Christmas Shopaholic(19)

“I’m not wrong!” snaps Luke impatiently. “One, two, three, four. Use your eyes.”

I peer at my own hand and realize I am holding up four fingers. Oh, right.

“I’m fine.” Luke blinks a few more times, then studies me blearily. “But what the hell happened? I was fast asleep.”

“A moth,” I say quickly. “Just a moth.”

“A moth woke you up?” he says incredulously.

“Er…it was a really big moth. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

I’m hoping Luke might lie down again, but his gaze falls on his wrist. He stares at the “Q” for a few seconds, as though trying to make sense of it.

“Someone wrote ‘Q’ on my wrist,” he says at last.

“Wow!” I say, trying to sound surprised. “How weird. It was probably Minnie. Anyway, it’s late—”

“And ‘S’ on my other wrist,” says Luke. He suddenly gets out of bed and heads to the mirror. “What the fuck?” He’s staring at the letters on his neck. A moment later he swivels round to survey the bed and I see his eyes fall on the pen, which I left right there on the duvet. I’m an idiot.

“Becky?” he says ominously.

“OK, it was me,” I admit in a rush. “I was trying out aftershaves on you while you were asleep. For your Christmas present,” I add meaningfully, hoping his face might soften and he might say, “Oh, darling, you’re so thoughtful.”

But he doesn’t.

“It’s one A.M.,” he says, with the air of someone trying to keep his temper under control. “And I’ve got bloody writing all over me. I mean, did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“You always shower first thing.” I can’t help sounding proud of my plan. “And it’s a washable pen. I knew it would all come off and you’d never even realize.”

“Well, that’s something,” grunts Luke, heading back to the bed. Then he stops, his eyes focusing on the pen again. “Wait. You used a Sharpie. That’s permanent.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Only the black ones are permanent,” I explain. “I used a blue one.”

“The blue ones are permanent too!” Luke erupts. “Look.” He grabs the pen and brandishes it at me, his finger jabbing at the word. “?‘Permanent.’?”

What?

I grab the pen from him and peer at it. Oh my God, he’s right. It is permanent. I never knew that. I’ve been using Sharpies all these years and I never realized! That’s quite funny, actually….

Then I look up and see Luke’s expression and gulp slightly. Maybe it’s not that funny.

“I have ‘L’ and ‘R’ on my neck,” says Luke in an über-calm voice. “On the wrong sides. And tomorrow I’m meeting the finance minister of Spain.”

“Right. Sorry.” I swallow hard. “Um…you could wear a cravat?”

Luke doesn’t even bother to reply. (I mean, I don’t blame him.)

“I’m really sorry,” I say again in my humblest voice. “I just wanted to get you the perfect Christmas present. And since we’re talking about it,” I add hopefully, “do you prefer any of the aftershaves? I like the one on your left wrist.”

I look at him expectantly, but Luke makes no move to smell his left wrist.

“I like the aftershave I always wear,” he says. “Shall we get some sleep?”





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The next morning, Luke is distinctly on the grouchy side. I say “morning,” but it’s more like the middle of the night. I would have thought that being the boss of your own company would mean you didn’t have to get up at silly o’clock to catch planes, but apparently it doesn’t work like that.

I kiss him goodbye, wincing slightly at the furry texture of his new mustache. (It’s for charity, I keep reminding myself.) As his taxi pulls away, I wave, trying to look as loving and apologetic as I can. Then I head into the kitchen and slump on a chair.

I feel fairly grouchy myself. I didn’t get enough sleep either, and I feel awful that I nearly blinded Luke. The whole thing was a total disaster. I spent ages collecting all those aftershave samples—and all for nothing. Luke doesn’t want a new aftershave. He wants the same old thing. It’s totally against the spirit of Christmas! Imagine if Father Christmas opened his letters and they all said, Dear Santa, please give me the same old thing. He’d go into a decline.

As I switch on the kettle, I remember that annoying guy in Selfridges, telling me that my husband didn’t want a new aftershave. I hate that he was right—and I stand by my reply. Some people are happy to go the extra mile for their husband’s Christmas present. So the coat didn’t work out and the aftershave didn’t work out. I’m undeterred. I feel all the more determined to find something that makes Luke’s jaw drop.