Christmas Shopaholic(23)

Anyway, it was all a long time ago. We all went out with weird people when we didn’t know any better. When I first met Luke, he was going out with a totally snooty girl called Sacha de Bonneville, so he can talk. (Why am I having an argument with Luke about this in my head? I have no idea.)

I put the last toffee tin in place and shake back my hair. It’s just one of those strange, random coincidences. And Suze is right: If Craig throws a Christmas party, we should go. Maybe famous people will be there. Or maybe he’ll play some new song and we’ll be the first to hear it.

Maybe he can get us VIP tickets to his next concert! I feel like I suddenly have a whole new status symbol which I can drop casually into conversation: “Well, of course, I used to date a rock musician….” “Well, of course, I was always his inspiration….” “Well, of course, he wrote a song about me….”

And then I freeze. Oh my God. What if he did write a song about me?





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    Craig Curton

    Craig Curton Becky Bloomwood

    Craig Curton lyrics

    Craig Curton songs inspired by unnamed mystery woman

    Craig Curton celebrity friends

    Sacha de Bonneville

    Venetia Carter

    talking mermaid

    Heidi Klum





By the next morning I’ve googled the lyrics of every single song I can find written by Craig Curton. I’ve listened to snippets of them all and peered at the videos and I still can’t work out if any of them are about me.

I’m definitely not in his best-known song, “Lonesome Girl.” It starts off, “She’s mesmerizing,” and at first I thought, Ooh, that could be me; I’m quite mesmerizing. But then it continues: “She’s everywhere, she’s in the air, feel the pain, know the pain.” What pain? Anyway, I’m not lonesome. So. Not me.

Then there’s a song called “Girl Who Broke My Heart,” but she’s got “French lips, French kisses, French soul, French heart.” So I’m guessing that’s not me either.

I’d better not be the inspiration for the woman in “Twenty-third Century,” because it says, “What will you learn from her?” and the answer is, “Hate, only hate, twisted hate.” Which isn’t exactly very cheery.

In fact, none of Craig’s music is cheery. It’s quite thrashy and shouty, and the lyrics are depressing. It’s far better to watch his videos with the sound off. (I probably won’t mention that to him.)

I’ve also followed him on Instagram, and he’s pretty cool. He doesn’t ever seem to wear anything except leather, ripped T-shirts, studded boots, and stubble. His Instagram feed is full of photos of him in smoke-filled bars with girls lounging about—and all the girls are very beautiful, with nose rings and tattoos and electric-blue eye shadow. He always did like parties. I remember that. When we were going out, I went to more parties than in the whole of the rest of my life. I don’t think I did a single bit of work.

Even when we weren’t partying, we kept pretty extreme hours. I remember we used to stay up way into the night, burning joss sticks, lying on the floor, and staring at the ceiling. Craig would play the guitar softly and talk about South American politics, which was really important to him. I didn’t know that much about South American politics—but I was doing a Spanish module at the time, so I would casually drop in Spanish phrases like “?Qué pena!” I felt special, as though we were solving the world’s problems, along to a great acoustic soundtrack—

“Excuse me!”

An elderly woman’s voice penetrates my memories and I blink into reality. I’m standing on Jermyn Street, surrounded by Christmas shoppers, blocking the entrance to a shop. Oops.

“Sorry!” I say, and as I step away I feel a stab of guilt. OK, I need to stop thinking about my ex. Focus, Becky, focus. Christmas shopping is my task; I’ve taken the day off especially. Christmas shopping.

I take a few steps forward, looking around all the decorated shop fronts, getting myself back in the zone. There are twinkly Christmas lights all around, which helps, and I can hear “Last Christmas” being piped from somewhere. (I love that song.)

Last night I skimmed through a few holiday magazines, which really got me in the mood. God, I love glossy-magazine land. You turn the pages in a happy stupor, staring at amazing decorations and women laughing while they drink champagne in sparkly tops, and you think, Oh my God, I want all of this and I definitely need a new sequined top and I hope Mum buys that Christmas pudding with the orange inside.

But this year, of course, it’s me buying the Christmas pudding. I’m in charge. I sometimes feel a little weak at the responsibility that has been handed to me. However, thankfully, the magazines were full of useful tips—for example, the “must-have tree ornament” this year is a silver llama with glittery hair and world peace embroidered on its side in pink. To be honest, I hadn’t realized there was such a thing as a “must-have tree ornament.” But there it was in every magazine, so I’ve ordered six. We’re going to have the most on-trend tree ever!

The magazines also said you should book your supermarket delivery early, so I did that too. In fact, I did it twice. I’ve got one delivery arriving on December 23, with the turkey and all the important stuff—and then a second one on Christmas Eve, in case I forget anything. Talk about organized!