Christmas Shopaholic(88)

I stare at him blankly. Fish?

“Smoked salmon,” he clarifies, consulting his clipboard. “Bundle order. Rebecca Brandon.”

Of course. The smoked salmon from the Christmas Style Fair. I’d forgotten about that.

“Great!” I say, smiling back. “Perfect! Right in time for Christmas.”

“Absolutely! Where do you want it?” he adds, and I peer at him, a bit puzzled. Where do I want it?

“What do you mean?” I hold out my hands. “Can’t you just, you know, give it to me?”

The man shoots me an amused look. “Fifteen sides of salmon? Not likely.”

“Fifteen sides?” I echo blankly.

“Thirty pounds.” He nods. “I’ll go and get my trolley,” he adds over his shoulder as he heads back to the van. “Show me where the freezer is; I’ll load it in for you.”

I can’t quite speak. Thirty pounds? As in weight? What’s he talking about? This has to be a mistake.

Frantically, I summon up my Visa bill on my phone and scan down the entries, trying not to look too carefully (￡49.99 in M&S? I so did not spend that; it must have been Luke) until I suddenly see it. Whitson Fish—￡460.

I feel a bit cold. Janice spent ￡460 on smoked salmon?

Desperately, I try to recall her asking me all those random questions as I was chasing after the silver llama. Maybe she did say something about “thirty pounds.” But I thought she meant thirty quid. Thirty quid! Never in a million years did I think she meant thirty pounds. Who can eat thirty pounds of fish?

And, oh God, here he comes, wheeling a trolley up the path, piled high with polystyrene boxes.

“Nice lot of fish,” says the man with satisfaction as he reaches me. “Good-quality stuff, this.” He pats the top container, which is labeled Cold-smoked salmon—frozen.

“Right.” I lick my lips nervously. “Actually, there’s been a very, very slight mistake. I didn’t mean to order quite so much. Could you take it back?”

The man’s expression immediately changes to one of wariness, and he starts shaking his head. “Oh no, no, no. We don’t process returns. You want to sort something out with the company, that’s your business. You got a freezer space I can load it into?”

Oh God. The only freezer we’ve got in this rented house is one drawer of the fridge, full of Minnie’s fish fingers.

“Not…exactly.” I swallow.

“Best leave it outside for now, then,” says the man. “Where d’you want it? Here?” He nods at the tiny patch of grass in our front garden, and when I don’t reply, starts briskly hefting the boxes off the trolley and unpacking sides of frozen smoked salmon, shrink-wrapped in plastic.

“Can’t you leave the boxes?” I say in consternation, but he shakes his head.

“We take them away. Part of our contract. Sustainable packaging.”

Soon all the fish is heaped up on the lawn and I’ve scribbled on the man’s paper, and he’s driving off in his van. I gaze at the pile, feeling a bit unreal. I have a front garden full of frozen salmon. What do I do?

My phone bleeps with a text, and I peer distractedly at it to see a message from Suze:

Seats are filling up. Have bagged two for you and Luke, but you should hurry!!!



Oh God—

Insulation, it hits me. That’s what I need.

I dash upstairs, grab Minnie’s Paddington Bear duvet off her bed, and run back down to the garden with it. I hastily tuck it round the sides of salmon, patting and squashing it down to ensure the fish is fully protected. Then at last I stand up, to see an old woman staring at me from across the road.

“Is that a child?” she says, in tones of horror.

What? I mean, what?

“No!” I snap. “It’s fish!” I glare at her till she starts walking on, then grab my coat and bag, feeling totally hassled.

Come on, Becky, I tell myself firmly. It’s all fine. I’ll go to the Nativity and I’ll enjoy watching Minnie…and then I’ll deal with this. And the vegan turkey. And the garlands. And Luke’s present, it suddenly crosses my mind. And, oh God, I still haven’t decided which stuffing to make….

No. Stop it. Be calm. Be mindful.

I stride quickly through the village, nearly bumping into about six people because I’m simultaneously ordering an online chest freezer, next-day delivery, plus some “instant champagne coolers” that were in a bundle offer and a book called 100 Ways with Smoked Salmon.

The school hall is already full of parents and there are hardly any seats left, but I spot two chairs with sheets of paper taped to them, on which Suze’s handwriting reads: Reserved for the Brandons. I sink into one of them, relieved, and look around for Suze, but I can’t see her, so I quickly text:

Thx for seats!!! Where are you??



A moment later she replies:

I’m on the other side.



Then, a few seconds later, a follow-up appears:

Can’t wait to see Minnie’s costume!!!



I stare at my phone, realizing I never told Suze what happened. Slowly I start typing, Actually, I gave it to Steph Richards, but then stop, feeling torn. Suze has no idea I even know Steph. She might ask awkward questions, like “Why?”