“Oh, Bex, you’re overreacting,” says Suze, raising her eyes to heaven. “It’s only a spat. There’s always a spat at Christmas. One Christmas at my Uncle Mungo’s, things were so bad between some of my relations, it was all written out on the seating plan.”
“What was written out on the seating plan?”
“Who was talking to whom,” explains Suze. “And who wasn’t. My cousin Maud refused to even look at my Aunt Elspeth, so her chair had to face the other way. And my father had just tried to get Uncle Mungo excommunicated from the Church of Scotland, so Uncle Mungo threatened him with the carving knife. But it was fine,” she concludes comfortably. “Family stuff.”
“It doesn’t sound fine,” I say in horror. “It sounds awful! And I don’t want my Christmas to be like that. I want it to be harmonious. So I’m organizing a Christmas Eve bonding event.”
“A what?”
“A gingerbread-house-making party. Everyone has to come and wear Christmas sweaters and make up their differences. I’ll make hot chocolate and we’ll have a fire and—”
“Bex, you’re nuts,” interrupts Suze, and I stare at her, hurt. I thought she’d love the idea. “You look stressed out already,” she continues firmly. “You’re doing so much. Why on earth would you try to organize another thing? Just relax. It’ll all be OK.”
“What if it isn’t?” I shoot back—and I know I sound scratchy, but it hasn’t been the most wonderful day so far, and now here’s Suze, dissing my Christmas-movie idea. Also, I ordered twenty gingerbread-house kits on my phone on the way here.
“Bex,” says Suze. “Listen.” She takes a breath as though about to impart some advice—but before she can continue, Irene’s head appears round the door.
“Oh, Suze,” she says, sounding anxious. “There’s a customer here asking to see the manager. She’s asking about sprygge.”
“OK,” says Suze easily. “I’ll come out. What does she want to know?”
“Well, everything, really,” says Irene.
“Have you given her the spiel about ‘People say it comes from Norway’?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” says Irene, looking even more nervous. “She’s the Norwegian ambassador.”
I have never seen Suze more like a terrified cat. She practically leaps off her chair and stares at Irene, her eyes like plates.
“Norwegian?”
“The Norwegian ambassador.” Irene nods unhappily. “And she says she’s never heard of sprygge, and she wants to see the manager.”
“Oh God, oh God.” Suze looks faint. “Oh God. We’ll be prosecuted.” Her eyes dart toward the window as though she wants to climb out and escape—and I grab her arm.
“No, we won’t!” I say, more firmly than I feel. “People don’t get prosecuted for saying things are Norwegian. Come on. Let’s just go and…and say hello.”
As we emerge from the staff room, we see her at once—a well-dressed blond woman in a very cool parka. Suze looks as though she might run away any moment, so I nudge her in the ribs and she advances gingerly, holding out her hand.
“Hello,” she says to the woman, in a quaking voice. “And welcome to Letherby Hall Gift Shop. I am Susan Cleath-Stuart, manager and proprietor of…” She swallows. “How may I…um…”
“My name is Karina Gunderson,” says the woman in cool, pleasant tones. “I’m interested in your display.” She gestures at the sprygge table. “The assistant says it’s supposed to be Norwegian?”
Suze seems unable to answer. She opens her mouth and closes it again, shooting desperate looks at me.
“Hello!” I come to her rescue and approach Karina Gunderson in my most confident manner. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, the member of staff who first brought the sprygge concept to the store. Sprygge for us is an overpowering form of happiness and well-being. It’s radiant and joyful.” I spread my arms. “Euphoric and sublime. Yet complex. Yet in other ways, simple.”
I smile at Karina, hoping that we’ve wrapped up the subject of sprygge, but she seems unmoved.
“Yet not Norwegian,” she says. “As you claim.”
“I don’t think we’ve exactly claimed that,” I say after thinking for a moment. “Have we, Suze? What we’ve said is that some people think it originates from Norway.”
“Which people?” asks Karina Gunderson at once.
“I don’t think we specify which people,” I say after another pause for thought. “Just, you know, some people.”
