Christmas Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  I make a little bow and a smattering of applause breaks out. Sir Denis even exclaims, “Hear, hear!”

  “Well, if that is all,” says Sir Peter, as I take my seat, “then I propose—”

  “Wait!” A voice interrupts him. “I’d like to speak.”

  There’s a kind of crumping sound as a hundred tweed jackets turn round to look—and to my utter astonishment, it’s Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf, standing up in the back row. He winks at me, then says, “Let me introduce myself. I’m Simon Millett, and my dad sent me here today to cast a proxy vote against this application. D’you know what else he said in the same breath? He said, ‘I do wish you’d think about joining, my boy; we need some younger blood.’ ” Simon pauses. “To be frank, I haven’t joined this club because it seems stuck in the dark ages. Full of attitudes and people I don’t relate to. But here’s a chance for you to change that. So here’s my advice to you…” He looks around the crowd of agog ninety-three-year-olds. “Do something to make your grandchildren proud of you. You might find they want to join. That’s all.”

  He sits down and I mouth, “Thank you!”

  There’s a kind of commotion among the audience members and then Sir Peter says, his mouth tighter than ever, “Well, let us proceed to a vote. All those in favor of amending the constitution and allowing Mrs. Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, to become a member?”

  A forest of hands shoots up, and I start to count, but I keep losing track. Then suddenly everyone’s voting against, and there’s another forest of hands and I can’t count those either. Oh God. I can hardly breathe for the tension. It’s really stressful, voting! No wonder MPs are all so wrinkled and grim-looking.

  For a few moments there’s silence as the committee members confer. Then Sir Peter draws a long breath.

  “The motion is carried,” he says in sepulchral tones, and someone grabs my hand and says “Congratulations!” and it’s only then that it properly hits me—I won! I’m in!

  “I need some raffle tickets,” I say in a gasp. “I want to go in for the raffle, please.”

  “Never mind the raffle, dear girl!” exclaims Edwin, who has materialized out of nowhere in a shocking-pink tie and reeking of brandy. He clasps my hand and shakes it about a hundred times. “You won! You turned this place upside down! I heard you speak! Tremendous stuff! If in doubt, go for sex!”

  Honestly, what are these people like? My speech was so not about sex. But I don’t contradict him, because I’m too anxious about the raffle.

  “That’s one in the eye for Sir Peter,” Edwin is crowing. “Did you see his face?”

  “The raffle,” I say again. “Who’s selling tickets?”

  “Ah, now, that’ll be Leonard,” says Edwin. “Chap in a burgundy smoking jacket. Not sure where he’s got to…John, isn’t it marvelous?” He turns to greet John, who has just made his way toward us—and I take the opportunity to slip away. I need to find this Leonard. I can’t see a single burgundy smoking jacket, so I hurry out of the room, as ninety-three-year-olds alternately congratulate me or give me baleful looks. There are no burgundy smoking jackets in the hall either, but I can see some ninety-three-year-olds on the stairs, so I quickly head up there.

  The landing is empty. Where the hell is he? I push open another immense door—to find myself in a massive room containing a billiards table and Simon, all on his own, playing what I guess is a billiards shot.

  “Oh, hi!” I say. “Thanks so much for your speech. What you said made all the difference.”

  “No problem,” he says, then nods at his cue. “Thought I’d try out the famous table while I’m here.”

  “Right,” I say. “Absolutely. The famous table.”

  I’m about to ask him if he’s seen Leonard, but Simon gets in first.

  “Looking forward to your exhibition shot?” he says, sinking a ball expertly.

  “Huh?” I look at him blankly.

  “You know. Club tradition. The new member plays their first shot on this table. Big deal. People take photos. Usually there’s a bunch of new members, but tonight it’s just you.”

  “Wow!” I say, trying to conceal my dismay. “Um…no one told me about that.”

  OK. I have to leave. Enter the raffle, then leave. Smartish.

  “People practice all year to have the perfect shot ready. Usually some kind of fancy trick shot.” He raises his head from lining up a ball. “What have you got up your sleeve?”

