And last night we decorated the actual, proper Christmas tree, which looks amazing and makes the whole house smell like a forest. It’s all twinkly with lights and decorations and is absolutely perfect. Who cares that we don’t have some stupid old must-have llama tree ornament? Not me!
(OK. Maybe I have been checking every hour if the llama is available online. But it’s not. So I totally don’t care about it.)
So that’s the good. Here’s the less good: I still don’t have a present for Luke. In fact, just thinking about it makes me feel despondent. I haven’t got over my terrible defeat, and somehow now I can’t picture buying anything that isn’t a portmanteau from the London Billiards and Parlour Music Club.
I know I’m being stupid. It’s only a Christmas present. And last night I found a navy sweater that I bought ages ago for Luke’s birthday and forgot about—so I could give him that. He’d be delighted. I should just wrap it up and it would be done. But I can’t help myself—I’m still holding out for something mind-blowing and spectacular. Even though I don’t know what.
So that’s the less good. And here’s the really bad: All my friends and family are still at daggers drawn. No one’s speaking on our WhatsApp group. It’s gone from vitriol to completely dead with tumbleweed blowing around. The last message was Janice saying, Yes, and I DO NOT AGREE, replying to Suze asking if she’d read her email. (What email?) And since then, nada.
Suze has been away at some pre-Christmas family get-together in Norfolk, with no signal, so I haven’t been able to talk to her properly about it. Meanwhile, the minute I try to talk to Mum, she starts saying prickly-voiced things like, “Well, maybe I’ll never return to Oxshott at all,” and “Well, maybe my entire friendship with Janice was a sham, Becky.” And when I called Janice for a chat, Flo answered her phone. Flo! I was so appalled, I just asked Janice what kind of gravy she likes and hastily rang off. I can’t even remember what she said. In fact, I don’t think there are different types of gravy, are there?
(Are there? Oh God. I should so not be hosting Christmas.)
In desperation, I’ve been watching one Christmas movie after another and feeling genuine withdrawal symptoms in between. They’re like Valium—not that I know what Valium is like, but I’m guessing. They make me feel calm and happy and hopeful, because in all of them, without fail, Christmas spirit brings everyone together. Divorced workaholic dad and neglected child? Christmas spirit. Curmudgeonly guy who hates “newcomers” and immigrant neighbor? Christmas spirit. Factory owner and all his downtrodden workers? Christmas spirit. (And in that one they sang a song, too, while he dressed up as Santa and gave them all pay rises.)
Every time the credits roll on another movie, I sit back with a contented sigh and think, It’ll be OK—because of Christmas spirit! But then I consider the facts, and my optimism fades away. It’s all very well when you’re in a picturesque New England town and you can rely on snow to fall at exactly the right moment. In actual England the snow never falls, except at a totally crap moment like when you’re about to drive on the A3. Nor are we all planning to gather at the caroling party or log-splitting contest, so how are we supposed to reconcile and hug one another in Christmas sweaters and say, “We’ve all learned something here”?
Stupid real life. Why isn’t it like a Christmas movie?
I had thought Minnie’s Nativity play might be a nice meeting point…but my parents can’t even come, because Dad has a foot appointment. So much for that bright idea. Hmph.
I’m sitting in the kitchen, finishing my breakfast coffee, while Minnie sings “Hark dah Herald Angel King,” at the top of her voice. (I’ve tried correcting her, but she’s adamant it’s “king.” She’s quite stubborn, my daughter.) She woke up at five o’clock this morning and came running into our room, yelling, “Nativity! Nativiteeee!”
“Are you excited?” I give her a hug. “I’m so excited! I can’t wait till this afternoon.”
I can’t stop admiring her costume, all ready on its hanger. It nearly killed me making it, and I don’t want to boast—but it’s fantastic. The silk hangs down in gorgeous ripples and the sequins are sumptuous, and if Minnie doesn’t get Best King, then there’s something wrong with the world. (OK, I know there isn’t really Best King. But in my head.)
