I realize I’ve grabbed Jess’s hand without even meaning to. I can’t take my eyes off Santiago. He’s about four or five, I guess. He has long lashes and golden skin, and he’s dressed in a beige T-shirt with RECYCLED printed on the back.
“I had no idea it was so imminent,” I manage at last. “Congratulations. So many congratulations.”
I fling my arms round Jess and then Tom, and as I draw back, we’re all a bit shiny-eyed.
“We had no idea either,” says Tom. “We had almost no notice. The news came through, Jess flew straight out—”
“You’ve been to Chile and back?” I stare at Jess.
“Of course,” she says, without a flicker.
“We did the paperwork,” continues Tom, “had all the meetings that needed to be had, then got pretty much straight on a plane, and…”
“We haven’t had any sleep.”
“We don’t need sleep.” Tom puts an arm round Jess.
They both look shattered and joyful. They look exactly like parents with a new baby. How did I not realize this the minute I set foot through the door?
“So, how long have you…I mean, how did you…?” I’m floundering to even know what question I want to ask.
“We were matched a while ago, but we didn’t know when it would be finalized. And we didn’t want to tell anyone,” Jess adds a little defensively. “Not until it was definite.”
“Jess already had her lectures booked.” Tom takes over the story. “So we agreed she would go back to the UK and I’d stay, just in case there was some news before Christmas.”
“We were trying to wait patiently,” says Jess. “Wasn’t easy.”
That’s why Jess has been so tense. It wasn’t anything else. I’m an utter moron.
Also, I blame Suze. She totally encouraged me in the whole khaki-hot-pants theory.
“Jess, I’m so sorry,” I stutter. “I know I slightly got the wrong end of the stick….”
“Did you think I was having an affair or Jess was having an affair?” asks Tom wryly. “We weren’t quite clear.”
He meets eyes with Jess, and she rolls hers expressively. Oh God, this is mortifying. Partly because Jess and Tom look more in sync and in love with each other than I’ve ever seen them.
“What did Janice and Martin say?” I hastily change the subject. “They must be overjoyed.”
“They don’t know yet,” says Jess after glancing at Tom. “They went out first thing before we could catch them, and we didn’t want to tell them by phone. So…you’re the first person to meet Santiago, Becky.”
“I’m the first?” My throat is suddenly thick. “Well…I’m honored.”
I put out a hand and touch one of Santiago’s curls, not wanting to wake him but unable to resist.
“Welcome, Santiago,” I say softly.
“He can’t hear,” says Jess matter-of-factly. “He’s profoundly deaf.”
“Oh,” I say, halted. “Right. I see. Well…we’ll learn sign language, then. We’ll teach him. We’ll do everything he needs. Just let me know what I can do.”
As I stand up, I’m blinking hard, because a moment ago I didn’t even know Santiago existed, but now I’m determined to smooth his path for him, throughout his life, whatever it takes.
“It’s wonderful.” I gaze at Jess and Tom. “I’m so happy for you. And just in time for Christmas,” I add with a sentimental sigh. “That makes it so much more special.”
“I disagree,” says Jess calmly. “It would have been equally special on any other day of the year.”
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. That’s so Jess. And she’s right, of course she is. But I think I’m a bit right too.
CHATS
Suze & Bex
Suze
Becky!!! OMG!!!!! I feel TERRIBLE!!! Xxxxxxxx
Suze
I can’t believe I believed that email!!
Suze
I’m never believing ANY emails, EVER again.
Suze
We thought you were having a breakdown!!
Suze
Nadine’s EVIL.
Suze
I can’t believe you were going to have multiplayer sex with her.
Suze
You didn’t have multiplayer sex, did you? Or did you, actually? You can tell me. I won’t judge.
When we arrive home later, I feel emotionally drained. I’ve been trading WhatsApps with Suze all the way back in the car, assuring her that, yes, I will forgive her and that, yes, Christmas still is on. And, no, we didn’t have multiplayer sex and, yes, I would tell her what it’s like.
