Christmas Shopaholic(87)

“Oh! Goodbye, then!” says Suze, her relief so obvious I want to laugh. We all watch as Karina Gunderson makes her way out of the store, then Suze collapses in my arms.

“Oh my God,” she says.

“I know.” I hug her back. “Don’t worry, she’s gone.”

“Bex, we have to stop this,” says Suze fervently. “Sprygge has to end. Right here, right now. Or we really are going to get into trouble.”

“I hate to say it,” I say sorrowfully, “but I agree. How much stock is left?”

“Not much,” says Irene. “Only ten mugs or so, three cushions, a few key rings…”

“Well, we’ll keep them as souvenirs,” says Suze, sounding resolute. “Everyone help yourself to what you want. But no more selling them. In fact—let’s get rid of the whole display.”

Irene starts gathering up the key rings and putting them into a cardboard box, while Suze and I pack away the mugs.

“It was fun, though, wasn’t it?” I say wistfully, pausing to run my finger along the words. “And now sprygge will never be in the Norwegian language.”

“I know, Bex,” says Suze, rolling her eyes. “But nor will we be in prison for fraud.”



* * *



—

Honestly. Suze always exaggerates. We were never going to go to prison. (Were we?) On the other hand, she’s ordered each of us a massive box of Hotel Chocolat truffles to celebrate the brief glory that was sprygge, so there’s always a silver lining.

She and I have both taken the afternoon off for the school Nativity play, and I decide to pop home beforehand. The temperature has plummeted, and as I look up at the solid white sky, I find myself thinking: Will it snow?

Maybe it will! I mean, why shouldn’t it? It’s got to snow sometime. Imagine if there’s a massive snowfall and it’ll be like we really are in a Christmas movie. We can make a snowman in the front garden and everyone will say, “D’you remember Becky’s Christmas? It was amazing! There was snow.”

As I open the front door, I feel more optimistic than I’ve been for a while. Maybe Suze is right, maybe I need to relax. Do positive visualizations. I’m just picturing a perfect Christmas table, with all my friends and family gathered around a spectacular turkey and saying, “Becky, this Christmas is the best ever,” when a noise from the sitting room draws my attention. I head in and stop dead. My happy thoughts vanish and I stand, breathing fast, consumed by Christmas rage.

My bloody garlands have fallen down again. Again. That noise was the sound of my lovely twiggy one flopping down into the hearth, bringing the gold one with it. It slipped out yet again from under my gym dumbbells. How?

I mean, what does it take to make a Christmas garland stay up? Concrete? Steel bloody girders?

Next time I buy a house, I’m buying one with built-in garlands, I tell myself feverishly, as I grab the golden twiggy mess out of the hearth. I don’t care if it looks weird. I’m not doing this every December.

I shove the garlands on the sofa to be dealt with later—then try to regain my calm, optimistic mood. It’s OK. I’ll find a solution. I’m just googling garland stay up device never fails when my phone rings and I jump.

“Hello?” I answer it, madly wondering if it’s a garland company that somehow saw my googling and has the answer.

“Oh, hello,” comes a woman’s voice down the line. “Is that Mrs. Brandon? It’s Ve-Gen Foods here, with a courtesy call to let you know that unfortunately the vegan turkey you ordered is unavailable. Would you like to order another product instead or would you prefer a refund?”

It takes me a moment to digest the horror of what she’s telling me. She’s canceling my vegan turkey? She can’t do that!

“But I need a vegan turkey!” I say. “My sister’s vegan and I’ve promised her a vegan turkey for Christmas.”

“A lot of customers have opted for the mushroom risotto,” replies the woman blandly. “It contains similar ingredients and is equally festive.”

I stare at the phone, my Christmas rage rising again. What kind of travesty is this? Mushroom risotto is not equally festive.

“Why isn’t the vegan turkey available?” I say. “Because I really, really need one.”

“I can’t say, I’m afraid,” says the woman. “Was that a refund, then?”

“Do you have maybe one vegan turkey?” I say, unwilling to give up. “Like, just one, around the place, that nobody needs?”

“No,” says the woman flatly. “I’ll be refunding your card, then. Sorry for the inconvenience and have a merry Christmas.”

“Merry?” I retort, hoping she can detect my sarcasm, but she’s already gone.

My chest is rising and falling, but there’s no point feeling bitter, vengeful hatred, even though I do. I’m just starting another Google search—vegan turkey last minute available no shortage next day—when the doorbell rings and I peer out of the window. There’s a delivery van outside. Well, at least something’s arrived on schedule.

“Hello!” I say as I swing open the front door to a beaming man in white overalls.

“Good afternoon!” he returns cheerily. “I’m here with your fish.”