“No,” says Craig, looking amused. “And you’re not that girl. But you’re in verse three, first line. See you.”
He pushes his trolley out of the supermarket and I stare after him, transfixed, then spring to life. I hastily summon Google on my phone and search Lyrics girl who broke my heart Craig Curton. I’m in a song! I’m actually in a song! This is so cool! What does it say?
After a few seconds the lyrics appear on my screen. I breathlessly scroll down to the third verse and read the first line:
She had better hair than the one before.
For a few moments I peer blankly at the words, trying to make sense of them. Where am I in this? Did I have better hair than someone? I can’t make head nor tail of it. Typical Craig, to write something incomprehensible.
OK. Let’s start from first principles. The song is about a French girl. And “she had better hair than the one before.”
Wait. I frown as the horrible truth hits me. As in…the girl he dated before? Is that me? I’m “the one before”? With inferior hair?
I gasp in outrage. Is he saying I had bad hair? I did not have bad hair. Everyone wore their hair like that at uni. And he can talk. And who was this French girl anyway? Who says her hair was so great? I bet it was a boring old bob.
I glance out of the supermarket, half-tempted to go after him and demand furiously, “What d’you mean, bad hair?” but he’s gone. Hmph. I’m never dating a rock musician again.
I mean, obviously I’m not, I hastily add in my head.
That goes without saying.
For about the millionth time since I met Luke, I hope he can’t somehow read my mind. Because, to be frank, that would be a disaster.
Still bristling all over, I push my trolley into the next aisle. What I’m really hoping to see is a sign saying, GET YOUR VEGAN TURKEYS HERE! But it’s all reduced mince pies and Advent calendars. Hmph again.
Then I hear a familiar, annoying laugh. I can’t place it at first, but, feeling curious, I follow the sound around a pile of tins. And, oh God, of course. Paunch: tick. Faded jeans: tick. Graying beard: tick. It’s Steph’s husband, Damian, talking to someone in the baked-goods section.
Great. Another super-annoying man. Is this Super-Annoying Man Day?
He moves, and to my shock I see that the person he’s with is Steph. Does this mean…are they back together?
As I glimpse Steph’s face, I decide it’s unlikely. She’s hissing words at him miserably and gesticulating, while he eye-rolls and checks his watch and even gives her a patronizing pat on the shoulder. I’m fuming on her behalf—and I can’t even hear what he’s saying.
At last he lifts up both hands as if to say, “Enough,” and walks away while Steph slowly slumps. I hesitate at the corner of the aisle, feeling torn. Every impulse is telling me to go hug Steph—but what if it’s intruding on her privacy? What if she didn’t want anyone seeing that scene?
As I watch anxiously, she heads to the café and sits down at a table. That decides me. I’ll give her five minutes before I approach her. And, meanwhile, I can’t resist it—I’m going to follow Damian.
I casually walk in the direction he went, and I turn a corner just in time to see him join a woman pushing a trolley and plant a kiss full on her lips. Argh. It’s her! It has to be. The one who works in events. The one he got together with in the Malmaison, Manchester.
I stare at them, gripped. She’s got to be in her twenties. Expensive highlights, but a pinched face. She’s going to be so mean to him, I predict with inward satisfaction. Once the luster’s worn off. She’s going to be horrible, you can just tell. And he totally deserves it. He had Steph and he went for this pinchy-faced woman instead?
His hand keeps fondling her bum, I notice with revulsion. Is that appropriate in the frozen-pizza section? I’d quite like to make a complaint to customer services. I’d like to see a person in a suit approach him and tell him not to be so gross.
I should get on with my shopping, I know I should—but somehow I can’t tear myself away from the awful pair. When they head to the dairy section, I follow at a distance, fixated by the sight of her showing him low-fat yogurts and him fondling her bum again. Their entire relationship appears to be based on him fondling her bum. Well, I hope he gets carpal tunnel syndrome.
My whole body is throbbing with indignation. (To be absolutely honest, this is also partly a lingering outrage toward Craig.) I want to punish Damian for being so vile, even though it’s nothing to do with me, and I’m supposed to be finding a vegan turkey, and how would I punish him anyway?