“Exactly,” says Suze, finding her voice. “Some people.”
“Some people,” affirms Irene eagerly.
“Which is true,” I add in casual tones. “So.”
There’s a long silence. Karina Gunderson’s unreadable blue eyes are resting on me, making me feel a tad uncomfortable.
“Although obviously some people don’t,” I say, suddenly thinking of a way out. “There’s another school of thought that believes it’s, um…Finnish.”
“Finnish?” echoes Karina Gunderson disbelievingly.
“Exactly.” I avoid her eye. “It’s one of the big unanswered questions in life. Whither sprygge?” I allow myself a small dramatic flourish. “Research hasn’t confirmed the truth one way or another. But while the sprygge debate rages on in journals and…other places, we in our humble way simply want to bring happiness to the world. Through cushions and other gift products.”
“The mugs are popular,” adds Irene nervously. “Very popular, aren’t they, Becky? And the wall signs sold out.”
“Please have a complimentary mug,” says Suze in a rush, picking up a mug and proffering it. “Or…not,” she adds as Karina Gunderson makes no move to take it. “Either way.”
She looks at me and winces, and there’s another long, prickly pause. I can’t quite tell if Karina Gunderson is going to smile or call the police.
“Actually,” I continue cautiously, “here’s a funny coincidence. We’ve recently considered suspending the sale of sprygge products until the research on its origins has been concluded one way or the other. Haven’t we, Suze? And that might be wise. All things, um, considered.”
“Yes,” says Karina Gunderson. “It might.” She takes the mug from Suze and looks at it, her mouth twitching. “ ‘Don’t worry, be sprygge,’ ” she reads aloud, her tone giving nothing away. She gives us all a long look—then turns to Suze. “Goodbye. Your house is very beautiful.”
“Oh! Goodbye, then!” says Suze, her relief so obvious I want to laugh. We all watch as Karina Gunderson makes her way out of the store, then Suze collapses in my arms.
“Oh my God,” she says.
“I know.” I hug her back. “Don’t worry, she’s gone.”
“Bex, we have to stop this,” says Suze fervently. “Sprygge has to end. Right here, right now. Or we really are going to get into trouble.”
“I hate to say it,” I say sorrowfully, “but I agree. How much stock is left?”
“Not much,” says Irene. “Only ten mugs or so, three cushions, a few key rings…”
“Well, we’ll keep them as souvenirs,” says Suze, sounding resolute. “Everyone help yourself to what you want. But no more selling them. In fact—let’s get rid of the whole display.”
Irene starts gathering up the key rings and putting them into a cardboard box, while Suze and I pack away the mugs.
“It was fun, though, wasn’t it?” I say wistfully, pausing to run my finger along the words. “And now sprygge will never be in the Norwegian language.”
“I know, Bex,” says Suze, rolling her eyes. “But nor will we be in prison for fraud.”
* * *
—
Honestly. Suze always exaggerates. We were never going to go to prison. (Were we?) On the other hand, she’s ordered each of us a massive box of Hotel Chocolat truffles to celebra
te the brief glory that was sprygge, so there’s always a silver lining.
She and I have both taken the afternoon off for the school Nativity play, and I decide to pop home beforehand. The temperature has plummeted, and as I look up at the solid white sky, I find myself thinking: Will it snow?
Maybe it will! I mean, why shouldn’t it? It’s got to snow sometime. Imagine if there’s a massive snowfall and it’ll be like we really are in a Christmas movie. We can make a snowman in the front garden and everyone will say, “D’you remember Becky’s Christmas? It was amazing! There was snow.”
As I open the front door, I feel more optimistic than I’ve been for a while. Maybe Suze is right, maybe I need to relax. Do positive visualizations. I’m just picturing a perfect Christmas table, with all my friends and family gathered around a spectacular turkey and saying, “Becky, this Christmas is the best ever,” when a noise from the sitting room draws my attention. I head in and stop dead. My happy thoughts vanish and I stand, breathing fast, consumed by Christmas rage.
