Christmas Shopaholic(80)

What? No!

“All yours,” says Simon, standing back from the table.

I stare at the endless green baize, trying to think very quickly. What do I do now?

“Not wanting to put you off,” adds Simon, “but you’re pretty much representing women in billiards at this point. So my advice is, don’t go too ambitious. Keep it simple and nail it.”

My stomach heaves. I can’t represent women in billiards. This is mad. I need to put down the cue, run down the stairs, and escape. Go on, Becky.

But somehow my feet don’t move. If I escape now, I’m giving up on Luke’s present, and I just can’t. Not after all this effort.

Could I do an exhibition shot? Do I maybe have a natural talent for billiards that I never realized?

Experimentally, I approach the table and try to line up the cue like I’ve seen them do on TV. But it keeps wobbling everywhere. It’s too long, that’s the problem.

“Getting used to the cue,” I say quickly, as I notice Simon staring at me. “They’re all different.”

“That’s…the wrong end,” he says in a strange voice.

“Oh.” My face flames and I peer at the cue. “Of course! Just got confused there for a moment….” I quickly turn the cue round, nearly hitting Simon in the face as I do so.

“Jesus!” he says, lifting a hand to protect himself. “What the hell? You’re not a billiards player, are you?” He stares at me accusingly.

“Yes, I am!” I begin robustly—then realize there’s no point. “OK, I’m not,” I concede in a lower voice, “but you can’t tell anyone.”

Simon stares at me for a silent moment, then goes to the door, reaches for a doorstop, and wedges it shut.

“Speak fast,” he says. “Why have you made all this fuss about joining this club if you can’t play billiards?”

“To win the raffle,” I admit after a pause.

“The raffle?” He stares at me as though I’m insane. “The raffle?”

Honestly. He needn’t look like that. What’s wrong with wanting to win a raffle?

“For my husband’s Christmas present!” I explain, a bit sniffily. “There’s this amazing portmanteau as first prize and you can only win it if you’re a member, so I needed to join.”

Simon makes a snorting sound. “Is this for real? I thought you were getting him aftershave.”

“I gave up on aftershave,” I confess. “You were right, he didn’t want a surprise. But I didn’t want to give him something, you know, predictable, so…”

“So you decided to change the history of a two-hundred-year-old institution instead,” supplies Simon. “Does your husband know any of this?”

“Of course not!” I say, shocked. “It’s his Christmas present! You don’t tell people about their—”

I’m interrupted by a rattling at the door and Edwin’s voice calling out, “Hello? The door’s jammed! Finch? Where’s Finch?”

Shit. They’re coming. What am I going to do?

“Have you ever played snooker?” demands Simon. “Pool?”

“No. But I do know how to do it, look.”

I approach the billiards table and make what I think is quite a good attempt at a shot—except I miss the ball, and the tip of the cue brushes the green baize.

Simon winces.

“Listen,” he says sternly. “If you rip this table, I can’t guarantee your safety. If I were you, I’d claim sudden illness and leave.”

“Here we are!” The door bursts open and Edwin appears, followed by a crowd of ninety-three-year-olds. “All ready, Becky, I see! We just need to wait for Sir Peter.”

“Right,” I say, my heart leaping in panic. “Um, what I really want is a raffle ticket. Is Leonard around?”

“Not sure,” says Edwin vaguely, as Sir Peter strides into the room. He glares at me as though I’m some form of lowlife, then announces, as though each word makes him ill, “Welcome to today’s membership ceremony. I am pleased to welcome our newest member, Mrs. Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood. Mrs. Brandon: the table.” He takes a step back and gestures at the billiards table, and Edwin gives an excited whoop.

I feel weak. The cue’s all slippery in my hand. There are more and more ninety-three-year-olds pressing into the room to watch. Edwin’s produced a phone and seems to be filming me. Should I run away?

I glimpse a burgundy smoking jacket in the throng and feel a stab of renewed resolve. Come on. The prize is still within my grasp. I can’t give up. I just have to get through this moment….

And then an idea hits me.

“Good evening,” I say, addressing the crowd of ancient men. “And thank you for the warm welcome that many of you have extended to me. I would like to say a few words.”

I wait until silence falls, then draw breath.

“Tonight I have ended a long tradition,” I proclaim. “I would like to thank you, as a club, for your flexibility, willingness to change, and support. Now we are gathered for my exhibition shot.”

I lean casually against the table, putting a hand proprietorially on the green baize as though I’m a shit-hot billiards player.