Christmas Shopaholic(82)

No. No. He can’t do this.

“But I won the prize!” I say desperately. “It’s not fair! I’m a member. I won.”

“For shame!” Edwin’s voice comes loyally from the back of the crowd, but no one else seems at all bothered.

“Draw again,” repeats Sir Peter to Sidney.

“With pleasure, Sir Peter,” says Sidney, shooting me a totally needless look of triumph. He pulls out another ticket, unfolds it, and reads in a loud throaty voice, “Number 278. Sir Peter Leggett-Davey.”

“Well!” says Sir Peter. “How very pleasing.”

Sir Peter won?

I stare at his smug face in despair. That’s it, then. It’s all over. He’ll never sell me the portmanteau in a million years. I’ve lost. After all that effort, I’ve lost.

As Sidney draws the next raffle ticket, I turn away, sagging a little. What Simon said just now was true. It does feel like I’ve gone a hundred miles for Luke’s present. But for what? I got so close…and then I failed.





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It’s more than a week later and things are…how are they? Good and bad, I suppose. Let’s say…they’re patchy.

First of all, the good. I don’t want to jinx it—fingers crossed—but my preparations are actually going to plan. Five days to go and finally I feel like I have Christmas in hand. I’ve finished Minnie’s costume. I’ve decorated the house, and my garlands are actually staying put. I’ve got all the presents wrapped up, including the picnic hamper. The vegan turkey arrives tomorrow, and the proper turkey arrives on the twenty-third. I’ve got scented candles everywhere. I’ve got a playlist of carols and Christmas songs on a constant loop. I’ve been hanging up Christmas cards from strings (most of them are from people like estate agents, but never mind), and I’ve put holly behind the pictures. The “Christmas shrubbery” is clustered in the bay window of the dining room, where it looks fantastic (only I must stop eating the chocolate stars or there’ll be none left).

And last night we decorated the actual, proper Christmas tree, which looks amazing and makes the whole house smell like a forest. It’s all twinkly with lights and decorations and is absolutely perfect. Who cares that we don’t have some stupid old must-have llama tree ornament? Not me!

(OK. Maybe I have been checking every hour if the llama is available online. But it’s not. So I totally don’t care about it.)

So that’s the good. Here’s the less good: I still don’t have a present for Luke. In fact, just thinking about it makes me feel despondent. I haven’t got over my terrible defeat, and somehow now I can’t picture buying anything that isn’t a portmanteau from the London Billiards and Parlour Music Club.

I know I’m being stupid. It’s only a Christmas present. And last night I found a navy sweater that I bought ages ago for Luke’s birthday and forgot about—so I could give him that. He’d be delighted. I should just wrap it up and it would be done. But I can’t help myself—I’m still holding out for something mind-blowing and spectacular. Even though I don’t know what.

So that’s the less good. And here’s the really bad: All my friends and family are still at daggers drawn. No one’s speaking on our WhatsApp group. It’s gone from vitriol to completely dead with tumbleweed blowing around. The last message was Janice saying, Yes, and I DO NOT AGREE, replying to Suze asking if she’d read her email. (What email?) And since then, nada.

Suze has been away at some pre-Christmas family get-together in Norfolk, with no signal, so I haven’t been able to talk to her properly about it. Meanwhile, the minute I try to talk to Mum, she starts saying prickly-voiced things like, “Well, maybe I’ll never return to Oxshott at all,” and “Well, maybe my entire friendship with Janice was a sham, Becky.” And when I called Janice for a chat, Flo answered her phone. Flo! I was so appalled, I just asked Janice what kind of gravy she likes and hastily rang off. I can’t even remember what she said. In fact, I don’t think there are different types of gravy, are there?

(Are there? Oh God. I should so not be hosting Christmas.)

In desperation, I’ve been watching one Christmas movie after another and feeling genuine withdrawal symptoms in between. They’re like Valium—not that I know what Valium is like, but I’m guessing. They make me feel calm and happy and hopeful, because in all of them, without fail, Christmas spirit brings everyone together. Divorced workaholic dad and neglected child? Christmas spirit. Curmudgeonly guy who hates “newcomers” and immigrant neighbor? Christmas spirit. Factory owner and all his downtrodden workers? Christmas spirit. (And in that one they sang a song, too, while he dressed up as Santa and gave them all pay rises.)

Every time the credits roll on another movie, I sit back with a contented sigh and think, It’ll be OK—because of Christmas spirit! But then I consider the facts, and my optimism fades away. It’s all very well when you’re in a picturesque New England town and you can rely on snow to fall at exactly the right moment. In actual England the snow never falls, except at a totally crap moment like when you’re about to drive on the A3. Nor are we all planning to gather at the caroling party or log-splitting contest, so how are we supposed to reconcile and hug one another in Christmas sweaters and say, “We’ve all learned something here”?