My bloody garlands have fallen down again. Again. That noise was the sound of my lovely twiggy one flopping down into the hearth, bringing the gold one with it. It slipped out yet again from under my gym dumbbells. How?
I mean, what does it take to make a Christmas garland stay up? Concrete? Steel bloody girders?
Next time I buy a house, I’m buying one with built-in garlands, I tell myself feverishly, as I grab the golden twiggy mess out of the hearth. I don’t care if it looks weird. I’m not doing this every December.
I shove the garlands on the sofa to be dealt with later—then try to regain my calm, optimistic mood. It’s OK. I’ll find a solution. I’m just googling garland stay up device never fails when my phone rings and I jump.
“Hello?” I answer it, madly wondering if it’s a garland company that somehow saw my googling and has the answer.
“Oh, hello,” comes a woman’s voice down the line. “Is that Mrs. Brandon? It’s Ve-Gen Foods here, with a courtesy call to let you know that unfortunately the vegan turkey you ordered is unavailable. Would you like to order another product instead or would you prefer a refund?”
It takes me a moment to digest the horror of what she’s telling me. She’s canceling my vegan turkey? She can’t do that!
“But I need a vegan turkey!” I say. “My sister’s vegan and I’ve promised her a vegan turkey for Christmas.”
“A lot of customers have opted for the mushroom risotto,” replies the woman blandly. “It contains similar ingredients and is equally festive.”
I stare at the phone, my Christmas rage rising again. What kind of travesty is this? Mushroom risotto is not equally festive.
“Why isn’t the vegan turkey available?” I say. “Because I really, really need one.”
“I can’t say, I’m afraid,” says the woman. “Was that a refund, then?”
“Do you have maybe one vegan turkey?” I say, unwilling to give up. “Like, just one, around the place, that nobody needs?”
“No,” says the woman flatly. “I’ll be refunding your card, then. Sorry for the inconvenience and have a merry Christmas.”
“Merry?” I retort, hoping she can detect my sarcasm, but she’s already gone.
My chest is rising and falling, but there’s no point feeling bitter, vengeful hatred, even though I do. I’m just starting another Google search—vegan turkey last minute available no shortage next day—when the doorbell rings and I peer out of the window. There’s a delivery van outside. Well, at least something’s arrived on schedule.
“Hello!” I say as I swing open the front door to a beaming man in white overalls.
“Good afternoon!” he returns cheerily. “I’m here with your fish.”
I stare at him blankly. Fish?
“Smoked salmon,” he clarifies, consulting his clipboard. “Bundle order. Rebecca Brandon.”
Of course. The smoked salmon from the Christmas Style Fair. I’d forgotten about that.
“Great!” I say, smiling back. “Perfect! Right in time for Christmas.”
“Absolutely! Where do you want it?” he adds, and I peer at him, a bit puzzled. Where do I want it?
“What do you mean?” I hold out my hands. “Can’t you just, you know, give it to me?”
The man shoots me an amused look. “Fifteen sides of salmon? Not likely.”
“Fifteen sides?” I echo blankly.
“Thirty pounds.” He nods. “I’ll go and get my trolley,” he adds over his shoulder as he heads back to the van. “Show me where the freezer is; I’ll load it in for you.”
I can’t quite speak. Thirty pounds? As in weight? What’s he talking about? This has to be a mistake.
Frantically, I summon up my Visa bill on my phone and scan down the entries, trying not to look too carefully (£49.99 in M&S? I so did not spend that; it must have been Luke) until I suddenly see it. Whitson Fish—£460.
I feel a bit cold. Janice spent £460 on smoked salmon?
Desperately, I try to recall her asking me all those random questions as I was chasing after the silver llama. Maybe she did say something about “thirty pounds.” But I thought she meant thirty quid. Thirty quid! Never in a million years did I think she meant thirty pounds. Who can eat thirty pounds of fish?
And, oh God, here he comes, wheeling a trolley up the path, piled high with polystyrene boxes.
“Nice lot of fish,” says the man with satisfaction as he reaches me. “Good-quality stuff, this.” He pats the top container, which is labeled Cold-smoked salmon—frozen.
