Christmas Shopaholic(93)

Then I hear a familiar, annoying laugh. I can’t place it at first, but, feeling curious, I follow the sound around a pile of tins. And, oh God, of course. Paunch: tick. Faded jeans: tick. Graying beard: tick. It’s Steph’s husband, Damian, talking to someone in the baked-goods section.

Great. Another super-annoying man. Is this Super-Annoying Man Day?

He moves, and to my shock I see that the person he’s with is Steph. Does this mean…are they back together?

As I glimpse Steph’s face, I decide it’s unlikely. She’s hissing words at him miserably and gesticulating, while he eye-rolls and checks his watch and even gives her a patronizing pat on the shoulder. I’m fuming on her behalf—and I can’t even hear what he’s saying.

At last he lifts up both hands as if to say, “Enough,” and walks away while Steph slowly slumps. I hesitate at the corner of the aisle, feeling torn. Every impulse is telling me to go hug Steph—but what if it’s intruding on her privacy? What if she didn’t want anyone seeing that scene?

As I watch anxiously, she heads to the café and sits down at a table. That decides me. I’ll give her five minutes before I approach her. And, meanwhile, I can’t resist it—I’m going to follow Damian.

I casually walk in the direction he went, and I turn a corner just in time to see him join a woman pushing a trolley and plant a kiss full on her lips. Argh. It’s her! It has to be. The one who works in events. The one he got together with in the Malmaison, Manchester.

I stare at them, gripped. She’s got to be in her twenties. Expensive highlights, but a pinched face. She’s going to be so mean to him, I predict with inward satisfaction. Once the luster’s worn off. She’s going to be horrible, you can just tell. And he totally deserves it. He had Steph and he went for this pinchy-faced woman instead?

His hand keeps fondling her bum, I notice with revulsion. Is that appropriate in the frozen-pizza section? I’d quite like to make a complaint to customer services. I’d like to see a person in a suit approach him and tell him not to be so gross.

I should get on with my shopping, I know I should—but somehow I can’t tear myself away from the awful pair. When they head to the dairy section, I follow at a distance, fixated by the sight of her showing him low-fat yogurts and him fondling her bum again. Their entire relationship appears to be based on him fondling her bum. Well, I hope he gets carpal tunnel syndrome.

My whole body is throbbing with indignation. (To be absolutely honest, this is also partly a lingering outrage toward Craig.) I want to punish Damian for being so vile, even though it’s nothing to do with me, and I’m supposed to be finding a vegan turkey, and how would I punish him anyway?

I should let this go, I tell myself several times. I should stop trying to be the Christmas Fairy of Vengeance. But somehow I can’t stop following the pair of them at a distance, wondering what on earth I could do.

Then, as I’m tiptoeing up the cooked-meats aisle, I see an official supermarket fleece slung over a crate. It’s green, with a logo, and no one seems to be using it right now. And as I stare at it, a fully formed idea lands, pow, in my brain. The kind of idea that makes you think, What? And then, Nooo, I can’t. And then, Yesss, I can!

I put on the fleece and at once feel invisible. I’m no longer Becky; I’m an anonymous, nameless store-worker. Abandoning my trolley, I walk past Damian to be sure—but he doesn’t flicker. Even though we’re fellow parents at school, he doesn’t recognize me. Of course he doesn’t. He’s one of those guys who live in the bubble of their own starring role, and everyone else is just chorus.

Which suits me fine.

I swiftly walk toward the stationery section and gather some props. Clipboard. Notepad. Reading glasses for extra disguise purposes. In my bag is an old lanyard that I keep for Minnie to play with. It’s from a play center, but I put it on and turn it round—and screw my hair into a bun, using an elastic band.

Then, before I can lose my nerve, I approach Damian with an ingratiating smile, my pen poised over my clipboard.

“Hello, sir,” I greet him in sweet, singsong tones. “Everything all right for you in store today?”

“Fine,” says Damian, barely looking round.

“I’m here to assess our facilities for the elderly,” I press on. “Are you managing all right today, sir, or are there any problems you’d like to highlight?”

“What?” Damian frowns at me, confused.

“We understand the challenges facing your age group,” I reply soothingly, “and we’re here to help with mobility, larger signs for the visually challenged, hearing aids….Are you finding everything you need?”

Ms. Pinchy Face suddenly gives a snort of laughter.

“I’m not elderly,” says Damian, looking livid.

“Of course you’re not! ‘Age-challenged,’ is what I meant to say.” I nod. “I understand, it’s a sensitive topic—”

“I’m fifty-four!” barks Damian. “Fifty-four!”

“As I say, we do want to help your generation have the most effective shopping experience for your needs.” I look at Ms. Pinchy Face and add brightly, “Oh, is this your caregiver? Did you have any comments or suggestions? He’s a lovely old gentleman, isn’t he?”

“Caregiver?” Damian appears apoplectic. “Caregiver? Can I talk to your superior? What’s your name?” He makes a swipe for my lanyard and I hastily back away.