Christmas Shopaholic(40)

“Steph, you’re not a misery, he’s a bastard!” I say fiercely. “You’re amazing! You’re strong and positive and always there for Harvey. Anyway, who has time for fun? We’re all too busy making pictures out of spaghetti!”

I’m trying to make Steph smile, and at last she gives a kind of half laugh.

“I’ve got three boxes I haven’t unpacked since I moved out of my flat in Fulham,” I tell her, for good measure. “I’ve got no idea what’s in them. And if your husband wants the boxes unpacked, why doesn’t he do it?”

Steph gives another half laugh, but she doesn’t answer the question, and I don’t feel I know her well enough to delve any deeper.

“What about your mum?” I venture. “What does she say about all this?”

“I haven’t told her,” admits Steph, after a pause. “You’re the only person I’ve told, Becky.”

“Tell her!” I say impulsively, even though I don’t know anything about Steph’s mum.

“Maybe.” Steph bites her lip, then musters a smile. “I’d better go. You must have to go too. Thanks.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I say, a bit helplessly.

“You did.” She leans to give me a quick, tight hug. “I appreciate it, Becky. Let me drive you to work.”

Steph drops me at the gates to Letherby Hall and I hurry up the tree-lined drive to the main house. As I enter the gift shop, I’m all ready to explain away my delay to Suze—but instead it’s Tarquin, her husband, who greets me.

I’ve known Tarkie for years. He’s had his ups and downs, but he’s in great form at the moment. Since we all got back from the States, he’s thrown himself into running Letherby Hall with real drive. He’s had loads of good ideas for the business and talks to Luke a lot about it, and Luke says he thinks Tarquin is really stepping into his role.

On the other hand, he’s still quite weird. In a lovable, Tarkie-ish way. Today he’s wearing a shrunken, holey rugby shirt, which I’m quite sure he’s had since school, and his eyes have an intense look to them as he draws breath.

“I hear we’re coming to you for Christmas, Becky,” he says. “Marvelous!”

“Yes!” I say brightly. “I hope it’ll be fun!”

“I know it’s early days to talk specifics,” Tarkie presses on. “But you’re probably already thinking about entertainment on the day. I ask because the Met is broadcasting a performance of Parsifal on Christmas Day.”

“Is that…Wagner?” I hazard, because Tarkie is a total Wagner nut.

“His most sublime, transporting opera.” Tarkie blinks at me. “A masterpiece. And I was thinking we could gather around your television and watch it after lunch. I think it would be terribly stimulating for the children.”

A Wagner opera? On Christmas Day?

“Wow,” I say, trying not to give away my horror. “That sounds…you know. Fab. I mean, I love Wagner—who doesn’t? Only, I’m just thinking, is it very Christmassy?”

“It’s timeless,” says Tarkie earnestly. “It’s inspiring. The prelude alone is a Christmas gift for anyone. Taa daaah daaah hmm hmm…” He starts humming, his gaze fixed unnervingly on mine. “Taa aah daaa dee daaah—”

“Tarkie!” To my huge relief, Suze’s shrill voice interrupts him. She’s striding toward us, fixing Tarkie with a suspicious gaze. “Are you singing Wagner? You know the rule: no Wagner in the shop.”

“Tarkie was just saying how Parsifal is being shown on Christmas Day,” I say brightly. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“We’re not watching bloody Wagner on Christmas Day!” Suze erupts, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.

“I’m simply trying to help with entertainment,” says Tarkie defensively. “Opera is a form that everyone can enjoy, young and old.”

“No, it’s not,” retorts Suze. “It’s a form that turns most people into rigid statues because they’re so bored, but they can’t leave the room because the opera lover says, ‘Shhh!’ when they even twitch a muscle. And it goes on for six hours.”

“Parsifal does not go on for six hours…” begins Tarkie, but Suze ignores him.

“I think Christmas is all about the children.” She turns to me. “I think we should have craft activities, finger paint, glitter, all that kind of stuff.”

My heart slightly sinks. Craft again? We’re talking about Christmas Day here. Christmas isn’t about finger painting. It’s about sitting on the sofa, eating Quality Street chocolates, and watching Christmas specials on TV while the dads try to find batteries for all the new toys and break half of them and the children end up crying. That’s tradition.

“We could do, I suppose,” I say carefully. “Except Jess thinks glitter is evil.”

“Hmm.” Suze bites her lip in thought. “We could make Play-Doh?”

“Maybe,” I say, trying to sound more enthused than I feel. “Or just watch telly?”

“OK, well, let’s wait till we see what’s on telly,” says Suze. “Then we can make a plan. Oh, and by the way, I can pick up Aphrodite and Hermes tonight,” she adds, changing the subject. “The forklift truck is back from the menders. I’ll bring one of the men.”