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The next morning, Luke is distinctly on the grouchy side. I say “morning,” but it’s more like the middle of the night. I would have thought that being the boss of your own company would mean you didn’t have to get up at silly o’clock to catch planes, but apparently it doesn’t work like that.
I kiss him goodbye, wincing slightly at the furry texture of his new mustache. (It’s for charity, I keep reminding myself.) As his taxi pulls away, I wave, trying to look as loving and apologetic as I can. Then I head into the kitchen and slump on a chair.
I feel fairly grouchy myself. I didn’t get enough sleep either, and I feel awful that I nearly blinded Luke. The whole thing was a total disaster. I spent ages collecting all those aftershave samples—and all for nothing. Luke doesn’t want a new aftershave. He wants the same old thing. It’s totally against the spirit of Christmas! Imagine if Father Christmas opened his letters and they all said, Dear Santa, please give me the same old thing. He’d go into a decline.
As I switch on the kettle, I remember that annoying guy in Selfridges, telling me that my husband didn’t want a new aftershave. I hate that he was right—and I stand by my reply. Some people are happy to go the extra mile for their husband’s Christmas present. So the coat didn’t work out and the aftershave didn’t work out. I’m undeterred. I feel all the more determined to find something that makes Luke’s jaw drop.
(In a good way. Not because it’s a purple mohair jacket. Although to be fair, I kept the receipt for that purple jacket, and I still think it suited him. It was all Mum’s fault for exclaiming, “Dear God!” in such appalled tones when he tried it on. Sometimes I don’t understand how I came from such a fashion-illiterate family, I really don’t.)
As I drop Minnie at school, I look around for Steph—in case she wants a chat or anything—but I can’t see her, so I head to work. I make myself a coffee, then lean against the cash desk, looking around the shop for present inspiration. But I’ve already given Luke the hip flask and the gentleman’s handkerchief set and the caramel sea salt chocolate. (Well, OK, that was mostly for me.)
I heave a gusty sigh, cursing myself. I should never have bought him the hip flask. I should have mentally earmarked it for Christmas.
“Are you OK, Bex?” Suze comes up, peering at me in surprise.
“Didn’t sleep very well,” I say morosely. “Actually, Luke and I had a row.”
“What about?”
“Christmas presents and stuff,” I say vaguely.
I won’t mention that I drew on Luke with a Sharpie; it sounds a bit weird.
“Oh, Christmas presents.” Suze rolls her eyes sympathetically. “We had a row too. Tarkie wants to give the children each a lamb, but I want to get them a piglet. Who wants a lamb when they could have a piglet?” She looks at me expectantly.
“Er…” Personally, I wouldn’t want either, but that’s probably not the answer Suze is hoping for.
“Does Minnie want a piglet?” Suze’s eyes light up. “Shall I get her one too?”
A piglet? In our garden? Oinking everywhere and making a mess and growing into a massive hog? I love Suze to bits, but there are certain areas of life where we simply don’t see eye to eye.
“I don’t think so,” I say carefully. “She’s not really a piglet girl. In fact, the only useful thing I’ve done so far for Christmas is buy Minnie’s present,” I add. “She’s desperate for a picnic hamper, and I’ve already ordered it.”
I’m expecting Suze to exclaim, “Well done!” or ask to see it online, but instead she looks doubtful.
“You’ve ordered it already?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Hmm.” Suze twists her mouth up. “Isn’t that a bit early? What if she changes her mind?”
Changes her mind? That hadn’t even occurred to me.
“She won’t,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “She’s wanted that hamper for ages.” But Suze just shakes her head.
“They’re totally fickle. I call it ‘the swerve.’ They say, ‘I really want a pogo stick, it’s all I want, please, please, please can I have a pogo stick?’ Then, three days before Christmas, they go to a friend’s house and see a talking mermaid on a TV ad and suddenly they want that instead. But it’s already sold out,” she ends in gloomy satisfaction. “So you have to find it on eBay at three times the price.”
“Minnie won’t change her mind,” I insist. “She loves that hamper.”
“You wait,” says Suze, sounding like a grizzled old fisherman predicting a storm. “She’ll see a talking mermaid on telly, and the hamper will be toast.”