  “Oh…you know,” I say vaguely, “a little shot I invented myself….Actually, what I really need is some raffle tickets. Have you seen someone called Leonard in a burgundy smoking jacket?”

  “Sorry, no. Have a practice.” He hands me the cue and automatically I take it. “Didn’t mean to hog the table.”

  I try to hold the cue naturally, but it’s quite heavy and longer than I thought. I should have played pool at uni. Why didn’t I learn pool? I have literally never held one of these in my life.

  “There you are!” Edwin’s face suddenly appears round the door. “Got your cue, I see. Marvelous! Stay there, Becky, and I’ll gather the crowd for your exhibition shot.”

  What? No!

  “All yours,” says Simon, standing back from the table.

  I stare at the endless green baize, trying to think very quickly. What do I do now?

  “Not wanting to put you off,” adds Simon, “but you’re pretty much representing women in billiards at this point. So my advice is, don’t go too ambitious. Keep it simple and nail it.”

  My stomach heaves. I can’t represent women in billiards. This is mad. I need to put down the cue, run down the stairs, and escape. Go on, Becky.

  But somehow my feet don’t move. If I escape now, I’m giving up on Luke’s present, and I just can’t. Not after all this effort.

  Could I do an exhibition shot? Do I maybe have a natural talent for billiards that I never realized?

  Experimentally, I approach the table and try to line up the cue like I’ve seen them do on TV. But it keeps wobbling everywhere. It’s too long, that’s the problem.

  “Getting used to the cue,” I say quickly, as I notice Simon staring at me. “They’re all different.”

  “That’s…the wrong end,” he says in a strange voice.

  “Oh.” My face flames and I peer at the cue. “Of course! Just got confused there for a moment….” I quickly turn the cue round, nearly hitting Simon in the face as I do so.

  “Jesus!” he says, lifting a hand to protect himself. “What the hell? You’re not a billiards player, are you?” He stares at me accusingly.

  “Yes, I am!” I begin robustly—then realize there’s no point. “OK, I’m not,” I concede in a lower voice, “but you can’t tell anyone.”

  Simon stares at me for a silent moment, then goes to the door, reaches for a doorstop, and wedges it shut.

  “Speak fast,” he says. “Why have you made all this fuss about joining this club if you can’t play billiards?”

  “To win the raffle,” I admit after a pause.

  “The raffle?” He stares at me as though I’m insane. “The raffle?”

  Honestly. He needn’t look like that. What’s wrong with wanting to win a raffle?

  “For my husband’s Christmas present!” I explain, a bit sniffily. “There’s this amazing portmanteau as first prize and you can only win it if you’re a member, so I needed to join.”

  Simon makes a snorting sound. “Is this for real? I thought you were getting him aftershave.”

  “I gave up on aftershave,” I confess. “You were right, he didn’t want a surprise. But I didn’t want to give him something, you know, predictable, so…”

  “So you decided to change the history of a two-hundred-year-old institution instead,” supplies Simon. “Does your husband know any of this?”

  “Of course not!” I sa
y, shocked. “It’s his Christmas present! You don’t tell people about their—”

  I’m interrupted by a rattling at the door and Edwin’s voice calling out, “Hello? The door’s jammed! Finch? Where’s Finch?”

  Shit. They’re coming. What am I going to do?

  “Have you ever played snooker?” demands Simon. “Pool?”

  “No. But I do know how to do it, look.”

  I approach the billiards table and make what I think is quite a good attempt at a shot—except I miss the ball, and the tip of the cue brushes the green baize.

  Simon winces.

  “Listen,” he says sternly. “If you rip this table, I can’t guarantee your safety. If I were you, I’d claim sudden illness and leave.”

  “Here we are!” The door bursts open and Edwin appears, followed by a crowd of ninety-three-year-olds. “All ready, Becky, I see! We just need to wait for Sir Peter.”