I should let this go, I tell myself several times. I should stop trying to be the Christmas Fairy of Vengeance. But somehow I can’t stop following the pair of them at a distance, wondering what on earth I could do.
Then, as I’m tiptoeing up the cooked-meats aisle, I see an official supermarket fleece slung over a crate. It’s green, with a logo, and no one seems to be using it right now. And as I stare at it, a fully formed idea lands, pow, in my brain. The kind of idea that makes you think, What? And then, Nooo, I can’t. And then, Yesss, I can!
I put on the fleece and at once feel invisible. I’m no longer Becky; I’m an anonymous, nameless store-worker. Abandoning my trolley, I walk past Damian to be sure—but he doesn’t flicker. Even though we’re fellow parents at school, he doesn’t recognize me. Of course he doesn’t. He’s one of those guys who live in the bubble of their own starring role, and everyone else is just chorus.
Which suits me fine.
I swiftly walk toward the stationery section and gather some props. Clipboard. Notepad. Reading glasses for extra disguise purposes. In my bag is an old lanyard that I keep for Minnie to play with. It’s from a play center, but I put it on and turn it round—and screw my hair into a bun, using an elastic band.
Then, before I can lose my nerve, I approach Damian with an ingratiating smile, my pen poised over my clipboard.
“Hello, sir,” I greet him in sweet, singsong tones. “Everything all right for you in store today?”
“Fine,” says Damian, barely looking round.
“I’m here to assess our facilities for the elderly,” I press on. “Are you managing all right today, sir, or are there any problems you’d like to highlight?”
“What?” Damian frowns at me, confused.
“We understand the challenges facing your age group,” I reply soothingly, “and we’re here to help with mobility, larger signs for the visually challenged, hearing aids….Are you finding everything you need?”
Ms. Pinchy Face suddenly gives a snort of laughter.
“I’m not elderly,” says Damian, looking livid.
“Of course you’re not! ‘Age-challenged,’ is what I meant to say.” I nod. “I understand, it’s a sensitive topic—”
“I’m fifty-four!” barks Damian. “Fifty-four!”
“As I say, we do want to help your generation have the most effective shopping experience for your needs.” I look at Ms. Pinchy Face and add brightly, “Oh, is this your caregiver? Did you have any comments or suggestions? He’s a lovely old gentleman, isn’t he?”
“Caregiver?” Damian appears apoplectic. “Caregiver? Can I talk to your superior? What’s your name?” He makes a swipe for my lanyard and I hastily back away.
“My apologies, sir. I can tell you don’t want to participate in our study, so I’ll leave you in peace. Just one more piece of information…” I add in my most helpful manner. “Incontinence aids are on special offer this week, if that’s of interest to you?”
Before he can draw breath, I hastily walk around the corner, rip off the fleece and glasses, and undo my hair—then sprint to where I left my trolley. By the time I glimpse Damian and Ms. Pinchy Face appearing from the aisle, I’m a shopper with a trolley again, looking firmly the other way.
“I mean, it was quite funny, babe,�
� Ms. Pinchy Face is saying in mollifying tones. “I think it was an honest mistake.” At once I feel an inward giggle. It wasn’t just funny, it was bloody hilarious, and I wish Steph had been there to see it.
I walk briskly round the whole store, but I can’t see any vegan turkeys and I don’t want to miss Steph. So as soon as I’m sure that Damian and Ms. Pinchy Face have left, I pay for my shopping, head for the café, and wave at her as I’m queuing for a cup of tea.
“Hi! Becky!” Her face lights up, and she waves back. “Come and join me.”
As I head to Steph’s table, I’m relieved to see that she looks a lot more cheerful than she did before.
“Christmas shopping?” I say, nodding at her bags, and she grimaces.
“Kind of. I mean, it’s only Harvey and me, and Harvey’s not wild about turkey. I’m definitely not cooking a whole turkey for myself, so…” She shrugs. “We’ll be having sausages.”
“Cool!” I say, although the picture of Steph and Harvey on Christmas Day, just the two of them, makes my heart contract. “You couldn’t get together with your family?” I venture.