“Well,” says Luke, striding in. “The house looks great, Christmas tree up, we’re all set.”
“Except no one’s talking to each other,” I point out.
“Oh, that’ll blow over,” says Luke dismissively, and I feel a prickle of resentment. He doesn’t ever go on WhatsApp, so what does he know?
“What if it doesn’t?” I object.
“It will.”
“But what if it doesn’t? God, I wish life were like a Christmas movie, don’t you?” I add with a gusty sigh.
“Hmm,” says Luke carefully. “In what sense?”
“In every sense!” I say in astonishment.
In what possible sense could you not want life to be like a Christmas movie?
“Every sense?” Luke barks with laughter. “In the saccharine, manufactured, and totally unrealistic sense?”
I glare at him. He needs to watch more Hallmark Channel, that’s his problem. If he was in a Christmas movie, he wouldn’t laugh; he’d say, “Oh, honey, let me pour you some hot apple cider.”
“OK,” Luke relents. “What would happen in a Christmas movie?”
“Everyone would get together at some lovely festive event, and they’d all wear Christmas sweaters, and they’d hug each other, suddenly realizing that the Christmas spirit is more important than—” I break off, inspired. “Wait! That’s it! Luke, we need a festive event!”
“We have a festive event,” he says, looking baffled. “It’s called ‘Christmas.’ ”
“A pre-Christmas event! Where everyone can come together and wear Christmas sweaters and feel the Christmas spirit and make up. I’m organizing one,” I add firmly. “And we won’t ask Flo.”
I can see Luke opening his mouth to make some objection, but I ignore him, because whatever he’s going to say, I’m right. This is the answer. Not a caroling party, because none of us can sing. Not log-splitting, because…really? Not a sleigh ride, because we’re not in Vermont.
Then, as I’m arriving at school with Minnie, the answer comes to me. We’ll make gingerbread houses! It’ll be fun, and it doesn’t matter if they’re crap, because everyone can just eat the gingerbread.
“Minnie,” I say, “shall we have a gingerbread-house-making party?”
“Yes!” says Minnie enthusiastically, and I beam down at her. At last I feel as though I’m taking control. I have a plan.
When we get to the classroom, there’s a buzzy group of parents bringing in costumes, and their children are saying, “Look at mine, look at mine!” to Miss Lucas.
“Yes!” she’s saying, beaming round at the faces. “Marvelous! Oh, Zack, look at your donkey mask!”
Ha. Midnight-blue silk and sequins beats a donkey mask any day. For the first time ever, I feel like I’m the one with the really great craft project. I’m the one who went the extra mile. I can see Wilfie’s and Clemmie’s coats on their pegs, which means Suze has already been and gone—a shame, because I was looking forward to showing off my handiwork to her. But she’ll see the costume in the play. In fact, it’s better if she sees it for the first time in the performance. I can’t wait.
Through my happy reverie, I suddenly spot Steph walking along the pavement toward school, and my stomach drops in horror. She looks terrible. Her skin has a gray tinge and her hair is greasy and her gaze is distant. Harvey keeps pulling at her arm and trying to get her attention, but she obviously can’t hear him. She’s lost in a place in her head. A bad place.
I need to talk to her—but not here in front of everyone. I hurry back out with Minnie, into the playground, and meet Steph coming in throu
gh the gates.
“Steph!” I greet her. “I haven’t seen you for a while. Are you OK?”
Steph’s eyes jolt with shock as though I’ve woken her from a nightmare.
“Oh, hi, Becky,” she says, her voice dry and scratchy. “Hi. Sorry I haven’t been around much. I’ve been dashing in and out.”
“Don’t apologize!” I say. “I just wanted to, you know, check in. See how you’re doing.”
“Yeah.” Her voice descends to a whisper and she takes a deep, shuddery breath as though fending off tears. “Yeah. Not great.”
“Right. Is there…Are you…” I hesitate anxiously, wanting to be there for her but not to pry. “Is it…”
“He’s been to a lawyer,” she says, her voice so low it’s barely audible. “He wants a divorce.”
