Christmas Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  Luke hardly ever brings that camera. It’s the high-spec one he uses for special moments, when he thinks his phone isn’t good enough. And suddenly my throat feels clogged.

  “Luke,” I say into his ear. “I need to tell you something. Minnie…” I swallow. “Well, she won’t be in the costume I made. I gave it to another child to wear.”

  “What?” Luke freezes in shock. “You gave it— Why?”

  “Shh!” I try to hush him. “They needed it. It’s…there’s a story. It was the right thing to do.”

  Luke is still staring at me in disbelief. “So what’s Minnie going to wear?”

  “It’s fine. I cobbled something together. She doesn’t mind.”

  “But do you mind?” says Luke at once—and I can’t quite answer. I thought I wouldn’t mind at all. But sitting here in the hubbub of anticipation, it’s hard not to feel just a tiny bit…

  Anyway. It’s fine.

  Luke is silent for a moment, gazing at me with his dark eyes.

  “You worked every night on that costume, Becky,” he says at last, his voice so low I can barely hear. “It meant so much to you.”

  “I know.” I hesitate. “But I’m very lucky. And they’re not so lucky. I can’t say any more than that.”

  Luke doesn’t reply but takes my hand and squeezes it tight. And I think: I am lucky. Whatever else goes wrong, I’m lucky.

  * * *

  —

  Although half an hour later I’m not feeling quite so lucky. I’m sure improvisation is great for creativity and all that. But it’s really, really bad for putting on a children’s Nativity play.

  The story is all over the place. Some children have obviously been coached by their parents, whereas others clearly have no idea what they’re doing. One has started crying, and one has told the Angel Gabriel he needs the toilet.

  My legs are numb, sitting on this plastic chair. We seem to have been watching this play forever. Jesus has been born, and the shepherds (including Wilfie and Clemmie) have been and gone, and everyone’s sung “Away in a Manger” and “Let It Go.” (Huh?) But now all the children seem a bit stuck.

  “We have nowhere else to stay,” intones Mary, mournfully clutching the plastic baby Jesus in her lap. “There are no hotels.”

  She’s said that line about thirty times.

  “The donkey is tired,” ventures Joseph, although the donkey left the stable twenty minutes ago and changed costume into an angel.

  “We have nowhere else to stay,” says Mary a bit desperately. “There are no hotels.”

  “Kings!” I can see Miss Lucas hissing and beckoning enthusiastically. “Kings! Come on!”

  A moment later Minnie and two boys walk onto the stage, all dressed up in their bright shiny costumes. The audience is so calcified with boredom that everyone seems to wake up, and wild applause breaks out, as though the three kings are celebrities appearing in a pantomime.

  I can’t help gazing wistfully at Harvey, because he looks amazing. The midnight-blue silk is spectacular, and the gold sequins are gleaming under the lights, and even his casket is all iridescent and magnificent.

  But Minnie looks good, too, I tell myself defensively. In more of a bohemian, thrown-together way. At once she beams and waves at us, looking delighted to be the center of attention.

  “I have myrrh for the baby Jesus,” announces the first king in a monotone. He’s a stolid boy called George, who clearly has had his line drummed into him by his mum.

  “I have frankincense for the baby Jesus,” says Harvey, enunciating clearly and sending a sweet smile to the audience.

  And now it’s Minnie’s turn. I’m quite nervous, I suddenly realize. My daughter, onstage in a play! I glance at Luke, and he grins back.

  I can see Minnie peering at Harvey’s glittery casket—the one I made for her and which we practiced with at home—then at her own box with the golden “G”s. She frowns, looking confused, draws breath, then pauses.

  “I have Gucci,” she says at last. “For the baby Jesus.” At once there’s a series of snorts along our row.

  “Gucci?” says Luke, beside me. “Myrrh, frankincense, and Gucci?”

  “Gold!” I mouth desperately at her, hoping she can read my lips. “Gold! Not Gucci!”

  Minnie looks at me uncertainly. “I have Gucci,” she repeats more firmly, brandishing the Gucci box. “Mummy has a Gucci bag,” she continues, and there are more snorts of laughter. “Mummy bought the scarf,” she adds conversationally to the audience. “Daddy had the money. In his pocket.”

