Christmas Shopaholic(11)
“No problem,” I say. “Anytime.”
“Mornings are a nightmare.” She shakes her head. “And it doesn’t help with half the mums turning up with the bloody London Symphony Orchestra. I know Suze Cleath-Stuart is your friend, but a euphonium?”
I can’t help laughing—then immediately feel disloyal to Suze.
“You know what ‘instrument’ I made with Harvey?” Steph continues. “A margarine tub and a wooden spoon to hit it.”
“We filled a jar with beans,” I volunteer. “I didn’t even paint it.” I meet her eyes and we both smile—then, to my dismay, Steph’s eyes fill with tears.
“Steph!” I exclaim in horror. “It’s only art and craft. It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s not that. It’s…” She hesitates, and I can see the distress pushing at her face, as though it wants to burst out. “Harvey doesn’t know, OK?” she continues in a low, trembling voice, her eyes flitting around. “But Damian’s left us. Three days ago. Walked out, no warning. Harvey thinks he’s gone on holiday.”
“No.” I stare at her, aghast. I don’t really know Steph’s husband, but I’ve seen him with Harvey a couple of times, so I can picture him. He’s older than Steph—a paunchy guy with close-set eyes and a gray beard.
“Yes. Sorry,” she adds. “Didn’t mean to land that on you. Not what you expect on the school run.”
“It’s not…You didn’t…” I flounder desperately. “Do you want to talk? Go for coffee? Is there anything I can do to help?” But Steph’s shaking her head.
“I’ve got to go. Big meeting. And you already did help, Becky. Thanks again.” She gives me a wan smile, then puts her car into gear.
“Wait,” I say, before I can stop myself. I grab a tissue from my bag, lean into the car, and blend her foundation. “Sorry,” I add. “I just had to.”
“No. Thanks.” She shoots a wry look at her reflection in the mirror. “Makeup’s not top of my agenda right now.” She hesitates, then adds, “Could you keep it to yourself? About Damian, I mean. You know what school gossip’s like….”
“Of course,” I say fervently. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Thanks. See you, Becky.”
She drives away and I watch her, feeling as if I’d quite like to bash her husband’s head, hard. I think I’d do a pretty good job at it, and I even know what I’d use: my new Zara bag. It’s got really sharp corners.
* * *
—
As I arrive at work, I’m longing to share Steph’s awful news with Suze, but I promised I wouldn’t. And, anyway, Suze isn’t here yet. So instead I quickly scroll through my emails, feeling a tad wary as I see the ones from Jess, headlined Christmas—a few more points.
I don’t know why I’m wary. Jess and I have exchanged some friendly emails and she’s already said she appreciated that we weren’t vegan and understood if we wanted to eat a turkey on Christmas Day. (Although on another level she didn’t understand it at all and never would.)
But it also became increasingly clear that she thinks tinsel is evil and glitter is monstrous and fairy lights are the work of the devil. How are we going to decorate the Christmas tree? And what about Mum’s light-up plastic reindeer?
I love and admire my sister with all my heart. She’s steadfast and honest and she only wants to do good for the world. When she’s not researching rocks in Chile, she’s always off volunteering for unglamorous charities—she once spent a whole week digging latrines. (When I exclaimed, “Oh my God, Jess!” she just looked puzzled at my shock and said, “Someone’s got to do it.”)
She’s kind of serious, but when she cracks a smile you feel like she’s made your day. Basically, she’s awesome. It’s just that I do find it a tiny bit hard to live up to her principles.
Anyway, it’ll be fine, I tell myself yet again. It’s only Christmas. It’ll work itself out.
Putting my phone away, I head into the Letherby Gift Shop and glance around, checking that everything looks OK. We sell clothes, cushions, greetings cards, boxes of toffees…a bit of everything. It’s fairly random, but I’ve been trying to organize it into themes and displays, and I’m really proud of my hygge table. It has blankets, scented candles, tins of hot chocolate, Letherby organic-cotton pajamas, and some alpaca hoodies in a lovely soft gray.
I pause to tweak the display lovingly, then look up to see Suze striding in, wearing a Letherby pale blue tweed miniskirt that looks amazing on her. (It was my idea that we should all wear the merchandise. Mainly because if anyone can make a tweed skirt look hot, it’s Suze.)
“Hi!” I say. “Amazing euphonium!”
“Oh, thanks!” Suze’s face brightens. “Don’t you love Miss Lucas? She has such wonderful ideas for craft projects!”
“I suppose,” I say reluctantly. “Although there are quite a lot of craft projects, don’t you think?”
“But they’re such fun!” enthuses Suze. “I should have been a primary school teacher. I love all that stuff.”
She unlocks the till and neatens a pile of leaflets on local walks. Then she clears her throat. As I look up, I notice her long legs are twisted around each other. In fact, she looks really awkward. What on earth is up?