Home > Christmas Shopaholic (Shopaholic #9)(16)

Christmas Shopaholic (Shopaholic #9)(16)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

“Jeez, no.” Craig looks surprised at the idea. “I lost touch with those losers. But, hey, Becky.” He focuses on me as though for the first time. “A bunch of us are going to Warsaw for the weekend, check out a new club. The guys from Blink Rage, a few others…You want to come?”

I stare at him, gripped. He’s inviting me to go partying in Warsaw with Blink Rage? For a moment I’m there, wearing electric-blue eye shadow and amazing shoes (which I would need to buy), jumping around to some banging song in a nightclub, and people are calling me “the Girl with the Great Eye Shadow,” except in Polish….

And then I blink and remember that Minnie’s got ballet on Saturday. And I’ve promised Suze to look after her three children all day Sunday while she and Tarkie go to some family friend’s memorial service. And we’re having a supermarket delivery.

“It sounds amazing,” I say regretfully. “But I have commitments. Another time, maybe?”

“Sure,” says Craig, in that easy way of his. We walk on a little longer, then he says casually, “I always used to think about you, Becky. Used to wonder what you were up to now.”

“Me too,” I say at once. This isn’t strictly true, but I can hardly say, “Actually, I forgot all about you.” We walk a few more steps, then I add carelessly, “So, am I what you expected?”

“Hmm.” Craig considers for a moment, then looks up. “Honestly? I thought you’d be more edgy.”

I stare at him, stricken, More edgy?

“I’m edgy!” I say, trying to laugh lightly. “God! I’m so edgy.”

“Really?” says Craig quizzically. “Because what I’m seeing is a sleepy village, husband, kid, tweed…” He looks down at the unicorn. “And whatever this is.”

“It’s a unicorn,” I say, and he raises his eyebrows.

“There you go.”

“That’s only part of who I am!” I say, a bit flustered. “I’m still totally edgy. I’m like…whatever. Bring it on. Smash it. Radical.”

Oh God, what am I saying? No one says “radical” except million-year-old hippies.

“It’s fair enough.” He shrugs. “People settle down. They have kids, go soft.”

“I haven’t gone soft!”

I try to push my hair back into an edgier style, wishing I had a tattoo to casually reveal.

“Cool.” Craig smiles, but I can’t tell if he’s humoring me. We reach the turning-down toward his cottage and pause on the pavement.

“Shall I carry this home for you?” he says, nodding at the unicorn.

“No, don’t worry, I’ll be fine now.” I take it from him. “Thanks. And, you know, count me in next time you go to Warsaw!” I add. “I do still party, I am still edgy—”

“Oh, Mrs. Brandon!” A cheerful voice greets me, and I look up to see Jayne, the school nurse, walking along, dressed up for an evening out. “What a super unicorn!” She strokes the white fluffy mane admiringly. “Now, I’m glad to bump into you, because I didn’t see you at pickup. I’m sorry to say, there’s a case of nits at school.”

Nits. Of all the things she could mention, nits?

“Oh dear,” I say hurriedly. “Well, thank you—”

“So we’re asking if all parents could check their children’s hair tonight. Remember, the eggs are white, but the lice are brown.” She smiles brightly at Craig. “Hello!”

“Hi,” says Craig, looking amused. “I guess I’d better leave you to it. See you, Becky.”

He lopes off and I feel a burst of frustration. It’s not fair. No one looks cool when they’re talking about nits. Not even Kate Moss could look cool talking about nits.

At last Jayne finishes telling me how to use a nit comb, and we wish each other a good evening. Then I continue on my way home, still clutching the unicorn, feeling ruffled. I know it was only a passing comment, but Craig’s judgment has really got under my skin.

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I’m still edgy. I am. Kind of. Aren’t I?

All the way to Shoreditch the next day, I can’t stop thinking about that conversation. I can’t stop remembering Craig’s pitying look. As we get out of the car, I’m so preoccupied, I can’t help saying, “Luke, do I look edgy?”

“No, you look lovely,” he replies absently, and I feel a jerk of dismay.

