Christmas Shopaholic(85)

I find a dark red cotton dress that Minnie wore last summer—it will be the base layer. Then I drape the velvet scarf around her, fixing it with brooches and safety pins, feeling sentimental whenever I catch sight of the iconic Denny and George label.

“You know, you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for a Denny and George scarf,” I tell Minnie. “It was Denny and George that brought Mummy and Daddy together.”

As I tweak and pin her costume into shape, I somehow find myself relating the whole story of Luke lending me the money to buy a Denny and George scarf. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t follow a word—but it’s soothing to me, anyway.

“OK,” I say at last, sinking back on my heels and assessing the finished look. “Amazing. We can use a crown from the dressing-up box—and now you just need a casket of gold.”

Briefly, my mind flashes to the cardboard casket I spent two evenings painting and decorating. But Harvey needs that. We can improvise.

“Here we are,” I say, delving in my bottom drawer and bringing out a golden cardboard Gucci Première perfume box. “Here’s a lovely casket. This can be your gold, sweetheart. It says Gucci, and that begins with ‘G,’ like gold.” I point at the embossed “G.” “See? ‘Guh’ for gold…and ‘guh’ for Gucci.”

“Gucci,” repeats Minnie, looking a bit confused.

“Gucci.” I enunciate it clearly. “Gu-cci. Gucci is very special and expensive, just like gold. They do amazing shoes and belts, and bags, of course. Mummy has a gorgeous Gucci bag somewhere—” I stop midflow. Not the point. “Anyway, you’ll look like a brilliant king, poppet.” I kiss her on the forehead. “You’ll be the King in the Denny and George Scarf.”



* * *



—

At last I’ve named the costume, packed it in a bag, delivered Minnie to school, and arrived at work. I feel knackered, and the day has hardly begun. The trouble with Christmas is, it never seems to end. I still need to find Luke a present and organize this gingerbread-house-making party and reconcile my guests and fit into my Alexander McQueen dress and do a thousand other things. I feel like going back to bed, to be honest.

By contrast, Suze greets me at the door with a relaxed and radiant smile.

“Guess what?” she says.

“Dunno,” I say. “How was Norfolk?”

“Oh, fine.” She waves an airy hand. “You know. Same old family stuff. I won the backward rafting race,” she adds as an afterthought.

The backward rafting race? I’m about to ask her what that is, except I can already guess—it’s an eccentric English family all on rafts, yelling and wearing weird clothes and laughing hilariously at jokes no one understands while they all fall into freezing cold water.

“Guess what?” she says again. “Takings are up! Like, way up. This is our best year ever! It’s the sprygge effect,” she adds confidently.

“Really?” I say, distracted momentarily. “How do you know?”

“It’s all in the numbers! Sprygge is our star section! You’re so clever, inventing it, Bex!”

“Well, it was you who made all the products,” I point out.

“But you inspired me,” says Suze generously. “And we all sold them. So I thought everyone should have a bonus. And a present. I’ve got the Hotel Chocolat catalog. Come and have some coffee and help me choose nice things. Are you OK?” she adds, looking at me more closely. “You seem a bit…stressed.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Apart from…you know.”

“What?” she says, as though she has no idea.

“Christmas, of course!” I can’t help sounding just a tad resentful. Here am I, stressing about her row with Janice, and here Suze is, going on rafts and buying chocolate and behaving as though nothing’s wrong.

“Christmas will be OK, won’t it?” says Suze in surprise as we go into our tiny staff room.

“Not if no one’s talking to each other!”

“Oh, Bex, you’re overreacting,” says Suze, raising her eyes to heaven. “It’s only a spat. There’s always a spat at Christmas. One Christmas at my Uncle Mungo’s, things were so bad between some of my relations, it was all written out on the seating plan.”

“What was written out on the seating plan?”

“Who was talking to whom,” explains Suze. “And who wasn’t. My cousin Maud refused to even look at my Aunt Elspeth, so her chair had to face the other way. And my father had just tried to get Uncle Mungo excommunicated from the Church of Scotland, so Uncle Mungo threatened him with the carving knife. But it was fine,” she concludes comfortably. “Family stuff.”

“It doesn’t sound fine,” I say in horror. “It sounds awful! And I don’t want my Christmas to be like that. I want it to be harmonious. So I’m organizing a Christmas Eve bonding event.”

“A what?”

“A gingerbread-house-making party. Everyone has to come and wear Christmas sweaters and make up their differences. I’ll make hot chocolate and we’ll have a fire and—”

“Bex, you’re nuts,” interrupts Suze, and I stare at her, hurt. I thought she’d love the idea. “You look stressed out already,” she continues firmly. “You’re doing so much. Why on earth would you try to organize another thing? Just relax. It’ll all be OK.”