Christmas Shopaholic(4)
“She looks even more scary when she’s gazing at you with her cold metal eyes.” Luke shudders. “Could we not just have given some money to the youth group?”
“That’s not how ethical shopping works, Luke,” I say patiently. “You have to buy the stuff. Anyway, I need to try these on. When are we leaving?”
“Eight minutes,” says Luke. “And counting.”
I dash upstairs, clutching the packages, and quickly try the first jumpsuit on. Hmm. Too long. I grab the regular and put that on instead—then stare at myself in the mirror. At last!
What happened was, last week I was watching a TV show and saw this really cool jumpsuit. So of course I instantly stopped concentrating on the show, grabbed my laptop, and started googling jumpsuits instead. It took me a while to find one that wasn’t sold out—but here we are!
I survey myself, trying to be fully objective. It’s a great fabric. The navy color is elegant, and the flared trousers are really flattering. It’s just the front that I’m peering at uncertainly. Or, rather, the lack of front. It’s even more revealing than the one on TV.
Can I get away with a jumpsuit slashed to the navel?
Can I?
Am I too old?
No. No! Fashion is timeless. You should be able to wear what you like, when you like. All the old rules are gone.
They wear outfits like this on the red carpet all the time, I remind myself, trying to bolster my own confidence. Ribs are the new cleavage. Besides, it’s not indecent. Not strictly speaking. I mean, you can’t see my nipples.
Not quite.
And, OK, so I’m not heading onto the red carpet; I’m heading for dinner with Mum and Dad at Luigi’s of Oxshott—but I can still wear something fashion-forward, can’t I? People will call me the Girl in the Iconic Jumpsuit. They’ll look at me in awe as I sashay past, wishing they could wear something so daring.
Exactly.
Defiantly, I grab a red lipstick and start applying it. I can do this. I can style it out. Go, Becky.
The November air outside is crisp and chilly and I can smell the tang of a bonfire. Across the road they’ve got fairy lights up already. It’ll be Christmas before we know it. At the thought, I feel a warm, happy sensation spread through me. Christmas is just so…Christmassy. The tree. Presents. The Nativity set we’ve had forever (except we lost baby Jesus years ago, so we use a clothes peg instead). Carols playing and Mum pretending she made the Christmas pudding. Dad lighting a fire, and Janice and Martin popping in for a sherry in terrible Christmas sweaters.
The thing about our family Christmas is, it’s always the same. In a good way. Mum always buys the same things, from the crackers to the Waitrose chocolate roll. Now that we have Minnie, we all get even more excited—and this year she’ll be old enough to really understand it. I’ll buy her a cute Christmas outfit and we’ll look out for Father Christmas in the sky and leave out a mince pie for him….Basically, I can’t wait.
Luke’s dad and sister are going to Florida for Christmas, and to be fair, they invited us along. His mum, Elinor, is going to be in the Hamptons, and she invited us too. But we’ve declined both invitations. We both want a nice, normal, happy family Christmas.
As I buckle Minnie into her car seat, I look back at our house and feel a familiar tweak of disbelief at how life has changed for Luke and me over the last year or so. Once upon a time we lived in central London and I worked at a department store called The Look. We knew where we were heading, and everything seemed settled.
Then we went on this massive, life-changing adventure to California—and while we were away, The Look went bust. And openings for other personal-shopping jobs were pretty thin on the ground. At the same time, my best friend, Suze, decided to expand her gift shop at Letherby Hall, the stately home where she lives. (It was more of a gift “cupboard” till then.) I was having a glass of wine with her one evening and bewailing the fact that I couldn’t find a job, while she was bewailing the fact that she couldn’t find anyone to help run the gift shop—and asking me for all my ideas—when the solution hit us.
So now I’m an employee of Letherby Hall Gift Shop! Not only that, Luke and I have moved out of London to the village of Letherby. We’re three minutes away from Suze, living in a house owned by a family who have gone to Dubai for two years. We’ve rented out our London house. Luke commutes to his job, and Minnie has joined the village school with all of Suze’s kids. It’s perfect! The shopping isn’t that brilliant in Letherby—but you can get everything online, next-day delivery. So it’s all good.
Mum and Dad are thrilled, too, because 1. Letherby isn’t too far from Oxshott, where they live, and 2. our rented house has off-street parking. Off-street parking is, like, my parents’ religion. That and double glazing. And “good quality” curtains.
(Though Mum and I don’t exactly agree on what “good quality” curtains means. We discovered this when she dragged me to a curtain exchange place and tried to make me buy some wadded blue flowery curtains, which were “a fraction of what they’d cost new, Becky, love, a fraction.” At last I said, “Actually, I might get blinds,” and she looked devastated and said, “But these are such good quality!” and I said, “But they’re gross.” Which I shouldn’t have done.)
(I mean, it was fine. Mum was only offended for about half an hour. And every time I visit her, I say, “Those curtains look great in the spare room, Mum, and the matching duvet is gorgeous.”)