Christmas Shopaholic(70)

“Stop it. You’re just winding me up.”

“?‘Does Father Christmas…not love me?’?” continues Suze, in a broken, gulping voice. “?‘Wasn’t I good, Mummy? Is that why he brought me this grotty old picnic hamper that I’ve lost all interest in?’?”

“Shut up!” I can’t help giggling. “You’re evil!”

“Nice pinny, by the way,” says Suze, finally relenting and gesturing at my new festive apron.

“Oh,” I say, mollified. “D’you like it? I got it at the— Ooh!” I interrupt myself. “D’you want it for Christmas?”

“Bex, stop it!” Suze exclaims in exasperation. “Stop trying to give me all your new stuff! We’re giving each other Christmas presents from our own possessions,” she explains to Jess. “You know, to be non-consumerist and everything.”

“Sound idea.” Jess nods.

“Only Suze won’t even hint at what she wants,” I say reproachfully.

“In some cultures, if you admire another person’s possession, they immediately give it to you,” says Jess.

“Oh my God,” says Suze with a giggle. “Can you imagine? Bex and I would be constantly stripping off and swapping everything we own. ‘Nice shoes, Bex.’ ‘Have them!’ ‘Nice lashes, Suze.’ ‘Have them!’?”

I can’t help smirking at the idea of Suze standing in the middle of a drinks party, peeling off her fake lashes and holding them out to me.

“Lashes?” says Jess, puzzled. “You mean false eyelashes?”

“Well…yes,” says Suze.

“You wear false eyelashes, Suze?” Jess seems appalled, and I hastily back away before she asks me if I do too.

“Sometimes,” says Suze cautiously, and Jess fixes her with a concerned stare.

“Don’t you think it a tragedy that you feel the need to augment your own body according to inherently sexist stereotypes?”

“Just for parties,” says Suze. “They’re organic, I think,” she adds evasively, gazing at the ceiling.

She’s crossing her fingers behind her back. They are so not organic.

“Ooh,” Suze adds hastily as the doorbell rings. “Is that your mum and dad, Bex?”

Thank God, because I feel like Jess was about to start quizzing me on why I brush my hair, because hairbrushes are sexist or something. As I quickly sprinkle pink edible glitter all over the buttercream, I hear Luke’s footsteps in the hall and a moment later the distinctive sound of Mum’s voice: “Luke! Minnie, darling, happy birthday!”

I thrust a model of a sparkly fairy on top of the cake, then cover the whole thing up with a giant-sized wooden salad bowl that I ordered slightly by mistake.

(OK, totally by mistake. This is the trouble with online shopping: You can’t tell how big anything is. I mean, I know they say fifty-four centimeters. But who knows what fifty-four centimeters looks like? No one. Exactly.)

I take off my apron, then hurry out of the kitchen to find Mum and Dad taking off their coats in the hall.

OK. Wow. I blink a few times, trying to get my head round their appearance. Somehow I’d forgotten about my parents’ whole new look. I’d imagined them arriving today in traditional Oxshott clothes. Maybe a blazer; maybe a floral shirtwaister.

But, oh no. Mum’s in a psychedelic print dress and weird necklace extending down to her navel, woven out of…is that cassette tape? Instead of her usual handbag, slung over her shoulder is a satchel reading Postal Worker. Meanwhile, Dad is wearing a strange black woolen draped hat, together with a graphic Rick and Morty T-shirt and skinny stonewashed jeans. Every item makes me wince. The skinny jeans frankly look uncomfortable, and I don’t believe Dad’s ever watched Rick and Morty in his life.

But I must be supportive.

“Hi!” I greet them each with a warm hug. “How’s everything? How’s Shoreditch?” I stop and stare downward. “Wait, what happened to your foot?”

Dad’s left foot is all wrapped up in a bandage. And there’s a crutch propped up against the wall, I notice.

“Oh, nothing much!” says Dad at once, giving his coat to Mum and picking up the crutch. “Just a little, um…encounter with the ground. Now, how’s that lovely granddaughter of mine?”

As Dad hobbles after Minnie into the sitting room, I turn to Mum.

“What happened?”

“Oh, love,” she says, lowering her voice. “Dad’s a bit sensitive about it. He fell off his unicycle.”

“Oh no!” I say in horror.

“It wasn’t his fault,” adds Mum defensively. “He’s getting very good. But he was practicing in the green space on the roof and one of the community bees stung him. He got such a shock, he fell off.”

“Poor Dad!” I say, wincing. “Well, I’ve made some avocado sandwiches, that’ll cheer him up.”

“Oh, Becky, love.” Mum lowers her voice even further. “I haven’t told you the bad news, have I?” She pauses and I feel a flutter of fear. “Dad’s discovered he’s intolerant to avocado.”

She looks so distraught, I have a sudden urge to laugh, which is wrong.

“Yes.” She exhales. “He went to the doctor. He’s had to give it up. I’ve given up, too, in sympathy.”