“Too far. Mum’s in Leeds. And work’s manic at the moment. I’ve got to go in today, even though I’m supposed to have the day off.”
“On a Saturday?” I make a face.
“I know,” she says resignedly. “I nipped in here to stock up. Harvey’s at the babysitter’s for the day.”
“Have you told your mum about Damian yet?” I ask, even though this is none of my business.
“Not yet,” says Steph after a pause, and I bite my lip. Because it’s not for me to tell her what to do. But it’s Christmas. And her family doesn’t even know she’s on her own.
“If I were your mum, I’d want to know,” I venture, and I see something flicker across Steph’s face. Then I worry that I’ve overstepped the mark, so I quickly add, “Did I see Damian just now?”
“Yes.” Steph’s face falls. “With her.”
“I thought she looked really ugly,” I say seriously, and Steph bursts out laughing.
“Becky, you’re deluded.”
“I’m not. She’s gross.”
“She’s about twenty-three and she’s stunning. Did you see her hair? Did you see her bum?”
I want to say, “No, Damian’s big fat hand was in the way,” but that would be unhelpful. Instead, I decide to change the subject.
“Harvey was amazing in the play,” I say. “He’s got such a gorgeous smile!”
“Oh, was he?” A wistful light comes over Steph’s face. “I couldn’t go. I’ve taken too much time off work recently. But there’ll be a DVD, won’t there?”
I stare at her, stricken. She didn’t even go. And there I was, feeling sorry for myself because I didn’t see Minnie in my costume.
“Steph, what are you doing tomorrow?” I ask on impulse. “Would you and Harvey like to come to a gingerbread-house-making party?”
“Really?” Her face brightens. “We’d love to!”
“Great!” I say. “I’ll text you the details. We’re wearing Christmas sweaters and making gingerbread houses and…well, that’s it.”
“Is it a family tradition?”
“Not exactly. It’s…a new tradition.”
I won’t add, “Which I’ve invented to reconcile my warring Christmas guests.”
“It’s really kind of you to include us.” Steph suddenly reaches across the plastic table and clasps my hand. “Thanks, Becky. For everything. Can I bring something tomorrow?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just yourselves.”
Steph shakes her head firmly. “People always say that, but there must be something. What’s the thing you most want right now? And not world peace.”
“A vegan turkey,” I say honestly. “If you’ve got one of those, I’d be super grateful.”
Steph stares at me in surprise. “Are you vegan?”
“No, but my sister is,” I explain. “And I ordered her a vegan turkey. But they canceled, so I thought I’d make one….” I relate the whole sorry story, and by the time I get to the painted loo rolls, Steph is laughing so hard she spurts tea out her nose.
“What are you like?” she says. “Just serve risotto like the woman said! Have an easy life!”
“I don’t want to have an easy life,” I say stubbornly. “I want to serve a vegan turkey.”
“Well, then, make it out of…” Steph casts around. “What can you make a turkey out of?”
“Exactly! That’s the problem! I tried mushrooms and cardboard. That didn’t work.”
There’s silence—then Steph exclaims, “Wait!” She plucks a packet of doughnuts out of her bag, peers at the label, then jabs her finger at it triumphantly. “Thought so. These are vegan. Use them!”
I follow her gaze and see a sticker printed with NEW RECIPE—NOW VEGAN!
“Doughnuts?” I say, bewildered. “I can’t make a vegan Christmas turkey out of doughnuts.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with doughnuts? Everyone loves doughnuts.” Steph starts giggling, and that sets me off—and for a moment neither of us can talk for hysterics.
“OK, I’ll do it,” I say at last, still snuffling. “I’ll do it. Why not?”
“And I’ll help,” says Steph. Her face is flushed from laughing and she looks more positive than I’ve seen her for ages. “I’ll come early tomorrow, and I’ll bring the doughnuts—and we’ll make the most kick-ass vegan doughnut turkey you’ve ever seen.”
As I wait for Steph to arrive the next morning, I actually feel buoyant. The house looks utterly Christmassy. The Christmas tree lights are twinkling and all my garlands are firmly in place and I’ve hung the piñata up in the sitting room.
