Christmas Shopaholic(108)

“I’m stuck!” I call. “I’m not Mrs. Santa, I’m stuck!”

But they’re too far away to hear me properly. They smile and wave back and the dad takes a photo of me—bloody nerve—then they all wave cheerily again and walk on.

Great. Just great. So you see someone dressed in a Santa costume, on the roof on Christmas Eve…and it doesn’t occur to you to save them? What kind of twisted world do we live in?

I’m just composing a tetchy letter to The Times about it when a car screeches to a halt below me and out gets Luke. He strides to the pet shop and bangs on the door. “Becky?”

“Hi!” I shout. “Luke! Up here! On the roof!”

“Becky?” He takes a pace or two back and stares up at me, his jaw slack. “What the hell? I’ve tracked down the owner; someone’s coming to let you out….Are you OK?”

“I’m fine!” I call back, just as another car screeches to a halt and disgorges Suze, Janice, my parents, and Minnie.

“Becky!” screams my mum in horror as she sees me. “Be careful, love! Don’t fall! Graham, look, she’s on the roof!”

“I can see that!” replies Dad testily. “I’m not blind. Becky, hold on, darling!”

“Becky, I’m so sorry,” calls up Suze. “We never meant to hurt you!”

“We all want to spend Christmas with you, love!” calls Janice, her thin voice carrying up on the evening air. “Oh, Jane, will she be all right?” She grabs Mum’s hand and then Suze’s, too, as though for comfort. “What if she falls to her death?”

“Don’t worry!” I call down. “I’m just glad everything’s sorted out!”

“That Nadine character is a monster!” shouts Dad. “Shocking behavior!”

“We got everything wrong!” chimes in Suze, at top volume. “We’re such morons!”

“We’re all coming tomorrow!” adds Mum. “Everyone! And we don’t care about the food or any of that, love. We only care about you! Can you hear me, Becky, love? You!”

They all gaze up at me, standing in a row, holding hands, snowflakes falling on their heads, looking for all the world like the Whos in Minnie’s Grinch book. And suddenly there’s a kind of expanding feeling in my heart, which blocks out all my worries. I haven’t got a turkey. Nothing’s going to be perfect. But gazing down at the people I love…I realize I don’t care.





I have got a turkey!

As I haul it out of the oven, all golden and crispy and succulent, I can’t quite believe it. I’m here. On Christmas Day. With everyone. And the lunch looks good. And everyone’s in a brilliant mood…

And I’m wearing an Alexander McQueen dress that fits!

Luke presented it to me this morning, just after we’d watched Minnie greet her hamster with wondrous joy. He handed me a gift-wrapped parcel, saying, deadpan, “I know we’re doing presents later, but I understand you like this style of dress?” I stared at the package in confusion, then ripped it open and my jaw dropped.

It was exactly the same gorgeous dress I bought in the sale—only two sizes bigger! (Luke said he “tracked it down,” which must have been almost impossible, but of course he downplayed that.) It’s such a fantastic, thoughtful present.

OK, yes, maybe I would slightly have preferred to fit into the teeny one. But one must remember the point of Christmas, as the vicar so wisely told us in church this morning. The point of Christmas is not being a size minus-6. Or squishing into a dress and not being able to breathe and dying and everyone saying, “Oh no, and on Christmas Day too.” The point of Christmas is wearing a dress you can breathe and move your arms in, because it turns out you need to do both on Christmas Day—what with all the hugging and exclaiming and cooking and toasting one another.

And it was while I was admiring myself in the mirror that Luke gave me the best Christmas present of all. He came out of the bathroom, freshly showered, and I peered at him, thinking, Something’s different…something’s changed….Till it hit me. The mustache was gone!

“Your mustache, Luke!” I exclaimed cautiously. “It’s…Did you…”

“You don’t mind, do you, Becky?” Luke said. “You’re not too upset? I know you loved my mustache, but I just don’t think it’s me.”

“It’s fine,” I said in generous tones. “You need to do what makes you feel happy, Luke.”

“You did love it?” he added, meeting my eye—and there was suddenly a teasing note in his voice.

“Of course,” I replied with dignity. “I said so, didn’t I?”

“Yes, my love,” he said, looking amused. “You did say so.”

I still don’t know how he worked it out—but I don’t care. I have a husband with no mustache! Result!

And now it’s 2:00 P.M. and I feel as if we’ve already done a million things. We’ve heard the vicar’s carol medley, which went disastrously wrong but was covered up by spirited tambourine playing. The children have bashed at the pi?ata and screamed with delight as sweets cascaded down. Mum and Janice have put candles on their hair to sing Swedish songs, although that only lasted thirty seconds, because they both got a bit unnerved. Then Janice gave us all our “Christmas makeovers,” so everyone now looks a bit shiny and streaky and weird.