  “Right,” I say, my heart leaping in panic. “Um, what I really want is a raffle ticket. Is Leonard around?”

  “Not sure,” says Edwin vaguely, as Sir Peter strides into the room. He glares at me as though I’m some form of lowlife, then announces, as though each word makes him ill, “Welcome to today’s membership ceremony. I am pleased to welcome our newest member, Mrs. Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood. Mrs. Brandon: the table.” He takes a step back and gestures at the billiards table, and Edwin gives an excited whoop.

  I feel weak. The cue’s all slippery in my hand. There are more and more ninety-three-year-olds pressing into the room to watch. Edwin’s produced a phone and seems to be filming me. Should I run away?

  I glimpse a burgundy smoking jacket in the throng and feel a stab of renewed resolve. Come on. The prize is still within my grasp. I can’t give up. I just have to get through this moment….

  And then an idea hits me.

  “Good evening,” I say, addressing the crowd of ancient men. “And thank you for the warm welcome that many of you have extended to me. I would like to say a few words.”

  I wait until silence falls, then draw breath.

  “Tonight I have ended a long tradition,” I proclaim. “I would like to thank you, as a club, for your flexibility, willingness to change, and support. Now we are gathered for my exhibition shot.”

  I lean casually against the table, putting a hand proprietorially on the green baize as though I’m a shit-hot billiards player.

  “However, this is another tradition I want to challenge. I do not wish to celebrate my membership by ‘sinking balls in holes’ or ‘claiming my territory,’ which seems frankly a bit sexist in this day and age.”

  “What?” splutters Sir Peter, looking outraged.

  “She’s on about sex again,” says Sir Denis to his neighbor. “I like this girl.”

  “Instead, I would like to make a speech of commitment,” I continue hurriedly. I hold up my cue and gaze at it momentously for a few seconds. “With this cue, I vow to thee, my billiards club,” I say in sincere tones. “In the dawn’s early light. Or…at dusk. Billiards forever!” I hastily conclude, and bow to the crowd.

  There’s a flabbergasted silence, then a hubbub breaks out, above which I hear Edwin calling, “Billiards forever! Well done, my dear!”

  “Ridiculous!” Sir Peter is exclaiming angrily to his friends. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

  Ignoring him, I hurry toward the burgundy smoking jacket, which is inhabited by a man with a purple face. (He should really choose a different-colored jacket.)

  “Hello!” I greet him. “Are you Leonard? May I buy five raffle tickets, please?”

  At last! At last! I’m already pulling the notes from my purse—when Leonard shakes his head.

  “My dear, I’m sorry, but the raffle’s closed,” he says comfortably.

  “Closed?” I freeze, my money in my fingers.

  “I’m about to draw the numbers in the hall,” he explains. “The raffle will be drawn in two minutes!” he calls out loudly, and all the members start heading out of the room.

  For a moment I stand still in disbelief—but then I rouse myself. It’s fine. I can still do this. I’ll just see who wins and persuade them to sell the portmanteau to me. As I go to replace the cue in the rack, I see Simon grinning at me.

  “Nice speech,” he says. “You’ve really struck a blow today. What’s the hurry?” he adds as I thrust the cue away.

  “I need to go and watch the raffle,” I say distractedly. “I need to buy the portmanteau from whoever wins it.”

  “You’re still on that?” he says, shaking his head.

  “Of course I’m still on that! It’s why I’m here. It’s the whole point.”

  Something odd passes across Simon’s face as he surveys me.

  “ ‘Some people are happy to go the extra mile for their husband’s Christmas present,’ ” he says. “D’you remember saying that? It kind of stuck with me.”

  “Yes.” I lift my chin defensively, wondering where he’s going with this. “And it’s true.”

  “I’d call this about a hundred miles.” His expression is suddenly kind. “If not more. I hope your hubby appreciates it.”

  “Well.” I give a slightly awkward shrug. “You know. I don’t like giving up on things.”

  “Good for you.” With a flourish, he pulls a fan of tickets from his pocket and proffers them. “I bought these earlier. They’re yours, all ten of them. Hope you win.”

