Home > Christmas Shopaholic (Shopaholic #9)(6)

Christmas Shopaholic (Shopaholic #9)(6)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” says Suze modestly. “Shall we carry it in? Tarkie, be careful round the corner….”

“Shit.” A low voice behind me distracts my attention. “Shit, shit.”

I swivel away from watching Suze manhandle her homemade euphonium to see a mum called Steph Richards peering in dismay out the window at the road below. “Bloody traffic warden’s coming,” she says. “There wasn’t anywhere to park; I had to go on a crosswalk. Harvey, darling, let’s quickly get you into class.”

Her voice is strained, and her face is lined with worry. I don’t know Steph very well, but I do know that she had Harvey on her fortieth birthday (she told us once at a parents’ event). She has some monster job in human resources, is the major breadwinner of the family, and always has a crease in her brow. She has a Yorkshire accent and once told me she grew up in Leeds but moved down for uni and never went back.

“Don’t worry,” I say impulsively. “I’ll go and divert the traffic warden. Take your time with Harvey.”

I dash out of the school and sprint along the street, which is always crowded with cars at drop-off time. I can see the traffic warden making his way along the road. And there’s Steph’s car, illegally parked.

She won’t get a ticket, I vow. I won’t let it happen.

“Hello! Officer!” Panting hard, I reach him when he’s still three cars away from Steph’s. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Yes?” The traffic warden gives me a discouraging look, which I ignore.

“I wanted to ask you about the rules for parking on Cedar Road,” I say brightly. “If there’s a double yellow line and there’s a sign saying ‘no stopping between six and nine’ but there’s a white zigzag as well…what are the rules for motorbikes?”

“Huh?” The traffic warden peers at me.

“Also, what does ‘loading’ actually mean?” I add, blinking innocently. “Suppose I’m moving house and I’ve got six sofas to transport and some really big potted plants—I mean, they’re more like trees—what do I do?”

“Ah,” says the traffic warden. “Well, if you’re moving house, you may need a permit.”

I can see Steph hastening along the street, clicking in her businessy heels. She passes me, but I don’t flicker.

“A permit,” I echo, as though fascinated by every word he’s saying. “I see. A permit. And where would I apply for that?”

She’s reached her car. She’s bleeping it open. She’s safe.

“Or, actually, you know what?” I say, before the traffic warden can reply. “Maybe I’ll just look online.” I beam at him. “Thank you so much.”

I watch as Steph pulls out of the dodgy parking space, drives along a few meters, then draws up alongside me on a newly vacated spot, her engine running.

“Thanks,” she says out of her window, with a wry grin. She’s really thin, Steph, with dark hair and the kind of translucent skin that gives away when you’re exhausted. Which I’m guessing she is, from the shadows beneath her eyes. Also, her foundation needs blending at the jawline, but I don’t like to say so.

“No problem,” I say. “Anytime.”

“Mornings are a nightmare.” She shakes her head. “And it doesn’t help with half the mums turning up with the bloody London Symphony Orchestra. I know Suze Cleath-Stuart is your friend, but a euphonium?”

I can’t help laughing—then immediately feel disloyal to Suze.

“You know what ‘instrument’ I made with Harvey?” Steph continues. “A margarine tub and a wooden spoon to hit it.”

“We filled a jar with beans,” I volunteer. “I didn’t even paint it.” I meet her eyes and we both smile—then, to my dismay, Steph’s eyes fill with tears.

“Steph!” I exclaim in horror. “It’s only art and craft. It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not that. It’s…” She hesitates, and I can see the distress pushing at her face, as though it wants to burst out. “Harvey doesn’t know, OK?” she continues in a low, trembling voice, her eyes flitting around. “But Damian’s left us. Three days ago. Walked out, no warning. Harvey thinks he’s gone on holiday.”

“No.” I stare at her, aghast. I don’t really know Steph’s husband, but I’ve seen him with Harvey a couple of times, so I can picture him. He’s older than Steph—a paunchy guy with close-set eyes and a gray beard.

“Yes. Sorry,” she adds. “Didn’t mean to land that on you. Not what you expect on the school run.”

“It’s not…You didn’t…” I flounder desperately. “Do you want to talk? Go for coffee? Is there anything I can do to help?” But Steph’s shaking her head.

“I’ve got to go. Big meeting. And you already did help, Becky. Thanks again.” She gives me a wan smile, then puts her car into gear.

