Christmas Shopaholic(66)

“Ha ha.” I roll my eyes.

“Poor Bex.” Suze suddenly relents. “I see you’ve washed the blue dye out of your hair. And where are your killer slutty boots? Are you ever going to wear them again?”

“They’re upstairs,” I say with dignity. “And of course I’ll wear them again, upon the right occasion.”

“I like the killer slutty boots,” says Luke cheerfully. “Don’t knock the killer slutty boots. Does anyone want coffee?”

“No, thanks,” I say. “We’re about to go and meet Jess for lunch, and you’re picking up Minnie, remember?”

“Actually, those boots are really nice,” says Suze, her eyes focusing on my feet. “Are those new?”

“Yes! Brand new!”

They’re a pair of caramel ankle boots, which I’d forgotten I ordered until they arrived this morning. I turn this way and that to show them off to Suze—then it hits me. Is this a hint?

“Suze, have them,” I say impulsively.

“Have them?”

“For Christmas!” I start tugging one off. “Try them on!”

“No! I’m not having your brand-new boots that you’ve never even worn!” says Suze, almost crossly. “Put that back on, Bex. We should get going. What are you going to do with your cake?”

“Dunno,” I admit, squirming my foot back into its boot.

“That’s a cake?” says Luke in astonishment, peering at the misshapen pile of sponge and buttercream on the counter. “I thought—” He stops himself. “I mean, Minnie will love it, whatever.”

“Put it in the freezer,” advises Suze. “Then make some more buttercream and pile it on top. You can’t have too much buttercream. And spray it with edible glitter,” she adds airily. “It’ll be fine. Come on, let’s go.”



* * *



—

I’ve been really looking forward to visiting a packaging-free shop—and as I walk into Waste Not Foods, I feel a blinding revelation. This is where we should shop. All the time! Here!

I mean, look at it. There are rustic wooden boxes filled with earthy potatoes and carrots. There are eggs with feathers still on them. And there are loads of big glass jars, like in old-fashioned sweets shops, filled with nuts and oats and stuff like that. You just help yourself! It’s genius!

“Hi,” says a girl behind the till. She has a nose ring and hair tied up with twine and is wearing one of those brown linen artist-type tops that I always half-want to buy but that actually make me look like a sack.

Not that she looks like a sack.

I mean, OK, she does a tiny bit, but she probably doesn’t mind looking like a sack.

“Hi!” I beam at her. “Fab shop!”

There are festive brown burlap stockings hung up by the door, each containing a fair-trade chocolate bar wrapped in recycled paper, an eco–coffee cup, and a copy of a book called How We’re All Doomed. I am so coming back here to buy one for Jess. She’ll love it!

“Are you going to buy anything?” I say to Suze.

“Yes, I need rice,” she says, pulling two plastic ice-cream tubs out of her tote. “And maybe some pasta. And the sweet potatoes look good, don’t they?” As she speaks, she produces an extra cotton shopping tote and shakes out a couple of brown paper bags.

I stare at all her bags and tubs, feeling discomfited. “Did you bring those with you?”

“Well, yes,” says Suze, sounding surprised. “Of course I did. There isn’t any packaging, Bex. You have to bring your own receptacles.”

Right.

I mean, obviously, I knew that. It’s just…

Oh God. Why didn’t I bring a few tubs and things? I haven’t even got a bag for life with me, I realize with a jolt of horror. But I’m not going to admit that. No way.

As I wander around the jars of spices and pulses, I feel both inspired and stressed out. I want everything here! Only I need some packaging. I need a tub or bag or something….

Then, thankfully, I spot a shelf behind the till holding some glass wide-necked jars. Excellent. I’ll buy a load of jars and pretend that’s what I intended to do all along.

“Hello!” I say, approaching the girl at the till. “Your shop is so inspiring. I’m totally giving up on packaging.”

“Oh, good,” she says.

“So, could I have thirty jars, please? Fifteen tall and fifteen short?”

“Thirty jars?” She stares at me.

“To put stuff in,” I explain.

I’m never having packets again, I’ve decided. I can just see my kitchen, looking like something out of Livingetc, with labeled matching jars lined up neatly. It’ll be amazing!

But the girl is frowning dubiously.

“I don’t even have thirty jars in stock,” she says. “Can you carry thirty glass jars?”

Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.

“Most people bring old plastic tubs,” she continues. “We encourage recycling as much as possible. Didn’t you bring anything?” She looks at my empty hands. “Nothing at all?”

She doesn’t need to sound so condescending.

“I’m plastic-free,” I retort in a supercilious voice. “All right, I’ll have six jars for now, please.”