Christmas Shopaholic(77)

And, yes, it has occurred to me to give up on the idea. What Luke said last night is true: You can’t do everything. I know sod-all about billiards. Luke doesn’t even know about the portmanteau. I could buy him an aftershave gift set and he’d be delighted and life would be easier.

But all this Christmas hassle has made me even more resolute. Maybe I can’t reconcile Mum and Janice right now. Maybe I can’t make my garlands stay up. But I can give a speech about billiards to a load of men with elbow patches.

As I arrive at the club, it’s all lit up with extra candles in brass holders, and members are milling around with glasses in their hands. It looks almost alive and kicking. I approach the ninety-three-year-old behind the desk, and he gives me his familiar “go away” look.

“Hello,” I say politely. “I believe Lord Edwin Tottle is expecting me?”

“Lord Tottle has been delayed,” replies the man, reaching for a note on a piece of paper and surveying it. “He will arrive presently.”

My heart sinks in dismay. Edwin’s not here? I thought he would usher me around and tell me what to do.

“No problem!” I reply, trying to sound assured. “Did he have any other message?” I add, seeing that the note is full of writing.

“Yes,” says the man reluctantly. “He asked me to relay the following: ‘Give ’em hell, I know you can do it, Becky. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’?”

“Thank you,” I say. “So…can I go in?”

“Special dispensation has been granted to you,” says the man in tones of supreme disapproval. “By Sir Peter Leggett-Davey himself.”

He hands me a cardboard slip reading Guest Pass, and I put it in my pocket.

“Thanks!” I say, feeling a bit more bouncy. “Well, here’s to a lovely evening. What’s your name?” I add.

“Sidney,” says the man distantly.

“Hi, Sidney! I’m Becky, but you knew that. And what time is the AGM?”

“The AGM commenced at four o’clock this afternoon,” says Sidney, pointing at the wooden double doors. “I believe your…item is number fifty-six on the agenda. Please help yourself to sherry.”

I collect a drink and head through the double doors to find that the massive room with the fireplace has been rejigged for the AGM. There’s a big long table, at which five ninety-three-year-olds sit facing the audience. Then there are rows of chairs, mostly empty, with a few ninety-three-year-olds sitting here and there, sipping sherry and listening. Or sleeping, in some cases.

As I sit down, I’m not surprised. Some guy with a white beard is intoning in the most boring voice I’ve ever heard, “Item fifty-four: the works in the lower middle dining room. The Works Committee has reported back on the quotation, and I would like to draw attention to the following points….”

He drones on a bit about woodworm and I tune out, looking around the room. I suddenly notice that the prizes for the raffle have been arranged on a table. There’s the portmanteau and a case of sherry and a book about billiards. As soon as I become a member, I’m buying my tickets, I resolve. That very minute.

My eye moves along the row I’m sitting in and I blink in astonishment at a familiar face. It’s…Who is that? A dad from school? I rack my brains for a moment, till it comes to me. It’s the guy! It’s Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf from Selfridges! What’s he doing here? He’s not ninety-three!

As he sees me looking at him, his face registers astonishment, too, and he moves along the row to sit nearer.

“Hello again,” he says in an interested undertone. “You must be the woman.”

“What woman?”

“The woman trying to change two hundred years of tradition.”

“Oh,” I say proudly. “Yes, I am, actually. Are you a member?”

“No, I’m here as a proxy,” he says. “My father sent me along to vote against you.”

Against me?

“You haven’t even heard my case!” I hiss indignantly, because we’re getting some looks from a few nearby ninety-three-year-olds. “How do you know you want to vote against me?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought.” He shrugs. “It’s my father’s club, not mine. I’m only here to do him a favor.”

“Well, think now!” I snap. “I’ve come here in the spirit of modernity. The spirit of fellowship. The spirit of billiards.” I eye him significantly, just as the white-bearded guy at the front says, “Item fifty-five: members’ news. Any information for the London Clubs’ newsletter should be submitted to Alan Westhall by this Friday. Item fifty-six: membership of Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood.”

It’s me! I’m up! My heart gives an almighty bound of nerves and I get to my feet, scrabbling for my speech.

My speech.

Where the hell is my speech?

“Something wrong?” says Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf, as I delve furiously in my bag.

“Nothing,” I say, looking up, my face hot. I know my speech is in my bag. I know it. But I’ve tried every compartment and I can’t find it. I should never have bought a bag with compartments, I think murderously. It’s much better when it’s all just one giant mess.

Suddenly I notice the double doors opening and a surge of ninety-three-year-olds appears, all holding glasses of sherry and chatting. They start to fill the seats, most of them giving me some sort of pointed glance.