  “Oh my God!” I gasp. “Thanks so much!” I hurry out along the landing and onto the wide carpeted staircase, which is full of members gathered to hear the raffle.

  In the hall below, Leonard is holding a big silver bowl. Sidney is next to him in his waistcoat and chalk-stripe trousers, poised to draw the tickets.

  “And for the portmanteau, the top prize in this year’s raffle…” Leonard is announcing. “Sidney, please do the honors.”

  Sidney thrusts a hand into the silver bowl, rummages around, and pulls out a folded ticket.

  “Number 306,” he reads aloud. “Bought by…Simon Millett.”

  For a moment I can’t quite process what I’m hearing. Simon Millett? Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf?

  “That’s me!” I squeal. “Me! Me! I won!”

  In utter euphoria, I push my way down the stairs, squeezing between all the scratchy jackets and walking sticks. I won! I can give Luke the portmanteau for Christmas!

  “Hi!” I say, arriving breathlessly in the hall, brandishing all the tickets. “It’s me! It’s my ticket! I’m so thrilled, thank you so much—”

  “Wait!”

  The stentorian voice of Sir Peter Leggett-Davey interrupts me, and he steps forward on the patterned tiles, a look of utmost hostility on his face.

  “Mrs. Brandon, I fail to see how you can be the winner,” he says in clipped tones. “The name on the ticket is Simon Millett.”

  “Yes, but he gave me his ticket,” I explain eagerly.

  “It’s true, I gave it to her,” comes Simon’s voice from the stairs, and I give him a grateful wave. But Sir Peter’s expression doesn’t shift an iota.

  “Leonard,” he says coolly. “Did you sell this raffle ticket to Simon Millett? He is not a member; therefore, he cannot enter.” As he speaks, Sir Peter rips the ticket into tiny pieces. “Please refund Mr. Millett his money. All his tickets are null and void.”

  “What?” comes Simon’s irate voice from the stairs. “That’s bollocks! I’m here as a proxy—”

  “There are no proxy raffle tickets,” Sir Peter cuts him off, unmoved. “Draw again.”

  No. No. He can’t do this.

  “But I won the prize!” I say desperately. “It’s not fair! I’m a member. I won.”

  “For shame!” Edwin’s voice comes loyally from the back of the crowd, but no one else seems at all bothered.

  “Dr
aw again,” repeats Sir Peter to Sidney.

  “With pleasure, Sir Peter,” says Sidney, shooting me a totally needless look of triumph. He pulls out another ticket, unfolds it, and reads in a loud throaty voice, “Number 278. Sir Peter Leggett-Davey.”

  “Well!” says Sir Peter. “How very pleasing.”

  Sir Peter won?

  I stare at his smug face in despair. That’s it, then. It’s all over. He’ll never sell me the portmanteau in a million years. I’ve lost. After all that effort, I’ve lost.

  As Sidney draws the next raffle ticket, I turn away, sagging a little. What Simon said just now was true. It does feel like I’ve gone a hundred miles for Luke’s present. But for what? I got so close…and then I failed.

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  It’s more than a week later and things are…how are they? Good and bad, I suppose. Let’s say…they’re patchy.

  First of all, the good. I don’t want to jinx it—fingers crossed—but my preparations are actually going to plan. Five days to go and finally I feel like I have Christmas in hand. I’ve finished Minnie’s costume. I’ve decorated the house, and my garlands are actually staying put. I’ve got all the presents wrapped up, including the picnic hamper. The vegan turkey arrives tomorrow, and the proper turkey arrives on the twenty-third. I’ve got scented candles everywhere. I’ve got a playlist of carols and Christmas songs on a constant loop. I’ve been hanging up Christmas cards from strings (most of them are from people like estate agents, but never mind), and I’ve put holly behind the pictures. The “Christmas shrubbery” is clustered in the bay window of the dining room, where it looks fantastic (only I must stop eating the chocolate stars or there’ll be none left).