“Wait,” I say, before I can stop myself. I grab a tissue from my bag, lean into the car, and blend her foundation. “Sorry,” I add. “I just had to.”

“No. Thanks.” She shoots a wry look at her reflection in the mirror. “Makeup’s not top of my agenda right now.” She hesitates, then adds, “Could you keep it to yourself? About Damian, I mean. You know what school gossip’s like….”

“Of course,” I say fervently. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“Thanks. See you, Becky.”

She drives away and I watch her, feeling as if I’d quite like to bash her husband’s head, hard. I think I’d do a pretty good job at it, and I even know what I’d use: my new Zara bag. It’s got really sharp corners.

* * *

As I arrive at work, I’m longing to share Steph’s awful news with Suze, but I promised I wouldn’t. And, anyway, Suze isn’t here yet. So instead I quickly scroll through my emails, feeling a tad wary as I see the ones from Jess, headlined Christmas—a few more points.

I don’t know why I’m wary. Jess and I have exchanged some friendly emails and she’s already said she appreciated that we weren’t vegan and understood if we wanted to eat a turkey on Christmas Day. (Although on another level she didn’t understand it at all and never would.)

But it also became increasingly clear that she thinks tinsel is evil and glitter is monstrous and fairy lights are the work of the devil. How are we going to decorate the Christmas tree? And what about Mum’s light-up plastic reindeer?

I love and admire my sister with all my heart. She’s steadfast and honest and she only wants to do good for the world. When she’s not researching rocks in Chile, she’s always off volunteering for unglamorous charities—she once spent a whole week digging latrines. (When I exclaimed, “Oh my God, Jess!” she just looked puzzled at my shock and said, “Someone’s got to do it.”)

She’s kind of serious, but when she cracks a smile you feel like she’s made your day. Basically, she’s awesome. It’s just that I do find it a tiny bit hard to live up to her principles.

Anyway, it’ll be fine, I tell myself yet again. It’s only Christmas. It’ll work itself out.

Putting my phone away, I head into the Letherby Gift Shop and glance around, checking that everything looks OK. We sell clothes, cushions, greetings cards, boxes of toffees…a bit of everything. It’s fairly random, but I’ve been trying to organize it into themes and displays, and I’m really proud of my hygge table. It has blankets, scented candles, tins of hot chocolate, Letherby organic-cotton pajamas, and some alpaca hoodies in a lovely soft gray.

I pause to tweak the display lovingly, then look up to see Suze striding in, wearing a Letherby pale blue tweed miniskirt that looks amazing on her. (It was my idea that we should all wear the merchandise. Mainly because if anyone can make a tweed skirt look hot, it’s Suze.)

“Hi!” I say. “Amazing euphonium!”

“Oh, thanks!” Suze’s face brightens. “Don’t you love Miss Lucas? She has such wonderful ideas for craft projects!”

“I suppose,” I say reluctantly. “Although there are quite a lot of craft projects, don’t you think?”

“But they’re such fun!” enthuses Suze. “I should have been a primary school teacher. I love all that stuff.”

She unlocks the till and neatens a pile of leaflets on local walks. Then she clears her throat. As I look up, I notice her long legs are twisted around each other. In fact, she looks really awkward. What on earth is up?

“By the way, Bex,” she adds in a super-casual voice, “I’ll take the statues after all.”

“What?” I stare at her.

“I’ll take the statues. We’ll have them here.”

“You’ll take them?” I say in astonishment. “Just like that?”

“Yes!” she says evasively. “Why not? It’s no big deal.”

“Suze,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “What do you want?”

“Why would I want something?” she retorts hotly. “God, Bex, you’re so suspicious! I’m volunteering to take your statues. I went to have another look at them, and I thought, Actually, they’re quite impressive.”

“No, you didn’t!” I reply disbelievingly. “You’re softening me up to ask me a favor.”

“No, I’m not!” Suze turns bright pink.

“Yes, you are.”

“OK!” She suddenly cracks. “I am! Bex, you have to ask us for Christmas. Tarkie’s Uncle Rufus has invited us to his castle in Scotland, and I just can’t do it. I can’t!”

She looks so despairing, I stare at her, wanting to giggle.

“What’s wrong with Tarkie’s Uncle Rufus? It can’t be that bad, surely?”

   
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