As we get inside the door, Luke turns to Minnie. “Sweetheart, I need to do some last-minute shopping for Mummy. So in a moment we’ll go out while Mummy puts her feet up and watches a Christmas movie. Sound good, Becky?”
“Sounds great,” I say in heartfelt tones.
I walk into the sitting room and look around at all the festive decorations, lights, and presents, feeling content for the first time in ages. The canceled Christmas is uncanceled. Everything’s OK after all. Maybe I really can put my feet up and relax. And I’m just wondering idly where I left the remote, when something gray flashes past my field of vision.
What?
Surely that wasn’t—
It scuttles past again, and this time I can see it properly and I gasp in petrified horror. A mouse. An actual mouse. In our house? On Christmas Eve?
“Didn’t you get the memo!” I address it furiously. “ ‘Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.’ Argh!” I can’t help shrieking as it runs about an inch from my foot. I’m quite freaked out by mice.
At that moment Minnie comes in, and my heart sinks. I really don’t want her going to school and telling everyone we’ve got mice. But too late, she’s seen it.
“Hamper!” she yells, her whole face suffused with joy. “Look, Mummy, a hamper!”
Hamper? I peer at her with a confused frown. What’s she on about?
The mouse scurries near my foot again and I resist another urge to shriek, because shrieking at mice is not feminist.
“Hamper!” Minnie runs after the mouse. “Ham-per! Father Christmas will bring me a hamper,” she adds chattily. “He will bring a hamper in the chimney. Ham-per! Come here!” As the mouse dashes past again, she holds her arms out as though to hug it, while I stare at her, unable to move, her words slowly unraveling in my mind.
Hamper. Not picnic hamper. But hamster. She’s been asking for a hamster, all this time, steadfastly, without swerving. A hamster.
As the frightful truth dawns on me, I feel icy all over. It’s Christmas Eve and the shops are about to shut and only now am I realizing what my daughter wants for Christmas. The number-one nightmare of all Christmas nightmares is coming true.
As calmly as I can, I walk out of the room into the hall—then grab Luke and pull him frantically into the coat cupboard.
“Luke,” I gabble. “Disaster. Minnie wants a hamster for Christmas.”
“A hamster?” He stares at me. “But I thought—”
“I know,” I cut him off desperately, “I know. No time. I’ll go and get one while you take her out. Also, we need to work on this baby talk of hers,” I add—and I see the truth suddenly hit him.
“Shit.” He bites his lip. “Shit. Actually, that’s quite funny.”
“It’s not! Because we don’t have a hamster! At least—you haven’t bought me one, have you?” I add in a gasp of hope, because Luke once joked that he would buy me a hamster for Christmas and call it Ermintrude.
“No, I haven’t, I’m afraid.” Luke looks amused. “Becky, relax,” he adds, putting his hands on my shoulders. “The shops are still open. There’s that pet shop in Ellerton Road.”
“They will. All pet shops have hamsters. Or shall I get it?”
“No, you can’t! You’re taking Minnie out! She’ll see! I’ll get it. I’m going. Now!”
“Dressed as Mrs. Santa?” queries Luke.
“Now you’re interested in my clothes?” I hurl back at him. “They’re not exactly the priority right now, Luke!”
I grab my phone and bag and leg it to my car. A hamster. I can’t believe it. A bloody hamster.
As I drive to Ellerton Road, my heart is racing. This should not be happening. It’s all wrong. I started Christmas shopping early. I was organized. Buying Minnie’s present was the first thing I did! The first bloody thing! Yet now here I am, racing around on Christmas Eve in a panic, exactly like I didn’t want to be.
I park the car, sprint along the pavement to the pet shop, and stop dead with shock. Closed. Closed. It can’t be closed. How can they close a pet shop on Christmas Eve? What about all the last-minute hamsters?
I rattle at the door, just in case, but I know it’s fruitless. As I turn away, I’m almost gibbering with panic, and an old lady with a shopping trolley looks at me curiously.