  Oh God, she’s remembering all the stuff I told her about that first Denny and George scarf. What else is she going to say?

  I can see shoulders heaving everywhere and hear the odd splutter of mirth. Onstage, George looks a bit put out that Minnie’s hogging the show.

  “I have myrrh,” he repeats loudly.

  “I have Gucci,” Minnie cuts across him defiantly.

  “The vicar’s sitting over there,” says Luke to me, nodding to the left. “Just in case you were wondering.”

  “Stop it.” I bite my lip. “Concentrate on the play.”

  By now Minnie has run out of steam. Silence falls on the stage, and Mary rouses herself.

  “We have nowhere else to stay,” she repeats in doleful tones. “There are no hotels.”

  I can see something waking up in Minnie’s mind at the word “hotels.”

  “No minibar,” she says sternly. She turns to Joseph and jabs a finger at him. “No minibar. No sweeties. It is too ’spensive.”

  At once the entire place erupts in laughter.

  “Quite right!” calls out one dad.

  “Don’t eat the Toblerone!” joins in another.

  “Stick to the all-inclusive buffet!” shouts a third, and there’s another huge gale of laughter.

  Everyone’s turning to grin at Luke and me, and I smile back, even though my head is boiling. Our daughter just stood in Mary and Joseph’s lowly stable and told them not to use the minibar. I want to die.

  * * *

  —

  After the play has finished, there’s mulled wine and mince pies for parents in the dining room. Luke and I sip our steaming drinks while the word “minibar” floats on every conversation, amid gusts of laughter. I can hear people exclaiming about Harvey’s “wonderful costume,” too, and every time they do, Luke squeezes my hand. I haven’t spotted Steph anywhere, but I’m guessing she’s here; everyone comes to the Nativity play.

  “Oh my God, Bex.” Suze arrives at my side, her face flushed from laughing. “ ‘No minibar.’ That is classic! And Minnie had an amazing costume,” she adds carefully. “Well done, Bex! How did you make it, with a scarf? Is it Denny and George?”

  I know Suze. She is being as sweet as she possibly can about a costume which was obviously thrown together in five minutes with safety pins. And I appreciate her tactfulness. But part of me is burning inside with frustration. I want to retort, “Do you really think I worked for weeks on that? I made the good costume! The one everyone’s talking about!” But I can’t risk it here, with the other parents all milling around.

  “Thanks,” I say tightly, and swig my drink, as Luke answers a call on his phone. He talks for half a minute, then turns to me, looking puzzled.

  “Becky, that was the council. They say there have been some calls about a homeless person in our front garden. Apparently, they’ve made a camp with a duvet. D’you know what they’re on about?”

  Oh for God’s sake.

  “It’s not a homeless person!” I erupt. “It’s fish!”

  “Fish?” Luke seems staggered.

  “I bought some fish and I put it under a Paddington Bear duvet,” I explain, a little impatiently. “That’s all I did. And everyone jumps to the wrong conclusion.”

  “You put fis
h…under a duvet?” echoes Luke.

  “I had to!” I say defensively. “What else was I supposed to do with it?”

  There’s silence, and I see Luke exchanging perplexed glances with Suze.

  “Bex, don’t take this the wrong way,” says Suze carefully. “But you seem a bit…tense.”

  “I’m not tense,” I counter at once. “That’s ridiculous. I’m fine. I’m totally chilled. Aren’t I, Luke?”

  “You’re a bit tense,” he says, and I glare at him. Traitor.

  “You are, Bex.” Suze puts a hand on my arm. “In fact, you’ve seemed tense ever since you agreed to host Christmas. Let me help. Please. I’m longing to help. Or…let me host! Change of plan!”

  What?

  I stare at Suze in disbelief as she turns eagerly to Luke. “Maybe that’s the answer. I could easily do it; everyone could come to Letherby Hall—”

  “What, so you think I can’t host Christmas?” My distressed voice cuts across hers. I shake her hand off my arm, and she flinches. “You think I can’t do it, Suze?”

