“I need to go and tell them it’s all fake,” says Suze in dispirited tones.
“Suze, don’t!” I say impulsively. “Don’t pulp the collection. It would be such a waste. It’s only a word. And you’ve made such gorgeous things. Does it really matter if a few people have cushions saying sprygge in their house?”
“But we’re saying it’s Norwegian,” says Suze in hopeless tones. “We’re not being honest.”
“Well, then…let’s not say it’s Norwegian,” I suggest after a moment’s thought. “Let’s say, ‘Some people believe it comes from Norway.’ That’s true enough. All the customers from yesterday believe that, for a start. And anyway,” I continue, hit by a new idea, “language is constantly evolving. It’s fluid. There are new words in the dictionary every year! Why shouldn’t one of them be sprygge?”
“What do you mean?” Suze stares at me suspiciously.
“If we start using the word sprygge a lot, then maybe other people will, too, and then it’ll get into the language. That’s what language is,” I impress on Suze. “That’s how language develops. If anyone asks, we can say it’s practically Norwegian. We can say it’s ‘pending’ Norwegian.”
One of the customers is filling her basket with sprygge mugs, her eyes sparkling.
“My daughter will love these,” she’s saying to her friend. “So different!”
“So original!” agrees her friend, reaching for a cushion. “I’ve not seen them anywhere else.”
“You see?” I say to Suze. “They both look so thrilled. If we tell them the truth, we’re total spoilsports, and is that the Christmas spirit? No. It’s not. Here’s what I think: If the word sprygge makes people happy, then who are we to curtail that happiness?”
“It is a good word,” allows Suze reluctantly.
“It’s a brilliant word,” I agree, trying to imbue her with confidence. “It’s a positive, joy-spreading word, and it doesn’t matter where it came from.”
I’m about to go and help the customers with their purchases when my phone buzzes with a text. I open it up and read it. Then I read it again, swallowing hard.
“What?” says Suze, watching me.
“Um. Nothing. Just, um, Craig, asking Luke and me to go round later on for a glass of wine.” I attempt a casual tone. “He says, ‘Let’s have a special evening, the four of us.’ ”
Suze’s eyes widen dramatically.
“A special evening, the four of you?” she echoes, looking scandalized. “Bex, you know what that means!”
My mind has already jumped to exactly the same thought, but I’m not admitting it to Suze. Or even to myself.
“No, I don’t,” I say robustly. “Suze, you have way too much imagination.”
“Do I, Bex? Or maybe you’re too naïve to see what’s right in front of you.” She puts both hands on my shoulders and gives me an earnest look. “Just promise me you’ll have a safe word, OK?”
“A safe word?” I can’t help bursting into laughter. “I’m not choosing a safe word! What, you think he’s going to lock us in a dungeon?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says darkly. “You don’t know what he gets up to.”
“Does the cottage have a dungeon?”
“Well, no,” she admits, after a moment’s thought. “But he might have made a sex room out of the second en suite.”
“Suze, you’re mad! We’re going round there for a civilized glass of wine and that’s all. End of discussion. And now I’ll go and help our customers, like I’m paid to do,” I say pointedly.
As I stride off toward the sprygge display, my phone buzzes again. I glance down to see a second message from Craig and gulp inwardly.
Bring your swimmers and we can all enjoy the hot tub together!
Or go au naturel…? ;)
I don’t think I’ll mention that to Suze.
Oh God…
* * *
—
By six-thirty, I’ve chosen an outfit to wear for our evening at Craig’s: black trousers together with a very high-necked, tightly tied pussy-bow top. Plus a buttoned-up evening cape. (I bought it in the sales and then thought, Oh God, what a mistake. When will I ever need a cape? Well, now I know.)
I’m sitting at the kitchen table as Minnie drinks her milk, tapping words into my phone, feeling like I lead some sort of torrid double life. There’s my innocent child, drinking her milk—and here am I, choosing safe words. I’ve got about ten options so far, including “Chanel,” “Dolce,” and “Gabbana.”
Then it occurs to me that they might not be very easy to work into conversation. Maybe a safe word should be something more nondescript, like “hello” or “water.”
But then what if I want a drink of water?
Honestly. How do safe words work, anyway? Surely the safest word is “stop”? Or “I’m going home now, I’ve had enough, and actually I’m not into multiplayer sex; I prefer shopping.” (OK, so that’s more of a safe sentence.)