“Well, she’s not allowed to see a talking mermaid,” I say crossly. “I’m banning the telly until Christmas.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffs Suze. “Are you going to move to an Amish village?”
I’m about to retort, “Maybe!” and google Amish villages (are there any in Hampshire?) when Irene comes up, holding a piece of paper out to me.
“Oh, Becky!” she exclaims. “Good news. I found the name of the young man who was asking after you.”
“The striking young man,” puts in Suze, grinning at me.
“Exactly.” Irene beams innocently. “It was…” She reads off the piece of paper. “Craig Curton.”
I stare at her, feeling a bit gobsmacked. Craig Curton?
“D’you know him, Bex?” says Suze with interest, as Irene hands me the piece of paper.
“Actually, I do,” I say. “Actually…” I hesitate. “He’s an old flame.”
“An old flame?” Suze stares at me. “I never heard about him! When was he?”
“Ages ago.” I make a brushing-away motion. “At uni.”
I’d completely forgotten about Craig Curton. Or not forgotten about him exactly, but I can’t say I’ve thought about him much.
“He’s very striking, Becky, dear,” puts in Irene, her eyes bright. “Very handsome.” She heads off to greet a customer, and Suze grins wickedly at me.
“Irene’s got the hots for your old boyfriend. Is he a supermodel or something?”
“I think Irene must have quite low standards,” I say, giggling. “He’s a bit weird-looking. You know, dyed black hair and really pale and awful teeth. He was in a band,” I add hastily. “That’s why I went out with him.”
“Well, I’m googling him,” announces Suze, grinning. “I have to see this Greek god for myself.”
“He’s not a Greek god.” I roll my eyes. “In fact, I don’t know why I went out with him, even if he was in a band.”
I wait for Suze to reply but she’s staring down at her phone, looking a bit stunned.
“You know what, Bex?” she says slowly. “He is a bit of a Greek god. Unless it’s a different guy. Is this him?”
She holds out her phone and I jolt in shock. That guy is gorgeous. That can’t be Craig Curton.
I stare down at the image, trying to make sense of it. OK, I can just about see that it’s Craig. An older Craig. But his hair, which used to be weird and shapeless, is now tumbling down to his shoulders in dark shiny waves. And his teeth have been done. And he’s tanned. And look at those arms.
“He’s amazing,” says Suze flatly.
“He’s changed.” I find my voice. “He’s…he didn’t look like that. Nothing like that.”
“What does he do?” Suze scrolls down the page, which is some kind of professional network. “Musician,” she says, sounding a little awestruck. “His latest release is called ‘Love Underneath.’ ”
“Really?” I try to grab for the phone, but Suze snatches it back.
“I haven’t finished looking!” she says. “Last year he released ‘Honest.’ He recently toured Germany with Blink Rage. Who are Blink Rage?”
I have no idea who Blink Rage are, but I’m not going to admit that.
“Haven’t you heard of Blink Rage, Suze?” I say, a little pityingly.
“Hi, Becky.” A raspy male voice greets me from across the shop, and both our heads jerk up—and I nearly die of shock.
It’s him. It’s him. He’s here. And we’re googling him. Fuck.
“Hi!” says Suze in a weird squeak, dropping her phone with a clatter. “Hi. Welcome to the…Hi!” As he gets near, she grabs her phone and hastily turns it over—but not before we’ve all seen his face filling the screen.
My face goes instantly red. This is so embarrassing.
“Hi, Craig,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “Hi. We were just…Hi. What a surprise! It’s been…”
“Years.” He nods. “Unreal, right?”
He sounds like a rock god with that raspy voice. And he looks like one, too, with his long hair and battered leather jacket and a skull tattooed on his earlobe.
He greets me with a kiss on each cheek, then he steps back and just looks at me with an easy, confident smile. That’s new too. He never used to smile like that at uni; he used to read me depressing pieces out of the paper and tell me I should be more engaged with the struggle.
“This is Suze,” I say, and Suze says, “Oh, hi!” She shakes his hand, then gazes at him with moony eyes, twiddling her hair as if she’s about fourteen.