragraph with her immaculate pink nail. “This is what you said. Word for word. You said it wasn’t focused enough, not businesslike enough. This is businesslike—”

  “Nadine, this isn’t businesslike!” Luke erupts, gesturing at her. “You can’t just come to people’s houses at the weekend with no warning! I told you I was happy to speak on the phone—”

  “Brush me off, you mean.” She glares at him. “What was it you said? ‘Maybe after Christmas.’ ”

  “I’m traveling before Christmas and I’ll be out of regular contact, as I explained,” says Luke evenly. “But I’m happy to talk in the new year and give you some pointers—”

  “Oh, pointers.” She echoes the word so savagely, I feel an inward shiver. This woman is actually a
bit loopy, and it’s Minnie’s birthday party and I don’t want to be listening to this.

  “Nadine, we have to go,” I say. “We’re in the middle of something.” I glance at Luke, who nods.

  “I’m still happy to talk to you by phone at an agreed time,” he says. “But now you need to leave.”

  There’s silence, and I can see Nadine’s chest heaving harder than ever. She looks like she might pop out of her tight jacket. It would be funny if her eyes weren’t so hostile.

  “Why do you think we rented that bloody cottage in the first place?” she bursts out savagely. “To meet you.”

  “What?” I stare at her, staggered.

  “What did you think? That we wanted to live in this back-of-nowhere shithole?”

  “Excuse me!” I say indignantly, but Nadine’s on a roll.

  “We were doing the ‘old boyfriends, old girlfriends’ chat. Craig tells me about some old girlfriend called Becky Bloomwood. It rings a bell. Isn’t she married to Luke Brandon? Can I get to Luke Brandon through a personal connection? Is this my big opportunity? You know, I already wrote to your company,” she adds to Luke. “Got the brush-off from some bloody minion.”

  Oh my God. She’s a stalker.

  “Nadine, you have to go,” I say carefully. “It’s Minnie’s birthday. We have all our family and friends here.”

  “Oh that’s right.” She swivels her gaze to focus on me. “Your precious family and friends.”

  “Yes,” I say robustly. “My precious family and friends.”

  Nadine surveys each of us in turn with her scary eyes—then seems to give up.

  “Well, I’m sorry to disturb the happy occasion,” she says, her voice edged with sarcasm. “Have a super day. Have a super life.”

  She turns and picks her way back down the garden path, while Luke and I watch in silence. I feel quite shaken.

  “Wow,” says Luke as she disappears from view, and I feel my whole body sag.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Didn’t see that coming,” he says thoughtfully.

  “How could anyone see that coming?” I exhale, then turn to Luke, feeling hot with mortification. “Oh God, Luke, I’m so sorry. I should never have introduced you to Craig; I should never have brought them into our lives….”

  I should never have dressed up in edgy clothes to impress my old boyfriend, I silently add.

  “Don’t be silly!” Luke looks surprised. “You couldn’t have predicted any of this. And she’s gone now. No harm done.”

  He’s so reasonable and fair and calm, I feel an immense surge of love for him. Our marriage is Sellotaped down and it’s never going to unstick, ever. I put my arms around Luke, gazing up at the man I adore, and, with a fresh wave of emotion, hear myself saying, “I love your mustache.”

  Wait. Where did that come from?

  “Really?” Luke looks supremely taken aback and touched. “Oh, darling.”

  He kisses me and I clasp him even more tightly, while my brain says, Hang on. Why did I say that?

  He’ll never get rid of it now. What was I thinking? I was just feeling so generally loving, the words came out of my mouth.

  We draw apart and Luke gazes at me, his face softened with affection.

  “My darling Becky,” he says, running a finger gently down my cheek. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I say, a bit breathlessly.

  Shall I quickly add, “Except I didn’t mean the bit about the mustache”?

  No. No. Not a good idea.

  At last Luke turns back toward the front door.

  “We’d better rejoin the party,” he says. “Shall we keep this little exchange between ourselves? If anyone asks, we’ll say it was someone collecting for charity.”

  “Yes,” I agree fervently. “Good idea. Everything’s quite tense in there already.”

  I want to add, “What do you think of Flo?” but we need to get back, and anyway, I’m sure I know the answer.

  Luke picks up the tray of cake splodges, eyes them for a moment, then says, “Well, they look delicious, anyway.”

  Instantly my heart melts. Oh God, he’s so kind. He’s such a good husband. I’m never going to tell him the truth about the mustache, I resolve. What I’ll do is…I’ll get hypnotized to like mustaches. Yes! Excellent plan. I’ll google it.

  I’m just opening the door to the sitting room when my phone rings. Honestly. Can’t I have a birthday tea party in peace? I’m considering ignoring it, but I glance at the display in case—and see Edwin.

  Hmm. Maybe I’d better take this.

  “I’ll be two secs,” I say apologetically. “It’s a…a Christmas-related thing.”