“There’s a pet shop in Bickersly, dear,” she says. “Woodford Street. You could try that.”
“Right!” I say. “Thanks!”
I don’t even know where Bickersly is, but I can find it on satnav. I follow a weird route through villages I’ve never seen before and find myself in a small side road with three shops in a tiny parade. One’s called Pete’s Pets, and the lights are on. Thank God, thank God.
As I dash in, I can’t help feeling dubious. The only pet shops I’ve been in before, with Suze, have been large and open-plan and wholesome-looking. This one is staffed by a guy covered with tattoos, who looks like he probably breeds the hamsters for use in satanic rituals. But I don’t exactly have a choice, so I approach him with a polite smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Santa,” he says with a smirk, eyeing my outfit up and down.
“Hello,” I say. “I’d like—”
“We’re closing soon,” he interrupts flatly. “You’d better be quick.”
“No problem. I’d like a hamster. And a cage. And food,” I add as an afterthought. “And whatever a hamster needs.”
“OK.” He nods. “What kind of hamster?”
“The…hamster kind.”
He gives me a look and leads me to a plastic cage full of hamsters in individual partitions, squirming about and eating food and doing hamster things. “Take your pick.”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound keener than I feel.
I mean, they’re basically rodents. I’m choosing to introduce a rodent into my house. But Minnie will love it, I remind myself. I have to focus on that.
I wonder what color she’d like. Maybe Luke could subtly find out? I get out my phone to call him—but there are no bars on my display. Drat.
“Yeah, our signal’s dodgy,” says the guy. “So which one do you want?”
I peer at the hamsters, trying to see them through Minnie’s eyes.
“Maybe that one,” I say, pointing to a beige one.
“That’s a male Syrian hamster. Want to have a closer look?”
He picks it up and proffers it to me—and I try to suppress my revulsion. “You ever looked after a hamster before?” he adds with a narrowed glance.
“Er…no. But I’ll follow all the guidelines,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”
He gestures for me to take the hamster, and gingerly I do so. It’s furry and snuffly and scrabbly, with really sharp claws.
“Argh!” I say, as the hamster suddenly ends up on the table and starts running away.
“Don’t bloody let go!” says the guy in consternation, scooping the hamster back up.
“I didn’t mean to!” I say, mortified. “Sorry. It just took me by surprise.”
“You shouldn’t buy it if you can’t handle it,” he says disapprovingly, and I feel a spike of panic. Is he going to say I’m inappropriate to be a hamster owner? Is there some test and I’ve failed?
“I can,” I say fervently. “I can handle it. I promise.”
“OK, so hamster, cage, bedding, food…” He pauses. “You want any accessories?”
My head pops up in interest. Ooh. Accessories?
The guy shows me to a shelf of stuff, and I get quite excited. Who knew hamsters had so much gear? I choose an exercise ball, a “hamster cottage,” and a really cool tube contraption for the hamster to scamper about in. And I’m just dithering over a hamster seesaw when a terrible thought strikes me: My shopping delivery. My turkey. Shit. In all the flurry, I totally forgot. It’s coming in half an hour. I need to get home, pronto.
“OK,” I say hastily. “I’ve chosen. Done.”
I pay, then take everything out to the car in several journeys, because it’s pretty bulky. The last thing to take out is the hamster itself, in its cage, and I’m about to lift it up off the floor when I have an idea. I’ll take a quick picture and text it to Luke! I need to practice handling it, anyway.
I get down on my knees, reach for the squirmy little thing, and get it out, trying not to flinch. There. I’m better at this already. I mean, he’s quite cute, with his snuffly little nose. We need to think of a good name for him.
I take a photo and I’m carefully lowering him back into the cage, when the guy suddenly bellows, “Piss off!” on his landline phone to someone.
Which makes me jump. Which makes my grip on the hamster loosen for a nanosecond.
