“The Rodin was interesting,” ventures her dark-haired friend, but the mean blond woman rolls her eyes.
“Clichéd,” she says disdainfully.
Clichéd? She’s clichéd.
I want to say something rude to her, but of course I can’t. My feet are agony and I’m feeling pissed off, but both Suze and Irene have disappeared somewhere, so I force myself to approach the group with a pleasant smile.
“Hello, may I help you?”
As I’m speaking, I give Mean Blondie a Manhattan Once-Over and realize she must have scads of money. That coat is £800 on Net-a-Porter; I’ve seen it.
“We’re fine, thanks,” says the nice woman who liked the Rodin.
“Is that tweed suit standard?” chimes in Mean Blondie, eyeing me closely—and I realize she’s given me the Manhattan Once-Over. “I didn’t see anything like that on the racks,” she adds, studying the fraying. “Is it for sale?”
Hmm. This woman might be mean, but at least she appreciates my artistry.
“It’s a bespoke outfit, actually,” I say, softening. “Here at Letherby, we believe that tweed doesn’t have to be boring. It can be frayed, pleated, edgy, vibrant….It has limitless possibilities,” I finish, feeling quite inspired. I could be a spokesperson for the Tweed Promotion Board! “Are you interested in ordering a customized suit for yourself?”
I’ll customize it myself, I’m thinking in slight excitement. I’ll start a business! I’ll call my label Becky’s Bespoke Tweed, and people will say…
“No,” she says flatly. “I just wondered why you look so strange.”
Strange?
My excitement collapses and I force myself not to glare at her. Instead, I say as politely as I can, “Well, enjoy the rest of the store.”
I pretend to be busy with a display of tweed purses, but as the women walk off, I eye Mean Blondie’s back malevolently. If she says one more nasty thing…
They look at the soaps and the shampoos, but they don’t put any in their baskets. Nor any marmalade or jam. Then they stop to look at my gorgeously arranged hygge table.
“Hygge Collection?” says Mean Blondie disparagingly, reading my handwritten sign. “For God’s sake, really? Aren’t we all hygged to death? Isn’t it a little bit over?”
OK, that’s it. I’ve had enough. They’re not calling me “over.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say smoothly, striding over and removing the hygge sign. “That sign’s out of date. This is actually our brand-new sprygge collection.”
I cross out Hygge Collection, turn the cardboard sign over, firmly write Sprygge Collection, then place it back on the table.
“Sprygge?” Mean Blondie stares at me.
“Yes, sprygge. Haven’t you heard of sprygge?” I say in pitying tones. “It is rather new to this country. Rather niche. Norwegian,” I add for good measure.
To be absolutely truthful, the word sprygge popped out of my mouth before I could stop it. But now that I’ve written it down, I think it looks really good.
“What does it mean?” asks another of the women.
“If you don’t speak Norwegian, it’s hard to convey,” I say, playing for time. “But it’s…a positiveness. A radiant, joyful, yet complex feeling. More intense than hygge. Like…turbo-hygge.”
“Turbo-hygge?” echoes Mean Blondie skeptically.
“Yes,” I say defiantly. “It’s the sense of euphoria and relief you feel when everything seemed as though it was going desperately wrong but then turned out OK. It’s that feeling.”
“I know that feeling!” says the dark-haired woman.
“There you go!” I smile at her. “Imagine you’re going to miss your train and you’re utterly panicked, but then you run up the platform and you just catch it. As you’re sitting there, panting, the sensation you feel spreading through your body is sprygge.”
“I never knew there was a word for that,” says the third woman curiously. “Language is so interesting.”
“Exactly!” I nod at her. “And these carefully curated products accompany that wonderful feeling.” I gesture at the table. “The scented candles soothe your nerves…the blanket reassures you that everything’s OK now…and the chocolates say: Well done, you made it, you deserve a treat!”
Mean Blondie is still peering at me superciliously, but her friends seem quite transfixed.
“I’ll take a candle,” says the dark-haired woman.
“I’ll have some chocolates,” puts in the third woman. “I think we do deserve a treat, don’t we?”
“Well, I might have a blanket,” says Mean Blondie reluctantly.
To my slight disbelief, all three women start picking up items from the table and looking at them with more interest. Sprygge worked!
I turn to see both Suze and Irene watching me from the other side of the shop and beam proudly back.
“I’ll just leave you to browse,” I say to the women. “Please let me know if you need any more help.”