“Already?” I say, shocked.
“I’m spending half the day on the phone to my lawyer. It’s nuts. I don’t have time to get divorced. Like, I’m late for a meeting right now, but the lawyer’s just called. And Christmas,” she adds despairingly. “How do people have time?” She gives a weird laugh, then breaks off abruptly as Eva’s mum comes past, holding a huge fluffy sheep costume.
“Look at my costume!” shouts Eva. “My mummy made it!”
Steph freezes and turns even more ashen. Her eyes start flitting about wildly, taking in all the excited children arriving with their costumes.
“Costume,” she says, and swallows hard. “Costume. I never…Oh God. The pattern. I put it…I don’t know where I put it….It’s today, isn’t it?”
Reluctantly, I nod, and see panic consume her face.
“Where’s my costume?” says Harvey, and he looks up at her so trustingly, my heart squeezes.
“Oh, Harvey. Oh, darling. Don’t worry!” Steph looks as if she might throw up. “I’ll go to the…I’ll get you…” She glances at her watch. “Oh God, but I’m late.” She actually totters slightly on her high heels, and I feel a jolt of alarm.
“I’ve got a spare,” I hear myself saying hurriedly. “Have this one.”
“A spare?” Steph stares at me.
“Yes!” I say, as convincingly as possible, and hold up my carrier bag. “This one didn’t fit Minnie in the end, so I brought it to school to see if anyone else could use it and…how perfect is this? It’s still got Minnie’s name on it, but you can change that. Harvey, here’s your costume!” I say brightly.
“Becky, are you sure?”
The expression of gratitude in Steph’s face is kind of unbearable, because she looks so exhausted and ground down too. I wish I could sort out everything for her.
But, anyway, this is something, at least.
“Of course! Don’t wait for me,” I add, “if you’re in a rush.”
“Thanks.” Steph puts her hand on my arm and squeezes hard. “Thanks so much, Becky.” Then she hurries toward the classroom, gripping Harvey with one hand and the carrier bag in the other.
“That’s my costume,” says Minnie, who has been watching alertly. “My costume.” She raises her voice. “My costuuuuuuuume!”
Oh God. It’s been a while since Minnie had a meltdown. I’d forgotten how earsplitting her voice could be.
“Give it baaaaaack!” she yells. “That’s my costuuuuuuume!”
“Minnie, it was going to be your costume,” I say quickly, crouching down so we’re eye-to-eye. “It was going to be. But we gave it to Harvey. That’s what Christmas is about, giving things. You like giving presents, don’t you? Well, that’s…what we did!”
As I say the words, it hits me for the first time what I’ve done. I worked so hard on that costume. Cutting out and sewing and resewing. Stitching on those endless sequins. It took forever. And now I won’t ever see Minnie perform in it. I keep on smiling brightly at her little face, but behind my eyes I feel a ridiculous hotness.
Then I force myself to stand up straight and shake my hair back. It’s no big deal. It’s fine.
“Sweetheart, we just need to pop home quickly,” I say. “We’re going to get your other costume. Your even better costume,” I add as convincingly as I can.
I hurry her out of the school gate and into the car, racking my brains for something that will make a king costume in five minutes. As soon as we arrive home, I dash upstairs and start rooting through all my drawers for anything glittery or sequined. Scarf? Shawl? Could I repurpose some costume jewelry?
Minnie watches me silently for a minute, then starts grabbing for things too.
“Kings wear neckwisses,” she tells me, taking a diamante necklace from my drawer. “Kings wear two neckwisses.”
As the doorbell rings, I curse and dash downstairs again. I open the door to see the postman peering over a pile of brown boxes.
“You’re here!” he exclaims. “Only I was going to pile them up where I normally do…”
“Thanks!” I say breathlessly as I take them and close the front door with my hip. I’ll open them later. They’re hardly the priority right now.
Or, actually, maybe I’ll open them now. Just to check what they are.
