Christmas Shopaholic(8)

“They’ll be next door to Janice, but not on top of her,” puts in Mum. “And Janice won’t have to cook chickpeas every night. Poor love, she was getting quite agitated about it! I mean, Janice is as vegan as anyone, but she does like a boiled egg for breakfast.”

“How long are they back for?” asks Luke, before I can ask Mum if she knows what “vegan” actually means.

“Well, this is the thing!” says Mum. “Till January at least. Which means we won’t be able to host Christmas. So we thought, Becky…” She pauses and turns to me with a flourish. “Now you’re in your lovely house, maybe it’s time for you to host Christmas!”

“Me host Christmas?” I stare at Mum. “But…”

I feel as though all this time someone has been gently playing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” on a vinyl record in the background—and now the needle’s been scraped off, into stark silence.

I don’t host Christmas; Mum hosts Christmas. She knows how to do it. She knows how to unwrap the chocolate roll and put it on a doily and sprinkle icing sugar on it.

“Right.” I swallow. “Wow. Host Christmas. That’s pretty scary!” I laugh to show I don’t really mean it. (Although I half-do.)

“You can do it, love.” Mum pats my hand confidently. “Get a good turkey and you’re halfway there. I’ve invited Janice and Martin,” she adds, “and Jess and Tom, of course. I mean, we’re all family now, aren’t we?”

“Right.” I take a gulp of G&T, trying to get my head round all this information. Jess and Tom are coming back, and we’re hosting Christmas, and—

“Wait a minute.” My head jerks up as my thoughts rewind. “So when you say you’re offering Jess and Tom the house, do you mean you’re having them to stay? Or…”

“We’re moving out for a bit,” says Dad, his eyes twinkling. “We’re having an adventure, Becky.”

“Another adventure?” I say, and exchange looks with Luke. After our trip to the States, I would have thought my parents had had enough adventures to last them forever.

“A change of scene.” Mum nods. “We got back from America, and it made us think, love. We’ve lived in the same house for all these years. We haven’t tried anything else. And Dad’s always wanted to keep bees.”

“It’s always been a little dream of mine,” says Dad, looking a bit embarrassed.

“If not now, then when?” chimes in Mum.

“Wow,” I say again, digesting this. I mean, it’s true: My parents haven’t really experimented much. Good for them, branching out. I can just see Dad pottering around in a little country cottage with a beehive and an orchard. We can come to visit and Minnie can pick apples and I can buy a drifty linen “apple-picking” skirt from the Toast catalog….

Actually, I’m really into this idea.

“So where are you looking?” I ask. “You could move to Letherby. There must be some cottages to rent. In fact, yes! There’s a thatched cottage for rent on Suze’s estate!” I almost choke with excitement as I suddenly remember. “It’s adorable. Move there!”

“Oh, love.” Mum exchanges amused looks with Dad. “That’s not really what we’re after.”

“Letherby is suitable for you and Suze,” says Dad kindly. “But we want somewhere with a bit more ‘buzz.’ And I’m not talking about the bees!” He laughs at his own joke.

Buzz? My parents?

“So where are you moving to?” I say, baffled. “Dorking?”

“Sweetheart!” Mum peals with laughter. “Did you hear that, Graham—Dorking! No, love, London. Central London.”

“Not Central London,” Dad immediately contradicts her. “East London.”

“Graham, you’re talking nonsense. East London is Central London these days. Isn’t it, Becky?” Mum appeals to me.

“Dunno,” I say, perplexed. “Where exactly are you talking about?”

“Well!” says Mum knowledgeably. “It’s this super little area. Very tucked away. We came across it when Dad was showing me where his old office used to be. It’s called…” She pauses for effect. “Shoreditch.”

Shoreditch? I gape at her, wondering if I’ve heard wrong. Shoreditch, as in…

Shoreditch?

“It’s on the tube,” Mum is saying. “Just a bit north of Liverpool Street. You’ll be able to find us quite easily, love.”

“I know where it is,” I say, finding my voice. “But, Mum, you can’t move to Shoreditch!”

“Why not?” Mum looks affronted.

“Because Shoreditch is for young people! It’s where hipsters come from! It’s all craft beer and sourdough bread. It’s…” I whirl my hands hopelessly. “Not you.”

“Well!” says Mum indignantly. “Who says it’s not us? I should say we’ll fit in perfectly! Your father’s very fond of beer.”

“It’s just…” I try again. “It has a vibe.”

“A ‘vibe’?” echoes Mum, rolling her eyes. “What a lot of nonsense. Oh, Carlo, I’m sorry,” she adds to a hovering waiter. “You’ll have to give us a moment. And then you must tell us how your daughter’s doing on her gap year.” She twinkles at Carlo before taking a deep gulp of her drink and glaring at me huffily across the top of it.