Christmas Shopaholic(51)

“Oh, Bex,” says Suze, looking torn. “I would have loved to. But I’ve got this big project I want to finish over the next couple of days. I’m going to have to say no.”

“What big project?” I stare at her in surprise. This is the first time I’ve heard of any big project.

“Just…something for the shop,” she says vaguely. “You’ll see.”

“What?” I demand.

“It’s a secret. You’ll like it,” she adds with a grin. “I promise. In fact, you’ll love it. But I need all of Thursday to get it done.”

“OK. No worries.”

I think for a moment, wondering who else I can ask. Jess is in Cumbria, and she wouldn’t approve of the Christmas Style Fair, anyway. She’d stride around, gazing sternly at the stallholders, telling them they shouldn’t sell chili-pepper fairy lights, they should make candles out of recycled chilis, or just sit in the dark as nature intended.

Then I have an idea. I take out my phone and text Janice:

Hi, Janice! Do you want to come to the Christmas Style Fair on Thursday with me? I have a spare ticket. Becky xxx



Almost at once I get an answer:

Oh, love, how wonderful! Yes, please! Looking forward to it already! Janice xxx



She sounds so excited, I feel a glow of pleasure. Janice was exactly the right person to ask. I’ll book her a nice lunch and everything. It’ll be fun!

Will send you electronic ticket and see you in there. Yay! Becky xxx



I’m about to put my phone away when another text arrives from Janice:

Aren’t you going with your mum, though? Or is she too busy in “Shoreditch”? Janice xxx



Oh God. Look at those quote marks. Those are totally snippy quote marks. I don’t want to stir up any trouble between them, so I think for a moment, then send back a deliberately vague answer:

She’s busy! Never mind, we’ll have fun! Better go now! xx



As I put my phone away, Suze glances at her watch and moves toward the shop door to open it. But I don’t feel we’re quite done with our conversation.

“Suze, wait,” I say impulsively, and she turns round.

“What?”

“I know you mean well,” I say earnestly. “But you mustn’t worry. I’m not going to have an affair with Craig.”

“Well, just don’t, will you?” she returns with energy. “Because it would ruin Christmas.”

Ruin Christmas? OK, even though I’m absolutely not planning on committing adultery, I have to take issue with this statement.

“No, it wouldn’t,” I contradict her. “No one would know.”

“Yes, they would,” Suze scoffs. “You’re hopeless at keeping secrets, Bex. You’d probably come in on Christmas Day and say, ‘What do you think of my Having an Affair skirt? Isn’t it fab?’?”

I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.



* * *



—

For the rest of the day, we’re really busy in the shop and neither of us mentions Craig, so I assume this means the subject is over. We sell a stack of Suze’s homemade photo frames (on special offer), two walking sticks, a tweed coat, a couple of hampers, and loads of jam. At lunchtime Suze and I help Irene find a nice sweater for her niece in Australia, after visiting about six hundred websites, tabbing them all, and nearly crashing the computer. (I hadn’t realized quite how indecisive Irene was.)

But then, as we’re all walking out at the end of the day, Suze pulls me back, saying in fake tones, “Oh, Bex, there was something I just wanted to mention.”

She waits until Irene is well out of earshot, then clears her throat and stares at me as though she doesn’t know where to begin.

“What?” I say, puzzled.

“OK,” says Suze in a rush. “Here’s what happened. I googled Craig to see what kind of guy he is.”

“Suze.” I glare at her. “Are you still obsessing about that?”

“I know, I know.” Suze looks abashed. “It’s none of my business. But, anyway, I found this interview online, and…Well. I think you should see it.” She proffers her phone and I stare at an incomprehensible stream of text, accompanied by a photo of Craig.

“It’s in…” I make a face. “What’s that language?”

“Oh, sorry, that’s the original,” says Suze without blinking. “It’s Latvian. You have to put it through Google Translate.”

“Which I assume you’ve done already,” I say pointedly. “Because you’re an obsessive stalker.”

“Just look at this,” says Suze, holding out an English version. “I’ve highlighted bits.”

As I take the phone, I suddenly wonder if he mentioned me in the interview. Oh my God! What if he says all his inspiration is down to his first love, Becky Bloomwood, and he should never have let me go? What if I’m famous in Latvia?

But as I peer at the screen, I can’t see the name “Becky” anywhere. Instead, a different word jumps out at me: orgies.

“Orgies,” says Suze, pointing at it as though I can’t read, and I roll my eyes at her.

“What do you mean? Suze, what is this? Does he mention me?” I can’t help adding.