Fun? I’m trying to think of a tactful way to tell Suze that it sounds the least fun ever, when inspiration hits me.
“I know!” I say in excitement. “We’ll just give each other something that we already own. It’s green and it’s easy and the present will actually be a nice thing.”
“Oh my God!” exclaims Suze. “Brilliant idea, Bex!”
There’s a short silence. My mind is already roaming excitedly over Suze’s wardrobe. She’s got so many amazing clothes. What if she gives me her purple embroidered coat?
No. She wouldn’t. It’s too precious. But maybe she would…?
I suddenly notice the same distant look on Suze’s face.
“Suze, tell me what you’d like,” I say. “Whatever it is, it’s yours.”
“No!” she protests. “I’m not going to ask for anything. That’s not the Christmas spirit.”
“Just give me a hint,” I suggest.
“No! I’ll be delighted with anything you give me, Bex. Doesn’t matter what.”
But as she sips her coffee, her face is again preoccupied. What’s she thinking about? My new silver pumps. Or…no. My leopard-print bag?
Argh. This is impossible! Maybe I’ll give her more than one thing.
“Mango smoothie, soy latte, smashed avocado on sourdough…” A waiter interrupts us, and we all look up.
“I’d better get back to my seat,” says Suze. “Bon appétit!”
The waiter starts putting down drinks and plates, and I pick up my pen again. I’d better make a few more notes in my Christmas notebook, before I forget everything. I write down Suze present, stuffing, bread sauce, eco-crackers, eco-tree (NOT broom). Then I pause.
I don’t know how to make bread sauce, I realize. It’s always just appeared on the table in a jug, every Christmas. How do you make bread into a sauce? And where will I find an eco-tree?
I’m staring ahead with a furrowed brow when Luke pulls a chair up beside me.
“All OK?” he says.
“Fine!” I say automatically, but I’ve suddenly remembered pigs in blankets and scribble it down in my book. Then I write vegan pigs in blankets? Is that a thing? Without quite meaning to, I heave a great sigh—then look up to see Luke watching me.
“Becky,” he says in a low voice. “Don’t fret. None of this really matters. If we don’t manage to get hold of pigs in blankets, Christmas won’t collapse.”
“I know.” I give him a grateful smile. “Still, you know. I want everyone to be happy….”
“They will be,” he says firmly. “Minnie, poppet, can I borrow your book for a moment?”
He takes Minnie’s Grinch book and flips to the page where all the Whos are holding hands and singing, not caring that the Grinch has nicked all their stuff. I love that page.
“This is Christmas,” he says, pointing at the happy line of Whos. “Remember? Friends and family gathered together, celebrating. Not presents, not piñatas, people.”
“I know, but—”
“Whatever the Grinch can steal, that’s not Christmas,” asserts Luke.
I turn his words over in my head. Whatever the Grinch can steal, that’s not Christmas. I love that. I’ll just have to try to keep it in mind. I gaze at the book for a moment longer—then impulsively give Luke a kiss.
“You’re right,” I say. “Thank you.”
I really do love my husband. Even with his mustache.
MESSAGES
Janice
Becky, here’s the recipe for brussels sprouts with chestnuts. They’re delicious! Janice xxx
Mum
Don’t listen to Janice, love. Brussels sprouts don’t need messing about. Just trim them and simmer them. Easy. Mum xxx
Suze
Bex, I’m not actually that keen on brussels sprouts. Could we have broccoli instead? Suze xxx
Bex
Hi, Jess!
I think your idea of giving us all words for Christmas is really amazing!!! I was wondering if you wanted a suggestion for my word? Because if so—just a thought—you could give me “edgy.”
Bx
Bex
Or “cool.”
Bx
Bex
Or “The Girl in the Blue Eye Shadow.” I know that’s more than one word, but I mean, they’re free, aren’t they?
Bx
Jess
Becky, I’m not going to tell you what your present is.
Jess
From: Myriad Miracle
To: Becky Brandon
Subject: Fitness questionnaire!
Hi, Mrs. Brandon (née Bloomwood):
Thank you for your completed online fitness questionnaire. We hope you’re excited to embark on your new Myriad Miracle Training System™ program!
However, we think you may have misconstrued some of the questions and request that you resubmit them for our analysis.
QUESTIONS FOR RESUBMISSION
12. What is your specific aim?
We would expect a fitness or well-being goal rather than “Squish into Alexander McQueen dress.”