  “No!” Suze backtracks hastily. “God! Of course you can! I’m just saying…you seem a bit hassled. I only want to help—”

  “Well, you could help by having faith in me! You could help by supporting my idea for a gingerbread party.”

  “I do!” says Suze warily. “Of course I do, Bex! We can absolutely do that if you want. I just—”

  “Good,” I cut her off, a little shrilly. “Because if you really want to know, everything’s fine. It’s all on track, and I’m super relaxed, and it’s going to be an amazing Christmas Day.” I drain my mulled wine. “So there’s no need for anyone to worry.”

  CHATS

  Christmas!

  Becky

  Dear all, I cordially invite you to come and make gingerbread houses on Christmas Eve. Let us bond as friends and family, forget all disagreements, drink mulled wine, and be merry. Dress: Christmas sweaters! Love, Becky xxx

  From: customerservices@ramblesons.com

  To: Becky Brandon

  Subject: UNAVAILABLE ITEM

  Dear Mrs. Brandon:

  We apologize that the following item

  Free-range turkey

  is unavailable.

  We have endeavored to substitute an item as close as possible to the original order. We hope you are happy with our choice of substitution.

  Yours sincerely,

  Customer Services Team

  Ramblesons Online Groceries Ltd.

  ORDER: TSK67468675

  Unavailable item: Quantity

  Free-range turkey 7kg 1

  Substituted item: Quantity

  Reconstituted Turkey Slices Pack 200g 35

  I was lying. Everything is not fine, and everything is not on track.

  I haven’t got a turkey and I haven’t got a present for Luke and yesterday needles started dropping off the Christmas tree (why?) and I still don’t know what I’m giving Suze and I keep bumping into the new chest freezer in the kitchen, so I’ve got a massive bruise on my thigh.

  Thank God I made a backup online order. Thank God. I’ve added turkey to that list, so it’ll arrive tomorrow. But it hasn’t made me feel any calmer. What if I hadn’t booked two deliveries? How can they substitute turkey slices for turkey on December 23? How? Are they sadists?

  My Christmas stress keeps spiking, like one of those machines in medical dramas that start bleeping and everyone runs around madly. Only there’s no one to run around madly here, because Luke is away on business until tomorrow afternoon, and Minnie is at a playdate. It’s just me and six pounds of mushrooms. As a last resort, I’ve decided to make a vegan turkey. I’ve found instructions online and this is my third go, only it’s collapsed again.

  I peer in mounting despair at the construction in front of me. It looks nothing like a turkey; it looks like a pile of mushrooms and chickpea flour. I rewind the YouTube video—and watch in frustration for the tenth time as the lady says cheerily, “Now mold your mixture into drumsticks.” I’ve tried. But my drumsticks won’t stay as bloody drumsticks.

  I stare at my gloopy mess, thinking desperately. Maybe I could use…cardboard? I know vegans don’t usually eat cardboard, but it could be like bones, couldn’t it? I could say casually, “Watch out for the cardboard!” like you say, “Watch out for the fish bones!”

  I grab an empty loo roll from Minnie’s craft box and stuff it full of mushroom mixture. It doesn’t look anything like a turkey drumstick, but I could…paint it, maybe? I reach for Minnie’s bottle of brown poster paint (nontoxic) and a paintbrush. I briskly slather on some paint, then put the “drumstick” on a plate and stare at it.

  No. I cannot serve painted loo rolls as my Christmas vegan option.

  My head is all fuzzy from staring at the same YouTube video over and over, and I decide I need some fresh air. I’ll go to the supermarket. Maybe I’ll suddenly find a brand-new range of vegan turkeys for sale, I think in a burst of optimism. I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it?

  The supermarket is only ten minutes’ drive away, and I head through the glass doors to see a big display of wrapping paper beneath a sign: GIFT WRAP ALL 50% OFF. Which is annoying, because I bought wrapping paper last week but this is much nicer. It’s got red and green glittery candy stripes, and it’s reduced. In fact, I can’t tear myself away. Maybe I need some more wrapping paper? (I don’t. I really don’t.)

