Christmas Shopaholic(26)

“Portmanteau!” I can’t help interrupting. “I knew it had a name!”

“I’m afraid it is not for sale. It is the prize in our Christmas raffle.”

A raffle? That’s just typical.

“Well, can I buy a ticket for the raffle, please?” I ask. “In fact…several tickets?”

I’ll buy as many tickets as I can afford, I instantly decide. I mean, someone’s got to win, haven’t they? And why shouldn’t it be me?

“The raffle is only open to members,” says the man discouragingly.

“Oh,” I say, deflated. “Right. I see.”

How do I get round this? Could I ask one of the ninety-three-year-olds to buy me twenty tickets, maybe? I could compliment his elbow patches and take it from there….

“How much are the tickets?” I ask casually. “Just out of interest.”

“Twenty pounds,” says the man, and I stare at him, appalled.

Twenty pounds? Twenty pounds? For one raffle ticket? That’s not right. It’s against the laws of raffles. If I were a member of this club, I would be complaining.

“Was there anything else?” says the man, raising his eyebrows.

Honestly, he doesn’t need to sound so snotty. I’m tempted to say, “Yes, actually, I’m a sherry inspector and I’ve come to see if your trolley’s up to scratch.”

“I suppose not,” I say at last. “Thanks, anyway. So why are you called London Billiards?” I can’t help asking. “What happened to the ‘Parlour Music’ bit?”

“The parlour music declined,” says the man disapprovingly, although whether he disapproves of parlour music or of the fact that it declined is hard to tell.

They could do with a bit of parlour music round here, if you ask me.

If the parlour music were Beyoncé, and the parlour were a disco.

“Well, bye, then,” I say. “Good luck with the billiards.”

I head unwillingly toward the door, my eyes fixed on the portmanteau. It would be so perfect…so perfect….And then suddenly a new thought strikes me.

“Excuse me,” I say, striding back to the desk. “Could you please furnish me with the name and details of whoever made the portmanteau?”

I’m quite pleased with “furnish me with.” It sounds suitably pretentious.

I can tell the man is trying to think of a reason to say no but can’t quite manage it.

“Very well,” he says at last. He opens a ledger, leafs through the pages, squints at an entry, then laboriously writes out all the information on a slip of paper. It’s someone called Adam Sandford, in Worcestershire.

“Thank you so much.” I beam at him.

This is even better. I’ll commission Luke his own special portmanteau! There’s no time like the present, so I send Adam Sandford a quick email, standing on the street. Then, feeling satisfied with myself, I decide to go to Hamleys toy shop. I cut through the Burlington Arcade, which is full of the most gorgeous twinkly trees and massive red baubles, and onto Regent Street, all lit up with angels.

As I get near the iconic red banners of Hamleys, I feel a spring in my step. A machine is pumping bubbles into the air outside the shop, Christmas music is blasting through speakers, and two elves in stripy tights are handing out shopping baskets. I’m about to take one, when I feel a buzzing in my pocket and pull out my phone. It’s him! Adam Sandford has replied already!

But as I read his words, my delight evaporates.


Dear Mrs. Brandon, née Bloomwood:

Thank you so much for your inquiry regarding the portmanteau. I would be delighted to craft one for your husband, but I’m sure you will understand that it is a time-consuming process to make such a bespoke item and that I have a waiting list. I estimate I should have one ready for you in approx. 36 months. Would that suit?

Yours kindly,

Adam Sandford



Thirty-six months? Three years? What good is that?

“Excuse me!” says a woman holding about six Hamleys carrier bags, and I quickly turn away. I walk along disconsolately, thinking hard. Now I’ve seen that portmanteau, every other present idea for Luke seems really lame. Should I go and visit Adam Sandford? Or ask him to recommend another portmanteau maker? But why would he recommend a rival? Unless maybe his son went into the trade…

And then, out of the blue, the answer hits me.



* * *



—

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside the London Billiards and Parlour Music Club, Est. 1816, again. Here’s my plan: I’m going to join the club and enter the raffle. And if I don’t win, I’ll persuade the person who does win to sell it to me. Perfect! You probably need references or whatever to join the club, but I’m sure I can busk that. OK. Let’s go.

Straightening my back, I enter the club and stride up to the desk, where the same ninety-three-year-old man as before is sitting. He eyes me dubiously, but I draw breath before he can say anything.

“Hello, again! My name is Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, and I would like to join the London Billiards and Parlour Music Club,” I announce grandly. “My reference is Tarquin Cleath-Stuart, whose ancestor founded billiards in 1743.”

This might not actually be true, but they’ll never know, and I can easily make Tarkie go along with it.