I’m also wearing a brilliant Mrs. Santa outfit, which I spotted in the supermarket on my way out yesterday. It’s bright red with white fur and even has a little shoulder cape with a clever mobile-phone-sized pocket. Meanwhile, Minnie looks adorable in her Christmas sweater. It’s decorated all over with satin ribbons tied in bows, just like a gift.
“You are a gift,” I say, giving her a tight hug, whereupon she wriggles free and says, “Doughnuts?”
OK, so it was a mistake to tell Minnie about the doughnut turkey. She woke up at 5:00 A.M. and ran into the bedroom, demanding, “Doughnuts! Where are the doughnuts?”
“They’re coming!” I say. “Harvey and his mummy will be here soon.”
At that moment the doorbell rings, and there they are on the doorstep, both with festive sweaters and massive smiles and—oh, wow, is that a snowflake drifting through the air?
“I know!” says Steph, following my excited gaze. “Snow! Well…snow-ish,” she amends. “I’ve seen about five snowflakes.”
“Five is better than none!” I say. “Look, Minnie, snow! Snow at Christmas!”
The two children both peer obediently at the sky, and we all wait breathlessly…but it looks like the sky has shut up shop.
“Maybe the snow will come later,” I say at last. “You can go and play.”
“Nice costume, Mrs. Santa!” says Steph, as we go inside.
“What, this old thing?” I pluck at my red-and-white outfit with a grin. “I just, you know, threw it on.”
Soon I’m making coffee for Steph while she rips the packaging off what looks like a million packets of doughnuts. She’s also brought wooden skewers and cocktail sticks to fix them together.
“Happy Christmas,” she says, toasting her coffee cup with mine. “We’re going to nail this bastard.”
While Minnie and Harvey run around playing hide-and-seek, Steph and I start creating a doughnut construction, which it turns out is an incredibly calming and therapeutic activity. After we’ve used about forty doughnuts, we stand back to assess our work.
“It’s quite good,” I say, wanting to be positive. “Ex
cept it doesn’t look that much like a turkey.”
It doesn’t look anything like a turkey, is the truth. It could be the Easter Bunny or Mount Everest.
“It doesn’t look much like a turkey yet,” rejoins Steph. “But we haven’t done the finishing touches. Have you got any Play-Doh?”
Within about ten minutes, Steph has commandeered all Minnie’s Play-Doh and put the two children to work, rolling out shapes on the table. Soon she’s adding orange Play-Doh wings to the doughnut turkey. Then black claws. And then big googly eyes.
“Oh my God,” I say, staring at it in a mixture of horror and admiration. “It’s looking at me.”
“And a beak…” says Steph, carefully adding a big pointy red Play-Doh shape. “There. Behold—the vegan turkey!”
I must admit, it definitely looks like a turkey now. Or at least a bird. A creepy, freaky doughnut/Play-Doh bird that will probably give us all nightmares for life.
“Result!” I say, and lift my hand to high-five Steph. “You’ve got a new career if you want it.”
“Purveyor of vegan turkeys,” says Steph with a nod. “Yes, I think I’d do well.”
Her face is pink and there’s a piece of Play-Doh stuck to her cheek, and she looks like she’s having the time of her life. “What shall we call it, kids?” she adds.
“Peppa Pig,” suggests Harvey promptly, and I snort with laughter.
“OK, Peppa Pig it is,” I say. “Peppa Pig the vegan turkey.”
“Is this your one and only turkey for Christmas?” asks Steph, looking a bit concerned. “Or have you got a real one too?”
“We’ve got a real one too,” I say. “At least, we haven’t got it yet, but it’s coming at five P.M. today.”
And if they substitute thirty jars of turkey paste, I add to myself, I will literally murder someone.
I carefully move the turkey to the counter and cover it with a cardboard box so that none of the guests will see it. Then I start laying out gingerbread kits all round the kitchen table. I can see the odd snowflake out of the window, and suddenly I do feel like I’m in a Christmas movie. God bless us every one. All that. Surely my guests will feel the same?
Christmas Shopaholic Page 28