“And to you!” she replies breezily, clearly meaning, “I won, so I don’t care what you think.” Turning to the elderly lady, she says, “Can I help you?” and I give her a final resentful glare. Christmas shopping is brutal. Brutal.
I walk disconsolately away, and I’m about to text Janice to see where she is, when I hear her cheery voice hailing me: “Becky, there you are. Good news, love! I’ve ordered the smoked salmon and bought mince pies and I’ve got us some festive brandy!”
She proffers two little cups and I practically grab one from her. When you’ve had a run-in with a bureaucratic despot, festive brandy is definitely the solution.
“Delicious!” I say, draining it in one gulp. “Just what I needed. Let’s go and get some more.”
From: [email protected]
To: Becky Brandon
Subject: Re: Llama tree ornament crisis
Dear Mrs. Brandon (née Bloomwood):
Thank you for your email.
I’m sorry to hear that you have been unable to purchase a silver llama tree ornament. Unfortunately, we do not have any in stock here at head office, as this product has been very popular.
I wish you every success with your Christmas decorations and suggest that you browse the attached catalog, showing our full range of tree ornaments.
With all best wishes for the festive period.
Yours sincerely,
Malcolm
From: [email protected]
To: Becky Brandon
Subject: Re:Re:Re: Llama tree ornament crisis
Dear Mrs. Brandon (née Bloomwood):
Thank you for your email.
I assure you that we are not deliberately withholding supply of the silver llama in an attempt to create a “South Sea bubble” situation.
We are therefore not “playing a dangerous game,” as you put it. Nor do we agree that our actions will “probably threaten the economy and cause global havoc.”
With all best wishes for the festive period.
Yours sincerely,
Malcolm
CHATS
Christmas!
Martin
Becky, my back’s playing up, so might I bring along my orthopedic stool on Christmas Day?
Becky
Of course!
Jane
Martin, so sorry to hear about your back! In our street in Shoreditch, there’s a super new therapist called the Tantric Back Cooperative. Shall I book you an appointment?
Janice
In Oxshott we prefer qualified medical professionals, love.
Jane
What are you trying to say, Janice?
Janice
Nothing, Jane.
Jane
Yes, you are.
Janice
No, I’m not. What are YOU trying to say?
Martin
Ladies, ladies.
Janice
Be quiet, Martin.
Oh my God. My head.
It’s throbbing so hard, I’ve been forced to put sunglasses on. It was that festive brandy that did me in. Unless it was the festive piña coladas, which Janice found from some stall. What was she thinking? (Actually, they were so delicious, I ordered a bottle.)
I slept through my Black Friday alarm, so I haven’t got a single online bargain, and now I’m running late. Even worse, I’ve just had a quick look through my purchases from yesterday—and I went seriously off-piste.
Items I intended to buy:
Tablecloth
Napkins
Candles
Wrapping paper
Items I actually bought:
Family Christmas aprons
Mince-pie display stand
Smoked salmon
Festive piña colada (one bottle)
Festive mojito (two bottles)
Inflatable mistletoe wreath
Twelve musical ornaments that play “Jingle Bells”
Felt Christmas tree with padded-felt candy canes (adorable)
White Christmas tree with LED lights and diamanté decorations (stunning—I mean, everyone was stopping to look at it)
Papier-mâché Christmas tree covered with red-foil-wrapped chocolate stars (how can you not buy a Christmas tree covered with red shiny chocolate stars?)
So that’s three Christmas trees. Plus I’ve already ordered a massive premium Norwegian spruce, which I can’t cancel, because Luke keeps saying the smell of the tree is his favorite bit of Christmas. And I need an eco-tree for Jess.
Which makes…five Christmas trees in total.
I pause in my hair brushing, thinking hard. Can I have five Christmas trees? I try to imagine telling Luke we’re having five Christmas trees and bite my lip. It just sounds…you know. Quite a lot.
I could spread them about the house a bit and maybe no one would notice?
Or…yes! I won’t call them Christmas trees. I’ll call the real one our Christmas tree and the rest can be “Christmas shrubs.” I’ll have a Christmas shrubbery. Genius. And then—
Oh God, look at the time. I need to hurry.
Luckily, it’s a bright, crisp day with one of those unreal, shiny blue winter skies, so no one questions my sunglasses as I drop Minnie off at school. And by the time I’m walking to Letherby Hall, I’m feeling a bit more human. As long as no one makes a loud noise—
“Stop! Bex, stop!” I’m jolted out of my reverie by Suze charging toward me, her hands waving frantically.