I head toward Suze and Irene, mouthing, “Result!” and doing a discreet little fist pump.
“Wow, Bex,” says Suze as I reach her. “That sounded amazing!”
“Very interesting, dear,” says Irene admiringly.
“Look, they’re buying loads!” adds Suze in a whisper. “Bex, where did you get all that information about sprygge from?”
I open my mouth to tell her that I made it up—then stop. I can see a glimpse of leather jacket through the doorway. Is that…
Yes. It’s him. Craig. Wow. I didn’t expect him back so soon.
I mean, not that I was expecting him. I just…Anyway. He’s here. Before I can stop myself, I toss back my hair and lean nonchalantly against a counter with a cool kind of gaze.
“What are you doing, Bex?” says Suze in surprise, and turns to follow my gaze. “Oh. Oh!” She suddenly swivels to look at me and says, “Oh,” in a completely different voice. Her gaze slowly runs from my blue-streaked hair down to my edgy boots. “Oh,” she says a fourth time, with heavy emphasis. “Ohhh.”
Honestly. Can’t she stop saying “oh”?
“What?” I say, trying not to sound defensive.
“You’re looking pretty rock chick today, aren’t you?” Suze is still studying me beadily. “I wondered what you were doing.”
“Rock chick?” I try to sound baffled at the suggestion. “Honestly, Suze. I’m just wearing…you know. My normal look.”
“Normal?” scoffs Suze. “You’re calling those boots normal? And your blue streak?” She lowers her voice. “You’re trying to look cool for the rock god.”
“No, I’m not!” I retort in a furious undertone. “Anyway, so are you!” I add, as I notice Suze quickly pulling her scrunchie out of her hair and smoothing it down. “And shh! He’s coming! Oh, hi,” I say carelessly as Craig ambles into earshot. “How was Warsaw? How was Blink Rage? How was the scene?”
“It was good,” says Craig in his lazy, raspy voice. “You should have come, Becky.”
“Warsaw?” says Suze. “I didn’t know you were going to Warsaw. How did you know that, Bex?”
“Becky and I bumped into each other at the station the other night,” says Craig easily.
“Oh, did you?” says Suze, her eyebrows shooting up. “Imagine that.”
“The cottage is awesome,” says Craig, turning his dark gaze on her. “The hot tub’s in. I never want to leave.”
“Wow,” says Suze, going a bit pink. “I’m so pleased you like it.”
“Love it,” he says emphatically. “Love. It.” Then he looks at me again, with that intense dark gaze.
“So, Becky, we should have a drink sometime. Sink some tequila shots!”
“Oh, right!” I swallow, trying to sound nonchalant. “Yes! Tequila shots! Definitely.”
“We could meet at the Lamb and Flag? Take it from there? Bring your husband,” he adds easily. “I’d love to meet him. Are you free tonight?”
“Er, yes,” I say, a bit flustered. “At least, I’d need babysitting….”
“I’ll do it if you like,” says Suze, shooting me a sardonic look. “I can pick Minnie up when I come to get the statues. You go out partying.”
“Great.” Craig’s eyes crease in a smile. “Say…seven o’clock?”
“Perfect!”
“See you then, Becky.” He puts his hand on my arm and squeezes briefly, then his gaze moves downward. “Nice boots,” he adds with a wink.
And then he’s off, loping unhurriedly out of the shop. As I watch him go, I suddenly realize I’m holding my breath. I’m pretty sure Suze is too.
“Oh my God,” says Suze, as soon as the door has closed behind him, and she wheels round to me. “What was that?”
“What do you mean?” I reply defensively.
“That!” She whirls her hands expressively. “All those sizzling looks!”
“There weren’t any sizzling looks!”
“Yes, there were! You totally melted under his gaze.”
“Well, so did you,” I retort, and Suze looks abashed.
“OK, maybe I did a bit,” she admits. “But that doesn’t matter, because he’s not interested in me. He’s not asking me out for dates at the pub.”
“It’s not a date.” I roll my eyes disparagingly. “And he’s not interested in me.”
“What was that hand on your arm, then?” demands Suze. “There was definitely sexual tension. I saw it.”
I feel a tiny flash of pride before I can stop it. Which is not because I’m interested in Craig. Of course not. It’s just, if your old mediocre-looking boyfriend unexpectedly turns into a rock god, it’s quite flattering if he still…you know.