Actually, I’m really into this idea.
“So where are you looking?” I ask. “You could move to Letherby. There must be some cottages to rent. In fact, yes! There’s a thatched cottage for rent on Suze’s estate!” I almost choke with excitement as I suddenly remember. “It’s adorable. Move there!”
“Oh, love.” Mum exchanges amused looks with Dad. “That’s not really what we’re after.”
“Letherby is suitable for you and Suze,” says Dad kindly. “But we want somewhere with a bit more ‘buzz.’ And I’m not talking about the bees!” He laughs at his own joke.
Buzz? My parents?
“So where are you moving to?” I say, baffled. “Dorking?”
“Sweetheart!” Mum peals with laughter. “Did you hear that, Graham—Dorking! No, love, London. Central London.”
“Not Central London,” Dad immediately contradicts her. “East London.”
“Graham, you’re talking nonsense. East London is Central London these days. Isn’t it, Becky?” Mum appeals to me.
“Dunno,” I say, perplexed. “Where exactly are you talking about?”
“Well!” says Mum knowledgeably. “It’s this super little area. Very tucked away. We came across it when Dad was showing me where his old office used to be. It’s called…” She pauses for effect. “Shoreditch.”
Shoreditch? I gape at her, wondering if I’ve heard wrong. Shoreditch, as in…
Shoreditch?
“It’s on the tube,” Mum is saying. “Just a bit north of Liverpool Street. You’ll be able to find us quite easily, love.”
“I know where it is,” I say, finding my voice. “But, Mum, you can’t move to Shoreditch!”
“Why not?” Mum looks affronted.
“Because Shoreditch is for young people! It’s where hipsters come from! It’s all craft beer and sourdough bread. It’s…” I whirl my hands hopelessly. “Not you.”
“Well!” says Mum indignantly. “Who says it’s not us? I should say we’ll fit in perfectly! Your father’s very fond of beer.”
“It’s just…” I try again. “It has a vibe.”
“A ‘vibe’?” echoes Mum, rolling her eyes. “What a lot of nonsense. Oh, Carlo, I’m sorry,” she adds to a hovering waiter. “You’ll have to give us a moment. And then you must tell us how your daughter’s doing on her gap year.” She twinkles at Carlo before taking a deep gulp of her drink and glaring at me huffily across the top of it.
“Look, Mum, of course you can live anywhere you like,” I backtrack. “But don’t you feel like you belong here?” I spread my arms around the cozy restaurant. “You know all the waiters. You know their families. You know the veal marsala. Shoreditch is…Shoreditch.”
“Perhaps I don’t want veal marsala anymore,” says Dad suddenly. “Perhaps I want…” He hesitates, then says self-consciously, “Smashed avocado.”
He lifts his chin almost defiantly, and I blink back at him. Dad wants smashed avocado?
“Avocado?” says Carlo, perking up. “Avocado and prawns to start? And then the veal marsala?”
I’m aware of Luke stifling a laugh and shoot him a look, although to be truthful I feel a bit hysterical myself.
“Anyway, we’ve found an apartment,” says Mum defensively, “and it’s available immediately. It has lovely fitted blinds, Becky. All included.”
“Views over the city,” puts in Dad, with satisfaction.
“And a ‘wet room,’ ” says Mum proudly. “So practical for the older person.”
“There’s a cooperative beehive on the roof,” adds Dad happily. “And a hot tub!”
“Does it have off-street parking?” I can’t resist asking, and Mum shakes her head pityingly.
“Love, don’t be so suburban. We’ll be using Uber!”
I don’t know what to say. My parents are moving to Shoreditch. I’m actually a little envious, I realize. I wouldn’t mind an apartment with a hot tub and views over the city.
“Well, bravo!” I lift my glass. “Here’s to a whole new lifestyle!”
“I think it’s great,” says Luke warmly. “Good for you, Graham and Jane. Can we come and visit you in your flash new pad?”
“Well, of course!” says Mum, whose indignation has already died away. “We’ll have a nice housewarming party with nibbles. It’ll be super.” She beams around the table—then suddenly her gaze narrows. She peers at my chest intently for a few seconds, before looking up in astonishment.
“Becky, love! I’ve just noticed something! Your top matches the napkins!”
From: Jess Bertram
To: Becky
Subject: Christmas
Hi, Becky,
I gather you know the news of our return. We’re really looking forward to coming back to the UK and seeing family. Your parents have been very generous with the offer of their house.