“Right.” I lick my lips nervously. “Actually, there’s been a very, very slight mistake. I didn’t mean to order quite so much. Could you take it back?”
The man’s expression immediately changes to one of wariness, and he starts shaking his head. “Oh no, no, no. We don’t process returns. You want to sort something out with the company, that’s your business. You got a freezer space I can load it into?”
Oh God. The only freezer we’ve got in this rented house is one drawer of the fridge, full of Minnie’s fish fingers.
“Not…exactly.” I swallow.
“Best leave it outside for now, then,” says the man. “Where d’you want it? Here?” He nods at the tiny patch of grass in our front garden, and when I don’t reply, starts briskly hefting the boxes off the trolley and unpacking sides of frozen smoked salmon, shrink-wrapped in plastic.
“Can’t you leave the boxes?” I say in consternation, but he shakes his head.
“We take them away. Part of our contract. Sustainable packaging.”
Soon all the fish is heaped up on the lawn and I’ve scribbled on the man’s paper, and he’s driving off in his van. I gaze at the pile, feeling a bit unreal. I have a front garden full of frozen salmon. What do I do?
My phone bleeps with a text, and I peer distractedly at it to see a message from Suze:
Seats are filling up. Have bagged two for you and Luke, but you should hurry!!!
Oh God—
Insulation, it hits me. That’s what I need.
I dash upstairs, grab Minnie’s Paddington Bear duvet off her bed, and run back down to the garden with it. I hastily tuck it round the sides of salmon, patting and squashing it down to ensure the fish is fully protected. Then at last I stand up, to see an old woman staring at me from across the road.
“Is that a child?” she says, in tones of horror.
What? I mean, what?
“No!” I snap. “It’s fish!” I glare at her till she starts walking on, then grab my coat and bag, feeling totally hassled.
Come on, Becky, I tell myself firmly. It’s all fine. I’ll go to the Nativity and I’ll enjoy watching Minnie…and then I’ll deal with this. And the vegan turkey. And the garlands. And Luke’s present, it suddenly crosses my mind. And, oh God, I still haven�
��t decided which stuffing to make….
No. Stop it. Be calm. Be mindful.
I stride quickly through the village, nearly bumping into about six people because I’m simultaneously ordering an online chest freezer, next-day delivery, plus some “instant champagne coolers” that were in a bundle offer and a book called 100 Ways with Smoked Salmon.
The school hall is already full of parents and there are hardly any seats left, but I spot two chairs with sheets of paper taped to them, on which Suze’s handwriting reads: Reserved for the Brandons. I sink into one of them, relieved, and look around for Suze, but I can’t see her, so I quickly text:
Thx for seats!!! Where are you??
A moment later she replies:
I’m on the other side.
Then, a few seconds later, a follow-up appears:
Can’t wait to see Minnie’s costume!!!
I stare at my phone, realizing I never told Suze what happened. Slowly I start typing, Actually, I gave it to Steph Richards, but then stop, feeling torn. Suze has no idea I even know Steph. She might ask awkward questions, like “Why?”
I look around for Steph—but I can’t see her either. I think for a moment more, then delete the text. I’ll tell Suze later. But first I’ll ask Steph if I can let Suze in on her secret. After all, the more heads the better, and I know Suze will be totally supportive—
“Hi!” Luke’s voice interrupts me. He’s taking his place beside me, a cheerful look on his face. “The great occasion at last!”
“I know!” I say, beaming back. “Isn’t it exciting?”
Shall I quickly add, “By the way, there’s thirty pounds of fish on the lawn, but don’t worry, I’ve just ordered a freezer”?
No. Not the moment.
“What I’m looking forward to most of all is seeing Minnie’s costume,” says Luke with relish. “I’ve seen you put in all those hours of work, Becky,” he adds before I can reply, “and I hope Minnie knows how lucky she is to have you. Because I do,” he adds gently. And there’s something about his warm, loving expression that makes me catch my breath. “I’ve brought my camera,” he adds more matter-of-factly, taking it out. “Thought the occasion warranted it.”
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