Christmas Shopaholic(107)

My throat tight, I reach for a handful of sunflower seeds and crunch them miserably. Thinking about The Muppet Christmas Carol reminds me of all the Christmas films I could be watching right now, snuggled up on the sofa. Elf. Or It’s a Wonderful Life. Or, if it’s Luke’s choice, Die Hard, which he always claims is a Christmas film and I say it’s not and we argue about it.

It’s time to bang on the door again, so I summon all my energy, crash my fists against the glass, and yell as loudly as I can. There’s no response from the empty street. But as I eventually come to a pause, my mind is whirring in a weird way.

Die Hard. I can’t stop thinking about Die Hard. Why? I don’t usually think about Die Hard, but now I can’t stop.

I keep seeing Bruce Willis crashing through windows, shooting six people at once. Refusing to take no for an answer. Knowing what the right thing to do is and just doing it.

And suddenly I know why these images are in my head. I know what my brain is telling me. I feel ashamed at my total feebleness. Why have I resigned myself to my fate? Why am I thinking Cast Away? I should be thinking Die Hard! If Bruce Willis was trapped in a pet shop on Christmas Eve, he wouldn’t sit there and put up with it, would he? He’d climb up the vents with a gun or explode his way out or something.

I’m not a castaway victim, I tell myself firmly. I’m not a prisoner. I’m not going to molder away here, eating sunflower seeds for Christmas lunch and hoping to be rescued.

I survey the hamsters, my jaw set.

“I’m going to spend Christmas with my family,” I tell them, in a growly Bruce Willis-y voice. “And no one can stop me.”

I can escape from this place, of course I can. It’s only an unfamiliar building, with a locked metal grille barring the front entrance and a heavy bolted door at the back. Come on, Becky, don’t be wet.

For the first time since I entered the shop, I look upward—and there’s a trapdoor in the ceiling. It must lead somewhere. Oh my God. Why didn’t I think of this before?

It takes me a few minutes to locate a pole with a hook on the end of it, and soon I’m hauling down a folded-up loft ladder. Hastily, I climb up to a kind of attic room with grotty carpet and piled-up boxes and search for an easy way out, maybe labeled WAY OUT.

OK. So there isn’t an easy way out labeled WAY OUT. But there’s a skylight. I can use that. The catch is stiff, but I finally manage to wrench it open, find a chair to stand on, and poke my head into the cold air. I’m out! Kind of. I breathe in the evening air greedily, surveying the street below, feeling almost emotional. I will never take my freedom for granted again. Never.

The only thing is, the skylight’s pretty narrow. But maybe I can squeeze through it onto the roof. And then get down from the roof…somehow.

With an almighty effort, I lift myself so that my head and shoulders are protruding through the skylight. I squeeze and squash, desperately edging myself up…but it’s no good. My hips definitely won’t fit through. Stupid Myriad Miracle workout.

At last I decide to go back inside and think of a different plan. But as I try to descend…somehow I can’t. After a lot of huffing and desperate pushing, I realize the awful, embarrassing truth: I’m stuck. I’m wedged in the skylight, half in, half out.

OK, don’t panic, I tell myself firmly. So I’m stuck in a skylight on Christmas Eve and no one knows where I am. There’ll be a solution. There’s always a solution.

I wait for the solution to present itself—but it’s obviously feeling shy. I’m starting to lose my optimism. And hang on…was that a snowflake?

I stare up in disbelief as tiny dots of white fluff start drifting down, falling on my hair and down my neck. Really, sky? You’re choosing now to present me with my White Christmas fantasy? What if I get frostbite? What if I freeze to death? I should never have listened to my inner Bruce Willis. I’m an idiot….

And then a sudden thought comes to me. There’s one more teeny-weeny outside possibility.

My heart thumping with hope, I retrieve my phone from its pocket. I lift it up, as high as I can, stretching my arm out and squinting at the display—and it’s a miracle! It’s a miracle on Woodford Street! I have one bar of signal! I immediately type a text:

Luke! At Pete’s Pets. Stuck. Woodford Street in Bickersly. Help!!! xxx



I press SEND and stare at it breathlessly—then see Delivered appear on the screen. And every particle in my body collapses in relief. He’ll see it. It’s all OK. I’m saved.

Now that I’m in signal, a whole bunch of texts and messages start arriving in my phone, and as I read them, my face grows a little hot. Becky, can we talk?…Becky, we feel terrible!!!…Becky love, your dad and I are coming over, we need to explain everything….Becky, WHERE ARE YOU??? We’re WORRIED!!!!

If ever I thought my friends and family didn’t care about me, this is the proof that they do. And I know you shouldn’t need proof. But even so…I’m not going to delete these anytime soon.

As I’m reading, a noise attracts my attention, and I look up and gasp. People! Actual people, in this street! My saviors! It’s a couple and a little boy, on the other side of the road, and they’re pointing and smiling at me. I stare back at them resentfully. Why are they smiling, for God’s sake?

“Help!” I yell, but I don’t think they can hear me, because they just smile again, and the father lifts up the little boy to see me better. For a moment I don’t get it at all—till it hits me. I’m in my Mrs. Santa outfit. They think I’m some kind of festive stunt?