Christmas Shopaholic(13)

“Arnold?” I frown. I don’t know anyone called Arnold.

“Arnold was the surname. Or was it Irwin?” she adds thoughtfully.

“Irwin?” I shake my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He was a young chap,” Irene elaborates. “Your sort of age. Striking.” She looks at me expectantly, as though I’ll say, “Oh, the striking guy. Of course, him.”

“Well, let me know if you remember,” I say kindly. “If not, no worries.”

Irene wanders off again and Suze grins. “A striking guy, huh, Bex?”

“I wouldn’t trust Irene’s taste,” I retort, rolling my eyes. “It was probably my old geography teacher.”

“Was he striking?”

“His dandruff was pretty striking,” I say, and we both start giggling again.

“So anyway,” says Suze, composing herself, “we didn’t finish talking about Christmas. Tell me what I can do to help. Let me know the plan. Except we must go to the morning service at St. Christopher’s,” she adds, “because the vicar’s written a special Christmas carol medley and he’s really proud of it. Can that fit in your plan of the day?”

“Of course!” I say. “Definitely! I mean, I haven’t exactly got a plan of the day yet,” I add, feeling the need to be honest. “Or any kind of plan. But it’s early days.”

“Oh, totally,” Suze agrees at once. “The most important thing when you host Christmas is, have enough booze.”

“Mum said the most important thing was the turkey,” I counter, already feeling a bit anxious.

“Oh, well, the turkey,” says Suze airily. “The turkey goes without saying— Wait.” She interrupts herself, suddenly looking stricken. “If Jess is coming, do we all have to be vegan?”

“No, it’s fine, we can eat turkey,” I reassure her. “And I’ll buy Jess and Tom a vegan turkey.”

“A vegan turkey?” Suze goggles at me. “Does that exist?”

“I bet it does,” I say confidently. “There’s vegan everything. Oh, and by the way, Jess thinks we should give each other sustainable, non-consumerist, locally sourced presents that reflect the true spirit of fellowship rather than the hollow pleasures of shopping.”

“Right.” Suze stares at me, looking a bit shaken. “Wow. I mean…good point. Definitely. We should only buy local things. It’s, like, vital for the planet.”

“Absolutely.”

“Totally.”

Silence falls between us, and I feel like we’re both reappraising our Christmas lists.

“I mean…Harvey Nichols is quite local, isn’t it?” says Suze at last. “Compared to some places.”

“Compared to like…Australia.”

“Exactly!” Suze looks relieved. “I mean, some people go on ridiculous shopping trips. My cousin Fenella once went on a Christmas shopping trip to New York.”

“That’s so un-green,” I can’t help saying, a little censoriously. “Let’s agree, we’ll only shop locally at, you know, Selfridges and Liberty and places.”

“OK,” says Suze, nodding earnestly. “We’ll do that. Only local shopping. Ooh, what are you going to get Luke?” she adds. “Have you got any ideas?”

“I’m sorted,” I say smugly.

“Already?” Suze stares at me.

“Well, I haven’t actually bought it yet,” I admit, “but I know exactly what I’m getting him. We were in Hector Goode and we saw this lovely coat and Luke said he liked it. So I said, ‘Well, maybe a little elf will get it for you!’?”

“Lucky thing,” says Suze enviously. “I have no idea what I’m going to get Tarkie! Why haven’t you bought it yet?”

“I wanted to see if it was going to be reduced,” I explain. “But the shop people won’t tell me. They’re so unhelpful.”

“So unhelpful,” agrees Suze sympathetically. “What about waiting till Black Friday?”

“It might sell out. So I’ve decided I’ll order it tonight—” I stop midstream as two women in Puffa jackets enter the gift shop, and I approach them, smiling. “Hello! Welcome to the Letherby Gift Shop. Can I help, or are you happy to browse?”

The pair of them ignore me. A lot of people do that, I’ve noticed, but I always just smile even more brightly.

“Hygge,” says one, looking dubiously at the sign. “What’s that?”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” chimes in her friend. “Only isn’t it all nonsense?”

Nonsense? I gaze at her, feeling insulted. How dare she call my lovely table nonsense?

“Hygge is a Scandinavian word,” I explain as charmingly as I can. “It means coziness and warmth…friendship over the cold winter…lighting lots of candles and making yourself feel good. Like Christmas,” I add, suddenly resolving to host a totally hygge Christmas. God, yes. I’ll have a million candles and woolly throws and warming glasses of glogg. (Glug? Glygge?)

As the women walk away, I start making a mental list—candles, throws, glogg—then realize I really need to start writing this stuff down. I’ll buy a special Christmas planning notebook, I decide. And a gorgeous new festive pen. Yes. And then it will all fall into place.