Christmas Shopaholic(32)

I hand Jess her present, and as she starts to unwrap it, I look around the flat, taking it in properly. It’s got floor-to-ceiling windows, a teal velvet sofa, and amazing light fittings everywhere. And there’s Dad, in faded jeans and a long-sleeved gray marl T-shirt, mixing espresso martinis at the copper cocktail bar, while Janice and Martin sit on industrial barstools.

I can’t help gaping at Dad, just like I gaped at Mum. My dad never wears a long-sleeved T-shirt. He never wears jeans. The most relaxed look I’ve ever seen him in before is a golf-club polo shirt.

“Happy new home, Dad!” I say, giving him the champagne and kissing him. “This is amazing!”

“You like it, Becky?” Dad is glowing.

“It’s so different!”

“It’s very different, isn’t it, love?” says Janice in a tremulous voice. “Very different.” She’s wearing a particularly swirly floral two-piece with a pleated skirt and looks quite incongruous, perched on her industrial barstool, glancing around nervously as though she’s found herself in the middle of the Gobi Desert.

“Espresso martini, Martin!” says Dad cheerfully, and hands him a cocktail glass. Martin stares at it dubiously, then takes a small sip.

“Quite refreshing,” he says after a pause.

“Minnie, darling, here’s some juice for you….” Dad gives her a beaker and she sits down cross-legged and starts to sip contentedly. “And a gin and tonic for you, Janice, was it? Now, what sort of gin?”

“What sort of gin?” Janice’s eyes swivel about uncertainly, as though it’s a trick question. “Um…Gordon’s?” she whispers.

“Janice!” chides Dad. “Be more adventurous! We went to an artisan gin tasting the other night. This one is Japanese.” He brandishes a bottle at Janice. “Try this.”

“Lovely!” says Janice, looking disconcerted. “I’m sure.” She watches Dad slicing up a cucumber, then adds, “We missed you at the bridge club. Everyone was saying, ‘What a shame the Bloomwoods aren’t here.’?”

“We’re going to start poker nights!” says Mum, breezing over to the bar and opening a bag of beetroot crisps.

“Poker!” says Janice. “Goodness!”

“Thanks, Becky,” comes Jess’s voice behind me, and I turn to see her holding the bottle of sludgy green body lotion.

“What do you think?” I ask eagerly, studying her face for signs of pleasure. “It’s vegan and the bottle is recycled glass, and the box is made from sustainable cardboard.”

“I saw that.” She nods expressionlessly. “Thanks.”

I feel a tweak of frustration. Couldn’t Jess just once exclaim, “Oh my God, I love it!” and fling her arms around me?

“I know you’re anti-consumerist and everything,” I add. “But I thought this would be OK because it was made by a women’s collective.”

“Yes. I read the label. It’s a good initiative.”

I stare at her calm face, willing her to say more. I know it’s really pathetic of me, but I want her approval. I want her to say, “Wow, Becky, it’s the perfect present!”

“You have to admit, it’s an environmentally friendly choice,” I say with a light laugh. “Ticks every box. I mean, it’s pretty perfect, isn’t it? Nothing you can object to.”

“Well,” says Jess, then stops.

“What?” I narrow my eyes at her.

“I appreciate it, Becky. It was very thoughtful and generous of you. You’re always generous. Thank you.” She puts it down on a side table. “So, what’s new? How’s Minnie getting on at school?”

She’s dodging the question.

“What?” I demand. “What’s wrong with my present? Why isn’t it perfect? Tell me!”

Jess sighs. “Well, the packaging is problematic. But you must realize that.” She gestures at the plastic film on the box.

“It’s fully recyclable,” I say in bewilderment. “I checked. It says, Fully recyclable.”

Jess just gives me a blank stare. “We can’t ‘recycle’ our way out of the plastic pollution catastrophe that’s devastating our planet in its thoughtless surge of consumerism,” she says. “Although thanks again,” she adds as an afterthought. “As I say, it was thoughtful of you.”

I can feel my shoulders slumping. Great. Every time I think I’m green enough for Jess, she goes even greener. I’m going to get her something so green for Christmas, she won’t know it, I silently vow. I’ll get her…leaves.

A buzzer sounds, and Mum picks up an entryphone receiver. “Hello? Oh, Suzie! Come on up! Third floor!”

“You’re going for the facial-hair look, I see, Luke!” says Dad in a jovial voice. “Very ‘now.’ What do you think of Luke’s mustache, Becky?”

My head jerks up and I realize everyone’s looking at me. Shit. OK, I need to be supportive.

“I think it’s a brilliant charity effort,” I reply, hedging, “and everyone must sponsor Luke.”

“We can get you some mustache oil for Christmas, Luke!” says Janice, and my smile turns to a rictus of dismay. Mustache oil?