Also: Thanks so much for hosting Christmas. We’re really looking forward to it. Obviously we’re hoping that it reflects our non-consumerist, sustainable values. I’m sure we’ll have a lot of fun.
Jess
From: Jess Bertram
To: Becky
Subject: Re:Re: Christmas
Hi, Becky,
Yes, I’m still vegan, and Tom is too.
Jess
From: Jess Bertram
To: Becky
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re: Christmas
Hi, Becky,
No, we don’t have a “day off from being vegan” on Christmas Day as a “little reward.”
As for presents, no, there is nothing I’m “hankering after.” Tom and I will be exchanging non-tangible gifts, in the spirit of creating a minimal footprint on our ravaged earth.
If you can’t shake off the pressure to buy pointless items simply to follow “tradition,” could I suggest that they are sustainable, non-consumerist, locally sourced presents that reflect the true principles of fellowship rather than the hollow pleasures of shopping?
Looking forward to a festive day.
Jess
As I arrive at school the next morning with Minnie, my head is in a whirl. Though I’m not sure whether my biggest preoccupation is that 1. Mum and Dad are moving to Shoreditch, or 2. I’ve got to host Christmas for the first time ever.
It’s just one day of the year, I keep telling myself. It’s no big deal. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? (Actually, no. Let’s not start that thought process.)
Anyway, it’s fine, because I’ve already begun. I’ve looked on Pinterest and found a million lists on How to Host Christmas. I’ve ordered two tickets for the Christmas Style Fair in Olympia. I’ll go with Mum and get some inspiration. Plus, I’m going to start my Christmas shopping now. It’s only November. There’s loads of time!
I take Minnie into the cloakroom, help her hang her coat up, then head toward the classroom. At once I see Minnie’s friend Eva, together with her mum, Petra—and my heart slightly sinks.
“Look!” exclaims Minnie, wide-eyed. “Look at the drum! It’s ’normous!”
Petra is holding a massive tribal drum, made out of twigs and canvas and decorated with ribbons. Eva starts beating it with her hand while Petra beams smugly around and Minnie gawps. Did they make that?
I close my eyes briefly, then open them again. I love the village school, and I love Minnie’s teacher, Miss Lucas, but does she have to be such a craft nut? She’s always coming up with “fun, optional activities,” which aren’t optional at all, because everyone does them. This weekend it was “Make a musical instrument” from “items around the home.” I mean, what?
Minnie and I put some dried beans in an empty jar, and I thought we’d done really well—but this is on a whole other level.
“Such a fun activity,” Petra is gushing to Miss Lucas. “The whole family got involved!”
“I’m so glad!” Miss Lucas looks delighted. “Creativity is so important. Minnie, did you make a musical instrument?”
“We made a shaker,” I say, trying to sound confident.
“Marvelous!” enthuses Miss Lucas. “Can I see it?”
Oh God.
Reluctantly, I reach into Minnie’s book bag and pull out the shaker. I was going to paint it or something, but I forgot, so it’s basically a Clarins jar. I can see Petra’s eyes widen, and Miss Lucas seems momentarily stumped, but I keep my chin high. She asked for “items around the home,” didn’t she?
“Super!” says Miss Lucas at last. “We’ll put it next to Eva’s drum in the display!”
Great. So Eva has a tribal drum and Minnie has a Clarins jar.
Thankfully, Minnie doesn’t seem to mind—but I’m feeling hot all over. Next time I’ll ace the craft project, I promise myself. I’ll make something drop-dead amazing, even if it takes me all weekend.
“Bye, Minnie, darling.” I kiss her and she runs happily into the classroom.
“Tarkie, careful!” Suze’s piercing voice makes us all turn, and I gasp. What the hell has Suze got there? It’s a complicated arrangement of tubing and funnels and duct tape, and it’s taking both her and her husband, Tarquin, to carry it, while the children trail behind.
“Lady Cleath-Stuart!” exclaims Miss Lucas. “Goodness!”
“It’s a euphonium,” says Suze breathlessly. “It plays three notes.”
Suze loves art and craft, and she’s always been brilliant at them. She’s forever getting her children to make papier-mâché figures and pasta collages and leave them drying all over the kitchen. So I’m not surprised she can knock up a quick euphonium from household items.
“Suze!” I say. “That’s amazing!”