Christmas Shopaholic(18)

“So, did you tick a lot of items off your list?” Luke’s voice follows me. “Did you make good progress?”

“Er…kind of!” I throw over my shoulder. I hurry into our bedroom and shut the door. I dump the bag of aftershave samples on the bed, then turn to the glossy carrier. I survey it for a moment, then reverently pull out a tissue-wrapped package. As I rip the tissue off, I hear myself inhale deeply. I can’t quite believe what I’m holding. An Alexander McQueen dress, 70 percent reduced just because it has a pulled thread on the back! I’m going to look awesome on Christmas Day!

And OK. I know Buy new dress wasn’t on my original to-do list. But everyone knows the key to successful shopping is being flexible and spotting opportunities. I was heading toward the Christmas department, absolutely intending to buy decorations, when I happened to pass through the fashion department. And I happened to see a discounted designer rack, where the most amazing Alexander McQueen dress was waiting for me. It’s got gorgeous ruffled sleeves and sequined stripes and the only slight issue—teeny-weeny point—is that it’s a bit too small for me.

Only a tad. A smidgen.

Here’s the thing: It was the only one they had and it was 70 percent off and I couldn’t bear not to buy it. Plus, it’s not like I can’t get into it. It’s just a bit…tight. But you don’t need to breathe much on Christmas Day, do you? Or move your arms much. And I’ll probably lose some weight before then.

Perhaps. Oh God…

I peer anxiously at the dress, which seems to be shrinking as I look at it. Even with the discount, it was expensive. I can’t not fit into it on Christmas Day.

I should go on a health kick before Christmas, it occurs to me. Start exercising and drinking green juice or whatever. Then I’ll lose weight and get into the dress—and the bonus is, I’ll be healthy too. Perfect!

I gaze at the dress lovingly for a few more seconds, then stash it away in the wardrobe and get my notebook out of my handbag. I write Buy new dress for Christmas Day and tick it off with satisfaction.

Then I turn toward the bed and survey my bag of aftershave samples. I have a plan, which will definitely work—it just requires Luke to fall asleep and stay asleep. I hide the bag in my bedside cabinet, then head downstairs, trilling in my most innocent voice, “Luke! I feel like celebrating! Let’s have some more wine!”



* * *



—

Three hours later, I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, seething lightly with frustration. I never knew it took Luke so long to fall asleep. What’s wrong with him?

I keep prodding him very subtly to see if he’s dropped off, and he keeps saying, “Huh?” or “What?” to which I say “Sorry—stretching!” Until he opens his eyes and says irritably, “Becky, I’ve got an early flight to Madrid and I’m knackered. Could you stop doing bloody yoga in bed?”

So I leave off for a bit, silently drumming my fingers with impatience, until at last he genuinely seems to be asleep and doesn’t even stir when I say urgently, “Luke, I think I can hear a burglar!”

Then I worry that I really can hear a burglar, so I creep downstairs clutching a high-heeled shoe as a weapon, turn all the lights on, wander around, find no burglar, turn them off again, check on Minnie, and come back to bed.

I feel pretty knackered myself by now. But I have a plan to execute. Silently, I get the bag of aftershave samples out of the bedside cabinet and remove four tiny bottles. I spray a little of Royal Oud by Creed on Luke’s neck, under his left ear. I dab the Luna Rossa by Prada under his right ear. Then I mark them both in discreet felt tip, L and R, so I won’t lose track. I spray his right wrist with Quercus and his left wrist with Sartorial, and mark those Q and S. I inhale the scents in turn and scribble scores in my book. So far, Sartorial is winning; it’s gorgeous.

Luke is sleeping so peacefully, I think I can risk one more. So I take another sample out of the bag, Pacific Lime. I lean over to spray it discreetly on his chest—but as I’m pressing the nozzle, a huge moth flies out of nowhere, making me shriek in shock and fling my arms up.

“Argh!” Luke sits bolt upright, clutching his eye. “Becky! Are you OK? What happened?”

He’s blinking at me, still half-asleep. Suddenly I see that his eye is wet. Shit! I sprayed his eye with Pacific Lime! But maybe he won’t notice.

“I’m fine,” I say breathlessly. “Sorry. Just a moth.”

“Fuck. Ow. Something’s up with my eye.” He’s still clutching at his eye, which is starting to look red.

My heart is gripped with horror. Oh God, please don’t say I’ve blinded my husband. I can see the Daily World headline: IRONY AS WIFE BLINDS HUSBAND IN BID FOR PERFECT PRESENT.

“Let me get you a wet cloth,” I say desperately. “Can you see? Is your vision blurred?”

I rush to the bathroom and bring back a dripping flannel. I hastily plaster it onto Luke’s face and he curses.

“I’m all wet now!”

“Better safe than sorry,” I say, gazing anxiously at his eye. “Is it feeling better? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four,” says Luke curtly, and my heart falls.

“Wrong!” I say in dismay. “Oh my God, Luke, we need to get you to hospital—”