  As Luke takes the cake into the sitting room, I hurry back into the kitchen and shut the door.

  “Hello, Edwin,” I say quietly. “How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you!” come Edwin’s well-modulated tones. “And you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, thanks!”

  “Just a quick one, my dear: Unfortunately, I’ve been called away to the south of France—terrible bore—and it means I won’t have time to write your speech for the meeting after all. Can you rustle it up?”

  I stare at the phone in dismay. Do what? The whole point was, he was going to write the speech.

  “Right.” I clear my throat. “Well…I suppose so. What should I say?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you know the sort of thing,” says Edwin airily. “Your enthusiasm for billiards, how shut out you feel as a woman, that kind of thing. Social justice. Discrimination. Make the blighters squirm with guilt. I never asked, did you have a deprived childhood?”

  “Er, well…” I prevaricate, thinking guiltily that Mum and Dad are sitting only yards away and you can’t really call a detached house in Oxshott “deprived.” “I mean, I suppose some of it was a bit deprived….”

  “Splendid! Lay that on thickly too. Now I must go, my dear, but I’ll see you there?”

  “Absolutely!” I say. And I’m about to add, “What shall I say about billiards, exactly?” when he rings off.

  I stand motionless for a few seconds, thinking this through. A speech about billiards. Can I make a speech about billiards? Oh God. Is this all getting a bit much? Shall I just get Luke his normal old aftershave, which will take thirty seconds online, and forget all about the portmanteau?

  But then my determination hardens. Come on. I can do this. I will do it. For Luke. How hard can it be to talk about billiards? It’s only a game with six balls.

  Or maybe eight balls.

  Some number of balls, anyway. I’ll look that up. But now I’d better get back to the party.

  Thrusting my phone in my pocket, I hurry into the sitting room, where all the children have buttercream smeared round their mouths and Flo is saying in a pained voice, “I must say, cake has never really been my thing,” and Mum seems like she wants to explode.

  As I look around, I try to get into a nice, relaxed party mood. I want to smile and enjoy the moment. But somehow I can’t. I feel too hassled. By Flo…by my disaster cake…by Nadine…by having to make a billiards speech…and that’s not even mentioning Christmas, which hangs over everything like some sort of glittery exam I have to pass.

  “You could have a garland here,” Suze is saying to Jess, pointing at the mantelpiece. “Or maybe here.” Then she turns to me. “We were wondering when you were going to decorate for Christmas, Bex.”

  And I know it’s just a question, I know it’s just Suze being artistic and creative…but somehow I can’t help feeling criticized.

  “I was waiting,” I explain. “I thought we’d have Minnie’s birthday first and then get into Christmas decorating.”

  “Ah! Speaking of Christmas, love.” Mum looks up. “Did you see the recipe for stuffing I sent you?”

 
“Um…” I wrinkle my brow, trying to remember which of her million WhatsApps was about stuffing.

  “I’ve already sent Bex a brilliant recipe for stuffing,” objects Suze. “Apricot and hazelnut. It’s delicious.”

  “Mine’s cranberry and chestnut,” counters Mum. “Much more Christmassy.”

  “But what about sage and onion?” says Janice. “And, Becky, will we be able to have a bracing walk on the day even though Graham’s hurt his foot? Because I was thinking first bracing walk, then piñata.”

  “A piñata is cultural appropriation,” says Jess disapprovingly. “I keep telling you. And, Becky, you’re not planning a wood fire, are you? Because it is catastrophic for the planet—”

  “You could have a fabulous decoration in this alcove,” Suze interrupts, still appraising the room. “Where are you putting your tree?”

  “Er…” I haven’t decided where to put the tree yet, but I don’t want to admit it.

  “And have you sorted out your carols yet, Becky?” inquires Janice. “Only I do love ‘Good King Wenceslas’—”

  “D’you want me to come round sometime and help decide about the tree?” Suze cuts across her. “And make a plan for your garlands?”

  “No!” I exclaim, suddenly rattled by all the voices coming at me. “No, thanks! I’ll decorate myself in my own way. And I’ll choose the stuffing. And we won’t have a fire. And everything you all want, I’ll order, OK?”

  As I break off, breathing hard, I realize how stressed out I sound. “Sorry,” I add, trying to calm down. “I’m just a bit…It’s all a bit…”

  “Of course!” says Suze, shooting a look at Mum. “Bex, don’t worry about a thing! Sit down and have some tea. Relax.”

  I sit next to Flo, take a few deep breaths, and gradually feel my heart rate slow down. I’m overreacting, I tell myself. It’ll all be fine. I’m aware that Mum and Suze are exchanging looks with Janice—but I don’t care. Let them exchange looks.

  “So,” I say at last, forcing myself to be polite and turning to Flo. “Where are you spending Christmas, Flo?”

  “Oh, Christmas,” she says, crinkling her brow dubiously. “I never was much of a one for Christmas.”