13. Do you have any particular areas of concern?
We would expect an area such as “body fat percentage” or “cardio fitness,” rather than “zip.”
We look forward to receiving your amended questionnaire.
Happy health-seeking!
Debs
(membership assistant)
I am still edgy. I am.
I’m staring at myself in the mirror before work on Monday morning, tweaking my Letherby tweed suit, which I’ve just “distressed.” I was inspired by my friend Danny Kovitz, the designer. He can take a sack, gather it in places, fray a hem or two—and make it look like an amazing dress. So I thought I’d do the same thing. Only I’m not sure I’ve created quite the same effect.
I’ve unpicked a couple of seams, shredded the hems with my nail scissors, and added some brooches. I also tried to gather the jacket with some stitches, creating new shape and line—except I created a weird bulge instead. I might unpick that quickly.
“I’m off, Becky,” says Luke, striding into the bedroom, holding his briefcase. He stops dead at the sight of me. “Wow,” he adds cautiously. “You look…different.”
“It’s edgy,” I say quickly. “I’ve distressed it.” Then I realize he’s peering at my face. “Oh, my eye shadow?” I add carelessly. “Yes, I thought I’d go for a stronger look.”
On the way back from Shoreditch, I popped into Boots and bought a makeup palette called Ultimate Drama, and I’ve just followed a YouTube tutorial called Edgy Blue-Black Look.
I mean, OK. It’s quite dramatic for a Monday morning. But, then, why shouldn’t Monday mornings be about bold eye shadow?
“Uh-huh,” says Luke slowly. “Is that a blue streak in your hair?”
“Only a tiny one.” I shrug.
“And what’s this music?” asks Luke curiously, tilting his head to listen to the beat thumping through the room.
“Spittser,” I say casually. “You know, the DJ? He’s awesome. He was DJ’ing in Gdańsk last night. Shame we couldn’t have been there.”
I got all that off a website last night. And I downloaded the “ten essential underground clubbing tracks.”
“Gdańsk,” echoes Luke, looking perplexed. “Becky…has anything brought on this sudden interest in Eastern European clubs?”
“It’s not sudden,” I contradict him. “I’ve always been into edgy music, you know that.”
“Last Christmas you made us all listen to ABBA’s Greatest Hits,” Luke reminds me.
“I’m eclectic,” I say frostily. “People can be eclectic, you know.”
Luke’s mouth is twitching, but I’m going to ignore him. I put a leather cuff on over my tweed jacket and look at myself with satisfaction. Meanwhile, Luke’s eyes have drifted downward to my new black boots.
“Now, those are great,” he says.
“Oh, these?” I shrug carelessly.
I’m not sure I can actually walk in these boots, but they’re the edgiest things I’ve ever possessed. I got them online, next-day delivery. They have killer heels, eyelets, metal rivets, and little chains swinging on the backs of them.
“They’re hot,” says Luke, still transfixed.
Ah. Right. These boots have clearly made an impression. Luke’s voice has got deeper by about five notches, and when at last he meets my gaze, his dark eyes are gleaming.
“Glad you like them,” I say, and preen a little.
“Oh, I like them.” He nods slowly.
Luke has a real thing for boots. I should have put these on last night. And now, just the way he’s looking at me makes me catch my breath. I stare back silently and feel my heart start to beat harder.
I’ve often thought I should write Becky Brandon née Bloomwood’s Guide to Marriage. I could jot down helpful observations here and there. And my first observation would be that love in marriage is like one of those wavy graphs where the pen keeps zooming up and down and you can’t predict it at all.
Obviously, I love Luke all the time, like constant thumpy background music. But those exhilarating guitar-solo moments when I think, Oh my God, I want you now, seem to come at random. (Is this just me? I must ask Suze.)
And this is a perfect example. Last night we had a nice supper a deux in the kitchen, which should have been romantic. But all I could do was stare at Luke’s upper lip and think, Why did you have to grow a mustache; couldn’t you have made a donation? Whereas now, this morning, when we’re in a rush and need to leave, all I can think is, I don’t care about the mustache; you’re my total love god. In fact, I feel quite hot and flustered. It’s the way he’s looking at me purposefully.
“What time are you back?” I ask huskily. “Do you have any late meetings?”
“I’ll cancel them,” says Luke, his eyes not leaving mine. “If you keep those boots on.”