I rip open the first box to find vests for Minnie. The next box has got A4 printing paper in it. Booooring. But the last package is a large padded envelope, containing something soft and tissue-wrapped—
Oh my God. It’s my Denny and George scarves! At last!
I tear them eagerly out of their tissue paper. One’s turquoise printed silk, one’s pink and sheer, and one’s deep burgundy silk velvet. The velvet one is massive—almost a shawl—and I suddenly realize that it’s perfect.
I hurry up the stairs, clutching the scarves, calling out, “Minnie! Sweetheart! You’re going to have the most stylish costume in the whole play!”
I find a dark red cotton dress that Minnie wore last summer—it will be the base layer. Then I drape the velvet scarf around her, fixing it with brooches and safety pins, feeling sentimental whenever I catch sight of the iconic Denny and George label.
“You know, you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for a Denny and George scarf,” I tell Minnie. “It was Denny and George that brought Mummy and Daddy together.”
As I tweak and pin her costume into shape, I somehow find myself relating the whole story of Luke lending me the money to buy a Denny and George scarf. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t follow a word—but it’s soothing to me, anyway.
“OK,” I say at last, sinking back on my heels and assessing the finished look. “Amazing. We can use a crown from the dressing-up box—and now you just need a casket of gold.”
Briefly, my mind flashes to the cardboard casket I spent two evenings painting and decorating. But Harvey needs that. We can improvise.
“Here we are,” I say, delving in my bottom drawer and bringing out a golden cardboard Gucci Première perfume box. “Here’s a lovely casket. This can be your gold, sweetheart. It says Gucci, and that begins with ‘G,’ like gold.” I point at the embossed “G.” “See? ‘Guh’ for gold…and ‘guh’ for Gucci.”
“Gucci,” repeats Minnie, looking a bit confused.
“Gucci.” I enunciate it clearly. “Gu-cci. Gucci is very special and expensive, just like gold. They do amazing shoes and belts, and bags, of course. Mummy has a gorgeous Gucci bag somewhere—” I stop midflow. Not the point. “Anyway, you’ll look like a brilliant king, poppet.” I kiss her on the forehead. “You’ll be the King in the Denny and George Scarf.”
* * *
—
At last I’ve named the costume, packed it in a bag, delivered Minnie to school, and arrived at work. I feel knackered, and the day has hardly begun. The trouble with Christmas is, it never seems to end. I still need to find Luke a present and organize this gingerbread-house-making party and reconcile my guests and fit into my Alexander McQueen dress and do a thousand other things. I feel like going back to bed, to be honest.
<
br /> By contrast, Suze greets me at the door with a relaxed and radiant smile.
“Guess what?” she says.
“Dunno,” I say. “How was Norfolk?”
“Oh, fine.” She waves an airy hand. “You know. Same old family stuff. I won the backward rafting race,” she adds as an afterthought.
The backward rafting race? I’m about to ask her what that is, except I can already guess—it’s an eccentric English family all on rafts, yelling and wearing weird clothes and laughing hilariously at jokes no one understands while they all fall into freezing cold water.
“Guess what?” she says again. “Takings are up! Like, way up. This is our best year ever! It’s the sprygge effect,” she adds confidently.
“Really?” I say, distracted momentarily. “How do you know?”
“It’s all in the numbers! Sprygge is our star section! You’re so clever, inventing it, Bex!”
“Well, it was you who made all the products,” I point out.
“But you inspired me,” says Suze generously. “And we all sold them. So I thought everyone should have a bonus. And a present. I’ve got the Hotel Chocolat catalog. Come and have some coffee and help me choose nice things. Are you OK?” she adds, looking at me more closely. “You seem a bit…stressed.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Apart from…you know.”
“What?” she says, as though she has no idea.
“Christmas, of course!” I can’t help sounding just a tad resentful. Here am I, stressing about her row with Janice, and here Suze is, going on rafts and buying chocolate and behaving as though nothing’s wrong.
“Christmas will be OK, won’t it?” says Suze in surprise as we go into our tiny staff room.
“Not if no one’s talking to each other!”
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