“Shh!” I recoil. “Quiet! What’s the problem? Is there a fire?”
“No!” says Suze breathlessly. “But I want to show you the surprise!”
Oh God, the surprise. I’d forgotten about that. It’s probably just a new way of displaying handbags or something. But I must be supportive. So somehow I gather enough energy to smile at Suze and say, “Of course! I can’t wait! Show me!”
“OK, shut your eyes,” says Suze excitedly. “I bet you can’t guess….”
I close my eyes (which is actually quite a relief) and let Suze lead me into the shop, stumbling over the step.
“Ta-daah!” she cries—and I open my eyes dazedly to see a large banner reading, THANK SPRYGGE IT’S FRIDAY!
I stare at it for a confused few moments, wondering if this is some weird hangover delusion.
“Wh-huh?” I manage at last.
“Look!” Suze gestures excitedly at the display table beneath. “Look at everything!”
Dumbly, I lower my eyes to the table, which has a brand-new sign: EXCLUSIVE—NEW “SPRYGGE” COLLECTION. There’s a stack of greetings cards with bold type, announcing, We wish you a sprygge Christmas! Next to it is a cushion on which is emblazoned, Don’t worry, be sprygge! There’s a row of mugs with the slogan Keep spryggering on and a basket full of key rings, with fobs printed with #sprygge.
I can’t quite speak. But Suze doesn’t seem to have noticed.
“It’s our new sprygge range!” she enthuses. “That’s what I’ve been working on in secret. Oh, Bex, it’s so popular. It was flying out of the shop yesterday! Only you need to write down exactly what sprygge means,” she adds as an afterthought, “because customers were asking us yesterday, and Irene and I couldn’t quite remember. It’s like feeling happy, basically, isn’t it?” She blinks at me. “Something like that? I tried googling it, but I couldn’t find it.”
“Oh, Becky, you’re here!” says Irene, bustling up. “Now, is it ‘sproog-uh’ or ‘sprigg-uh’? You’ll have to give us lessons in Norwegian! It’s been such a success,” she adds. “So novel. Are we the first sprygge stockists in the UK?”
“I think we must be,” says Suze happily. “So many customers said they’d never even heard of sprygge!”
“We’re ahead of the game.” Irene nods. “Trust Becky to know the latest thing.”
“Oh, Bex always knows about new stuff,” says Suze confidently. “She’s a real trendsetter.”
My stomach has started to churn, and not just because of the festive brandies.
“Suze…” I begin, but my words dry up on my lips. I don’t know how to tell her. Oh God. I can’t tell her.
But I have to. Somehow.
“Suze, come here.” I hustle her away from the sprygge table, to a corner well away from Irene.
“Suze, listen,” I say in a desperate undertone. “I made sprygge up.”
“What?” She stares at me, uncomprehending.
“I invented sprygge to annoy that snotty woman. I just plucked it out of the air. It’s not a real word.”
Slowly, I see the truth dawn on Suze’s face.
“No,” she falters. “You mean…” Her eyes dart to the sprygge table and back a few times. “You mean…Oh my God.” She swallows. “Bex, you’re joking.”
“I’m not,” I say in agonized tones. “Sorry.”
“But you gave a whole speech about it! You were so convincing! We all thought it was real!”
“I know! I was going to tell you it was made up, but…” I wrinkle my brow, trying to recall why I didn’t—then suddenly remember. “Craig came in and I forgot,” I confess shamefacedly.
Suze’s gaze is fixed on the sprygge table. I can see from her eyes that thoughts are crashing into her head, and not in a good way.
“I can’t believe you’d make something like that up,” she says. “How could you do that?” She turns on me with an accusing gaze.
“I didn’t think you’d go and make a stack of cushions saying, Don’t worry, be sprygge!” I retort defensively. “How could I have predicted that?”
“But then this is against the Trade Descriptions Act!” says Suze, gesturing around the shop in agitation. “We’ve been telling everyone it’s Norwegian! We could be sued! We could be prosecuted! We’ll have to pulp the whole collection.” Her head descends into her hands, and I feel an almighty wave of guilt.
“Suze, calm down.” I put my arms round her shoulders. “No one’s going to sue you.”
We both watch as our first customers of the day come in: two middle-aged women. They head straight to the sprygge table, and I can hear them exclaiming with interest.