“So you’re saying I look crap,” I say morosely, and Luke’s head jerks up.

“What?” He stares at me. “Becky, I just said you look lovely. How the hell can you twist that into ‘I look crap’?”

“You said I wasn’t edgy. Edgy’s good.” I try to impress this point on him. “It’s good.”

“Oh,” says Luke, sounding baffled. “Then, yes, you do look edgy. If I saw you in the street, I’d say, ‘Wow. That’s one edgy person.’ ”

Hmph. He’s not taking it seriously, is he?

As we walk along toward the building, I look critically at my own reflection in car windows. I mean, OK, so I’m not a student anymore. I don’t party every night anymore. But is it worse than that? Am I totally uncool?

My new satin jumpsuit’s pretty edgy, I remind myself. But on the other hand, look at the block-heeled boots that I’m wearing with my skinny jeans. They’re comfy. They’re practical. They’re “busy working mum” boots, I realize, with a pang of horror. I have to throw them away! I have to take action! Edge myself up before it’s too late.

“Hey, Luke,” I say casually as we turn the corner. “We should go to Warsaw one weekend. Don’t you think?”

“Warsaw?” Luke looks puzzled—then his brow clears. “Have they opened a new shopping center there?”

“No!” I say, a little offended. “I meant we should take in some of the clubs. There’s a great underground techno scene,” I add nonchalantly. “You know LL Dee is DJ’ing at Luzztro this weekend? She’s been on fire this year, apparently.”

“I’m sorry, who?” says Luke, mystified, and I feel a flare of frustration. Here I am, trying to be edgy, and my husband’s never even heard of LL Dee!

I mean, OK, I’d never heard of her either till I went on Google last night, but at least I made the effort.

“I’m quite surprised you haven’t heard of LL Dee, Luke,” I say. “Your business is in communication. You should be aware of the world.”

“I’m in financial PR, my love,” replies Luke politely. “Techno DJs aren’t really my remit.”

Honestly. Luke can be so narrow-minded. I glance over at him, about to tell him so—but I’m halted by a pang of dismay. It’s about the thousandth pang of dismay I’ve felt since he came back from Madrid with his mustache looking so…mustache-like.

I’m trying to be open-minded, I really am. I keep reminding myself it’s for charity. I just wish charity hadn’t ever had the idea of mustaches.

It’s not yet fully grown, and I keep surreptitiously peering at it to see which way it might develop. Will it be one of those big bushy caterpillar-type ones? Or all thin and stringy? I keep googling mustaches to find one I like, but all I’ve found so far are ones I don’t like.

“Look at dah wabbit!” Minnie interrupts my thoughts, pointing excitedly at a woman with pink hair, power walking toward us with a buggy. “It’s in dah push chair, Mummy! In dah push chair!”

I do a double take and realize that Minnie’s right—the woman’s pushing a live rabbit in a buggy. Oh my God. I watch the woman go by, then exchange glances with Luke. You definitely wouldn’t get that in Letherby.

I’ve only been to Shoreditch a few times before, and it still feels exotic to me. It’s more like the Meatpacking District of New York than like London, all red-brick buildings and graffiti and interesting-looking shops everywhere and people pushing rabbits in buggies.

My parents live in an edgier place than I do, it suddenly hits me. Oh God. That’s against the laws of nature, surely? Parents should be less cool than their children.

Should we quickly move to Shoreditch too? Or somewhere even edgier, like Dalston? I’m tempted to get out my phone and google edgy postcode London really cool. But even as I’m considering it, I know I don’t want to. Minnie’s so happy at her school, and it’s fab being so near Suze. And, anyway, I can be edgy in Letherby, can’t I?

“Are those presents both for your parents?” asks Luke, glancing at the gift bags in my hand.

“The champagne’s for my parents, but this one’s a welcome-home gift for Jess,” I say, lifting up the smaller, squarer bag. “Herbal body lotion.”

“A present for Jess!” exclaims Luke, looking amused. “Isn’t that a risky venture?”

“It’s vegan,” I explain. “And it’s made by a collective. She’s got to like it.”

   
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