Christmas Shopaholic(79)

I make a little bow and a smattering of applause breaks out. Sir Denis even exclaims, “Hear, hear!”

“Well, if that is all,” says Sir Peter, as I take my seat, “then I propose—”

“Wait!” A voice interrupts him. “I’d like to speak.”

There’s a kind of crumping sound as a hundred tweed jackets turn round to look—and to my utter astonishment, it’s Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf, standing up in the back row. He winks at me, then says, “Let me introduce myself. I’m Simon Millett, and my dad sent me here today to cast a proxy vote against this application. D’you know what else he said in the same breath? He said, ‘I do wish you’d think about joining, my boy; we need some younger blood.’?” Simon pauses. “To be frank, I haven’t joined this club because it seems stuck in the dark ages. Full of attitudes and people I don’t relate to. But here’s a chance for you to change that. So here’s my advice to you…” He looks around the crowd of agog ninety-three-year-olds. “Do something to make your grandchildren proud of you. You might find they want to join. That’s all.”

He sits down and I mouth, “Thank you!”

There’s a kind of commotion among the audience members and then Sir Peter says, his mouth tighter than ever, “Well, let us proceed to a vote. All those in favor of amending the constitution and allowing Mrs. Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, to become a member?”

A forest of hands shoots up, and I start to count, but I keep losing track. Then suddenly everyone’s voting against, and there’s another forest of hands and I can’t count those either. Oh God. I can hardly breathe for the tension. It’s really stressful, voting! No wonder MPs are all so wrinkled and grim-looking.

For a few moments there’s silence as the committee members confer. Then Sir Peter draws a long breath.

“The motion is carried,” he says in sepulchral tones, and someone grabs my hand and says “Congratulations!” and it’s only then that it properly hits me—I won! I’m in!

“I need some raffle tickets,” I say in a gasp. “I want to go in for the raffle, please.”

“Never mind the raffle, dear girl!” exclaims Edwin, who has materialized out of nowhere in a shocking-pink tie and reeking of brandy. He clasps my hand and shakes it about a hundred times. “You won! You turned this place upside down! I heard you speak! Tremendous stuff! If in doubt, go for sex!”

Honestly, what are these people like? My speech was so not about sex. But I don’t contradict him, because I’m too anxious about the raffle.

“That’s one in the eye for Sir Peter,” Edwin is crowing. “Did you see his face?”

“The raffle,” I say again. “Who’s selling tickets?”

“Ah, now, that’ll be Leonard,” says Edwin. “Chap in a burgundy smoking jacket. Not sure where he’s got to…John, isn’t it marvelous?” He turns to greet John, who has just made his way toward us—and I take the opportunity to slip away. I need to find this Leonard. I can’t see a single burgundy smoking jacket, so I hurry out of the room, as ninety-three-year-olds alternately congratulate me or give me baleful looks. There are no burgundy smoking jackets in the hall either, but I can see some ninety-three-year-olds on the stairs, so I quickly head up there.

The landing is empty. Where the hell is he? I push open another immense door—to find myself in a massive room containing a billiards table and Simon, all on his own, playing what I guess is a billiards shot.

“Oh, hi!” I say. “Thanks so much for your speech. What you said made all the difference.”

“No problem,” he says, then nods at his cue. “Thought I’d try out the famous table while I’m here.”

“Right,” I say. “Absolutely. The famous table.”

I’m about to ask him if he’s seen Leonard, but Simon gets in first.

“Looking forward to your exhibition shot?” he says, sinking a ball expertly.

“Huh?” I look at him blankly.

“You know. Club tradition. The new member plays their first shot on this table. Big deal. People take photos. Usually there’s a bunch of new members, but tonight it’s just you.”

“Wow!” I say, trying to conceal my dismay. “Um…no one told me about that.”

OK. I have to leave. Enter the raffle, then leave. Smartish.

“People practice all year to have the perfect shot ready. Usually some kind of fancy trick shot.” He raises his head from lining up a ball. “What have you got up your sleeve?”

“Oh…you know,” I say vaguely, “a little shot I invented myself….Actually, what I really need is some raffle tickets. Have you seen someone called Leonard in a burgundy smoking jacket?”

“Sorry, no. Have a practice.” He hands me the cue and automatically I take it. “Didn’t mean to hog the table.”

I try to hold the cue naturally, but it’s quite heavy and longer than I thought. I should have played pool at uni. Why didn’t I learn pool? I have literally never held one of these in my life.

“There you are!” Edwin’s face suddenly appears round the door. “Got your cue, I see. Marvelous! Stay there, Becky, and I’ll gather the crowd for your exhibition shot.”