Christmas Shopaholic(86)

“What if it isn’t?” I shoot back—and I know I sound scratchy, but it hasn’t been the most wonderful day so far, and now here’s Suze, dissing my Christmas-movie idea. Also, I ordered twenty gingerbread-house kits on my phone on the way here.

“Bex,” says Suze. “Listen.” She takes a breath as though about to impart some advice—but before she can continue, Irene’s head appears round the door.

“Oh, Suze,” she says, sounding anxious. “There’s a customer here asking to see the manager. She’s asking about sprygge.”

“OK,” says Suze easily. “I’ll come out. What does she want to know?”

“Well, everything, really,” says Irene.

“Have you given her the spiel about ‘People say it comes from Norway’?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” says Irene, looking even more nervous. “She’s the Norwegian ambassador.”

I have never seen Suze more like a terrified cat. She practically leaps off her chair and stares at Irene, her eyes like plates.

“Norwegian?”

“The Norwegian ambassador.” Irene nods unhappily. “And she says she’s never heard of sprygge, and she wants to see the manager.”

“Oh God, oh God.” Suze looks faint. “Oh God. We’ll be prosecuted.” Her eyes dart toward the window as though she wants to climb out and escape—and I grab her arm.

“No, we won’t!” I say, more firmly than I feel. “People don’t get prosecuted for saying things are Norwegian. Come on. Let’s just go and…and say hello.”

As we emerge from the staff room, we see her at once—a well-dressed blond woman in a very cool parka. Suze looks as though she might run away any moment, so I nudge her in the ribs and she advances gingerly, holding out her hand.

“Hello,” she says to the woman, in a quaking voice. “And welcome to Letherby Hall Gift Shop. I am Susan Cleath-Stuart, manager and proprietor of…” She swallows. “How may I…um…”

“My name is Karina Gunderson,” says the woman in cool, pleasant tones. “I’m interested in your display.” She gestures at the sprygge table. “The assistant says it’s supposed to be Norwegian?”

Suze seems unable to answer. She opens her mouth and closes it again, shooting desperate looks at me.

“Hello!” I come to her rescue and approach Karina Gunderson in my most confident manner. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, the member of staff who first brought the sprygge concept to the store. Sprygge for us is an overpowering form of happiness and well-being. It’s radiant and joyful.” I spread my arms. “Euphoric and sublime. Yet complex. Yet in other ways, simple.”

I smile at Karina, hoping that we’ve wrapped up the subject of sprygge, but she seems unmoved.

“Yet not Norwegian,” she says. “As you claim.”

“I don’t think we’ve exactly claimed that,” I say after thinking for a moment. “Have we, Suze? What we’ve said is that some people think it originates from Norway.”

“Which people?” asks Karina Gunderson at once.

“I don’t think we specify which people,” I say after another pause for thought. “Just, you know, some people.”

“Exactly,” says Suze, finding her voice. “Some people.”

“Some people,” affirms Irene eagerly.

“Which is true,” I add in casual tones. “So.”

There’s a long silence. Karina Gunderson’s unreadable blue eyes are resting on me, making me feel a tad uncomfortable.

“Although obviously some people don’t,” I say, suddenly thinking of a way out. “There’s another school of thought that believes it’s, um…Finnish.”

“Finnish?” echoes Karina Gunderson disbelievingly.

“Exactly.” I avoid her eye. “It’s one of the big unanswered questions in life. Whither sprygge?” I allow myself a small dramatic flourish. “Research hasn’t confirmed the truth one way or another. But while the sprygge debate rages on in journals and…other places, we in our humble way simply want to bring happiness to the world. Through cushions and other gift products.”

“The mugs are popular,” adds Irene nervously. “Very popular, aren’t they, Becky? And the wall signs sold out.”

“Please have a complimentary mug,” says Suze in a rush, picking up a mug and proffering it. “Or…not,” she adds as Karina Gunderson makes no move to take it. “Either way.”

She looks at me and winces, and there’s another long, prickly pause. I can’t quite tell if Karina Gunderson is going to smile or call the police.

“Actually,” I continue cautiously, “here’s a funny coincidence. We’ve recently considered suspending the sale of sprygge products until the research on its origins has been concluded one way or the other. Haven’t we, Suze? And that might be wise. All things, um, considered.”

“Yes,” says Karina Gunderson. “It might.” She takes the mug from Suze and looks at it, her mouth twitching. “?‘Don’t worry, be sprygge,’?” she reads aloud, her tone giving nothing away. She gives us all a long look—then turns to Suze. “Goodbye. Your house is very beautiful.”