  Wait! I have the answer: I’ll buy some for next Christmas. And the Christmas after. Yes. It makes absolute financial sense. I mean, we’ll always need Christmas wrapping paper, won’t we?

  Feeling better already, I fill my trolley with twelve glittery rolls and six reels of reduced holly-printed ribbon and some festive pom-pom decorations. And I’m just deciding whether I should buy a bumper pack of five hundred snowflake gift tags (they’ll always come in handy) when I hear a voice greeting me: “Hi, Becky.”

  My head jerks up and I stiffen in shock. It’s Craig, coming toward me with a trolley full of shopping bags, smiling easily at me. Smiling. As though we’re best friends and everything’s fab. What an absolute nerve.

  “Hi, Craig,” I say coldly. “So, your girlfriend came round to our house unexpectedly the other day.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I heard.” Craig winces, and I wait for him to say, “I’m so sorry, that was highly inappropriate of her.” But instead he sucks his teeth and shakes his head ruefully.

  “Yeah, Nadine wasn’t pleased. She thought Luke should have given her more time. More respect, you know?”

  What? Is he for real?

  “We were having a family party at the time,” I say. “And Luke doesn’t usually hold business meetings with no notice. At home. On a Sunday. On his daughter’s birthday.”

  I couldn’t be more pointed, but Craig seems oblivious.

  “Yeah,” he says, in the same musing tones. “Nadine was quite pissed off. And you don’t want to get on the wrong side of Nadine.” He shoots me a rueful glance. “I’m afraid Luke’s made a business enemy there.”

  Luke’s made a business enemy of Nadine? Oh my God, we’re all terrified. I’m sure Luke’s quaking in his boots. I expect they’ll have a showdown across some massive board table with views over the Shard.

  Not.

  “What a shame,” I say. “Well, have a good Christmas.” I make to push my trolley on, but Craig puts a hand on it.

  “You’re still invited to our Christmas party,” he says. “Maybe Luke and Nadine can make up there, under the mistletoe.” His eyes gleam wickedly at me, and I bristle. What’s that supposed to mean?

  “I doubt it,” I say in off-putting tones. “I think we’re busy.”

  “Last chance to use the hot tub before we move,” says Craig, waggling his eyebrows tantalizingly, and I star
e at him in surprise.

  “Move?”

  “Yeah, we’re leaving. Renting another place. Bit quiet for us here. Bit nothing.” He hesitates, then adds, “Plus, Nadine’s found out where Lord Alan Sugar lives. Reckons she might get to know him.”

  Oh my God, she’s even madder than I thought.

  “Brilliant plan,” I say, somehow keeping my face serious. “That’s the way to do it. I’m sure she’ll be a tycoon really soon. Anytime now.”

  I’m fairly sure Craig doesn’t realize I’m being sarcastic, because his face softens.

  “She’s got drive, Nadine,” he says admiringly. “So much drive.”

  Yes, I answer silently, and the sooner she drives herself out of Letherby, the better.

  “Well, good luck with that,” I say politely. Two women are coming in through the glass doors, and I see them eyeing up Craig and nudging each other. I suddenly view him through their eyes: long hair, stubble, mesmerizing eyes. The sexiest rock god Letherby has ever seen.

  And I give a wry, inward laugh. That was me, melting under his dark, smoldering gaze. What an idiot I was.

  Even so, I feel a slight pang as he says, “Well, bye, then, Becky, and happy Christmas.” I may never see him again. And, after all, he was an important part of my life. (Sort of.) Plus, I have some unanswered questions.

  One unanswered question, anyway.

  “Wait, Craig,” I say. “Before you go, I’ve always wondered something.” I hesitate, then blurt out, “Did you ever write a song about me? Or at least…mention me? Refer to me at all?”

  Craig’s slow, sexy smile creeps across his face again—then he nods.

  “ ‘Girl Who Broke My Heart,’ ” he says succinctly, and I stare back, gripped.

  “Wow. But the girl in that song is French. Was that, like, camouflage? Is it really me? Am I that girl?” My voice trembles with the drama of the moment. “Craig…did I break your heart?”