As Luke strides into the kitchen, I jump with nerves and blurt out, “So we’re really going, are we?”
“What?” Luke gives me a puzzled look. “Of course we are. Unless—have you changed your mind? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m feeling fine!” My voice rises shrilly. “It’ll be super fun! Can’t wait! Um, Craig said something about going in the…um…” I clear my throat. “The hot tub.”
“The hot tub?” Luke chuckles. “Well, let’s see if we get that far.”
I stare at him uncertainly, wondering what exactly he means by “get that far.” Oh God. Is Suze right and I’m really naïve and everything has a double meaning that I’ve never understood before?
Luke wouldn’t be into multiplayer sex.
Would he?
Just then the doorbell rings and Luke lets in the babysitter, Kay, who is a cheery lady in her sixties, full of local gossip. Between us we get Minnie into bed, whilst hearing all about Kay’s neighbor’s dog’s operation. And then, before I know it, we’re walking along the dark, chilly village road toward Lapwing Cottage.
Luke is talking about the bottle of wine he’s bringing and how we should think about going over to France one day to tour some vineyards, and I’m nodding and saying, “Yes, yes, burgundy, fab,” without any idea of what I’m on about. With every step I feel more jittery. I’m being ridiculous, I keep telling myself. Nothing is going to happen.
But what if it does? What will I do? Oh God, we’re nearly there. Should I quickly say something to Luke?
Lapwing Cottage is off the main village road, down a little unlit lane. It’s not completely dark, though—there’s a glow ahead, which must be the cottage. As we get closer, the glow gets brighter and brighter, until I blink in surprise. Wow. The cottage has been covered all over in fairy lights, some white, some multicolored, and some flashing. Minnie would love it.
We’re nearly at the house now and Luke whistles.
“There’s the hot tub.” He gives a small chuckle. “Look. That’s quite something.”
He’s pointing over the hedge into the back garden. I follow his gaze—and stare, taken aback. There’s not just a mammoth hot tub on the terrace; there’s also a Hawaiian-looking bar, three sunbeds, about six patio heaters, and some palm trees in pots.
“Did they bring those palm trees with them?” Luke is saying incredulously. “And the sunbeds? It’s hardly the right time of year. As for the patio heaters, I read a piece the other day about those….” He starts talking about global warming, but I can’t listen, because I’m staring in slight terror at the palm trees.
Palm trees. Isn’t that the sign? Isn’t that what swingers have in their gardens to alert other swingers?
My heart is thumping hard as we walk up the path to the front door. It’s on. It’s real. Suze was right. I have to tell Luke, quick.
As he lifts his hand to ring the doorbell, I grab his arm.
“Luke,” I say in a desperate whisper. “I’m not sure they want to talk about wine. It’s all a front.”
“What?” Luke stares at me.
“I think they want…you know.” I gulp, then whisper even more quietly, “An orgy.”
“What?” Luke gives a bark of laughter, then peers at me again. “Becky, are you being serious?”
“Yes! Craig is into threesomes and foursomes and…everythingsomes. Suze saw it online. He goes to sex parties all the time. And look at the palm trees.” I gesticulate wildly toward the back garden. “It’s the sign! Swingers!”
“I’m fairly sure the sign for swingers is pampas grass,” says Luke calmly.
“Palm trees, pampas grass—it’s all the same. We need a plan,” I add urgently. “We need signals.”
“Hi, guys! You made it!” Craig’s raspy voice greets us, apparently out of nowhere, and I jump. He’s leaning out of an upstairs window, wearing an open-necked shirt and beaming.
Oh God. Did he hear us? No. I don’t think so.
“Hi!” I say in a strangled voice. “We were just…Hi!”
“Hi there!” Luke hails him easily.
“I’ll be down in a sec….” Craig’s head disappears and I hear him calling, “Nadine, they’re here!”
I can already hear high heels approaching on the other side of the door. Shit.
“Our safe word is sprygge,” I gabble in panic. “OK?”
“What?” Luke looks baffled.
“Sprygge! Safe word! Sprygge!”
I don’t have time to say any more before the door swings open and there’s Nadine, wearing a smart silk shirt that displays her amazing cleavage and wafting some musky perfume.