Christmas Shopaholic(12)

“By the way, Bex,” she adds in a super-casual voice, “I’ll take the statues after all.”

“What?” I stare at her.

“I’ll take the statues. We’ll have them here.”

“You’ll take them?” I say in astonishment. “Just like that?”

“Yes!” she says evasively. “Why not? It’s no big deal.”

“Suze,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “What do you want?”

“Why would I want something?” she retorts hotly. “God, Bex, you’re so suspicious! I’m volunteering to take your statues. I went to have another look at them, and I thought, Actually, they’re quite impressive.”

“No, you didn’t!” I reply disbelievingly. “You’re softening me up to ask me a favor.”

“No, I’m not!” Suze turns bright pink.

“Yes, you are.”

“OK!” She suddenly cracks. “I am! Bex, you have to ask us for Christmas. Tarkie’s Uncle Rufus has invited us to his castle in Scotland, and I just can’t do it. I can’t!”

She looks so despairing, I stare at her, wanting to giggle.

“What’s wrong with Tarkie’s Uncle Rufus? It can’t be that bad, surely?”

“It’s awful,” says Suze desperately. “He doesn’t believe in heating, and his housekeeper runs freezing cold baths for everyone each morning, and there’s no cornflakes for breakfast, only haggis, and the children have to peel potatoes all day.”

“The children?”

“He thinks it’s good for them. He brings in extra potatoes for them to do, and if they leave any peel on he shouts at them.”

“Wow.”

“Exactly! And he phoned last night to invite us. My parents are going to be in Namibia, so he knew we weren’t going to theirs, and I didn’t know what to do. So I said, ‘Gosh, Uncle Rufus, that sounds lovely, but my friend Becky’s mother has already invited us for Christmas Day.’ You don’t have to actually have us,” she adds hurriedly. “Just be our excuse. And I’ll take the statues,” she finishes breathlessly.

“Mum’s not hosting Christmas this year,” I inform her.

“Oh God.” Suze’s face falls. “Don’t tell me you’re going away or something. Can I still tell Uncle Rufus we’re spending it with you?”

“Even better, you can actually spend it with us!” I say with a flourish. “Because guess what? I’m hosting Christmas!”

“You’re hosting Christmas?” Suze’s face freezes in a stunned rictus.

“Don’t look like that!” I say crossly. “It’ll be great!”

“Of course it will!” Suze hastily recovers herself. “Sorry, Bex. I was just a bit…surprised. Because you’re not exactly…”

“What?” I say suspiciously. “I’ve hosted parties, haven’t I? And they haven’t turned into fiascos, have they?”

Now I think about it, most have turned into some sort of fiasco. But still, Suze doesn’t need to look like that.

“Not at all!” Suze backtracks. “It’ll be lovely! You’ll do it brilliantly! But how come your parents aren’t hosting?”

“OK, get this,” I say with relish, because I’ve been longing to share this news with Suze. “Jess and Tom are coming back to the UK for a bit!”

“Wow!” says Suze in excitement. “Does this mean their adoption’s gone through?”

“No,” I say, temporarily halted. “Not yet. Although it won’t be that much longer,” I add, determined to be positive. “I’m sure of it. Anyway, they’re going to live in Mum and Dad’s house while they’re here—and my parents are moving to a flat in Shoreditch!”

“Shoreditch?” Suze’s eyes widen in shock. “Your mum and dad?”

“I know! I said, ‘Why Shoreditch?’ and Dad said he wants smashed avocado.”

“Smashed avocado?” Suze looks so gobsmacked, I can’t help giggling. “Does he know you can get avocados in Waitrose in Cobham?” she adds earnestly, and that sets me off again.

“Good morning, girls!” Irene, our other sales assistant, comes bustling up, dressed in Letherby tweed trousers and a merino wool sweater.

Irene is in her sixties and very sweet. She’s worked for the gift shop ever since it was basically a cupboard with a few boxes of fudge, and she still remembers “Mad” Lord Cleath-Stuart, who was Tarkie’s great-great-uncle and commissioned the pink-tiled hall with the erotic murals that no one ever mentions.

“Good morning, Irene!” Suze greets her. “How were things in the shop yesterday?”

“Very good,” says Irene, nodding. “Nothing to report. Oh, except that a customer asked me to say hello to you, Becky.”

“To me?” I say in surprise. Usually it’s old family friends of Suze’s, called things like Huffy Thistleton-Pitt, who pop in to say hello.

“He said he understood that you worked here and seemed very disappointed not to see you.” Irene nods. “Asked me to pass on his regards. What was his name now?” Irene’s brow crumples deeply. “Arnold? I wrote it down somewhere, I wonder where….”