Just a nanosecond. But it’s enough. To my utter horror, before I can grasp him again, the hamster wriggles out of my hand and runs off over the floor. He stops and looks at me as though to say, “Ha ha!” (OK, I may be projecting), and I stare back, my heart beating hard.
I can’t admit I’ve dropped the hamster again. The guy will say I’m irresponsible and will never let me keep him. I’ll quietly catch him myself, I decide. I reach gingerly for the hamster, but he deftly evades my grasp. I make a bolder swipe, but this time he scampers right away, through an open side door.
Shit.
Crawling silently, I follow the hamster through the door and find myself in a dimly lit stockroom. I hastily push the door closed and look around. It’s only a small space. It’s contained. I’ve got to find this bloody hamster.
I listen for scrabbling, but I can’t hear anything. So I put on my phone’s flashlight function and swing it around the space, searching for the reflection of two beady little eyes. Nothing.
I suddenly notice a box of hamster treats on a nearby shelf and have a flicker of inspiration. I wrench it open, telling myself that I’ll buy it, and find some revolting pellets, which are presumably like caviar for hamsters.
There’s a big empty cardboard box nearby too. I turn it on its side and make a big pile of treats on the cardboard floor. Then I retreat to a squatting position, poised to move like lightning and trap the hamster. I feel like one of David Attenborough’s team, waiting to capture the Serengeti lion at the waterhole.
Except sometimes those teams wait for weeks, I recall.
No. Don’t think like that. I expect sometimes they only wait five minutes and the lion turns up. Exactly.
A few unbearable minutes pass. My thighs are slightly hurting from my squatting position. But I don’t dare move. David Attenborough’s team don’t complain when their noses get frozen off or whatever, do they? So I shouldn’t complain either.
Even so, I can’t help feeling disconsolate. How has it come to this? This was supposed to be an organized Christmas. A smooth Christmas. Not a Christmas where you end up squatting in a dingy back room waiting for a hamster to get hungry.
I’m just wonderin
g if this is an utterly stupid idea and I should go and fess up to the guy, when I hear a tiny scrabbling noise and I stiffen. I peer through the gloom—and I can see two beady eyes glinting at me! Yes! It worked!
As the hamster nears the pile of food, I have to restrain myself from cheering. I did it! I’m a hamster whisperer! All I need to do now is—
Wait, what?
I peer at the hamster in disbelief as it edges onto the box. It’s a different hamster. It’s the wrong hamster. This one is half-beige, half-white. It must have been hiding somewhere in the stockroom and smelled the food.
What now? My brain whirls uncertainly as I watch the hamster pick up a treat between its paws. (Actually, that is quite cute.) What do I do? Do I trap this one? But I don’t want this one, I want my one. Where’s my one?
As I’m trying to decide how to proceed, another hamster suddenly joins the first. But this is the wrong hamster too. It’s a darker gray-brown color. How many bloody hamsters are there in this stockroom?
I’m quite tempted to go and tell the pet-shop guy he’s overrun by hamsters, only I can’t bring myself to move. Because if those hamsters were lured out by the food, then maybe…just maybe…
I stiffen as I hear a new scrabbling sound on the stone floor—and my heart suddenly leaps. Yes! It’s the beige one! He’s approaching cautiously but then stops dead.
Go on, I silently will him. Go and get the food. You know you want to.
He pauses, and I gaze at him, using every single psychic hamster power I possess. Go on…go on…
After an unbearable minute or two, he starts to move again. Forward…forward…Yes! He’s on the side of the box! In one seamless movement I reach forward and tilt the box onto its base, whereupon all three hamsters, plus the treats, land on the bottom. They’re well and truly contained.
I sink back onto my heels, my heart pumping and my legs twinging with pins and needles. OK. Panic over. I have my hamster. I glance at my watch and feel a wave of relief. I’ve still got time to get home before the turkey arrives. So it’s all good. In fact, it’s all great, because now I have a hamster and a story to tell Luke. (You always have to think of the plus side.)
Christmas Shopaholic Page 31