“It’s awful,” says Suze desperately. “He doesn’t believe in heating, and his housekeeper runs freezing cold baths for everyone each morning, and there’s no cornflakes for breakfast, only haggis, and the children have to peel potatoes all day.”
“The children?”
“He thinks it’s good for them. He brings in extra potatoes for them to do, and if they leave any peel on he shouts at them.”
“Wow.”
“Exactly! And he phoned last night to invite us. My parents are going to be in Namibia, so he knew we weren’t going to theirs, and I didn’t know what to do. So I said, ‘Gosh, Uncle Rufus, that sounds lovely, but my friend Becky’s mother has already invited us for Christmas Day.’ You don’t have to actually have us,” she adds hurriedly. “Just be our excuse. And I’ll take the statues,” she finishes breathlessly.
“Mum’s not hosting Christmas this year,” I inform her.
“Oh God.” Suze’s face falls. “Don’t tell me you’re going away or something. Can I still tell Uncle Rufus we’re spending it with you?”
“Even better, you can actually spend it with us!” I say with a flourish. “Because guess what? I’m hosting Christmas!”
“You’re hosting Christmas?” Suze’s face freezes in a stunned rictus.
“Don’t look like that!” I say crossly. “It’ll be great!”
“Of course it will!” Suze hastily recovers herself. “Sorry, Bex. I was just a bit…surprised. Because you’re not exactly…”
“What?” I say suspiciously. “I’ve hosted parties, haven’t I? And they haven’t turned into fiascos, have they?”
Now I think about it, most have turned into some sort of fiasco. But still, Suze doesn’t need to look like that.
“Not at all!” Suze backtracks. “It’ll be lovely! You’ll do it brilliantly! But how come your parents aren’t hosting?”
“OK, get this,” I say with relish, because I’ve been longing to share this news with Suze. “Jess and Tom are coming back to the UK for a bit!”
“Wow!” says Suze in excitement. “Does this mean their adoption’s gone through?”
“No,” I say, temporarily halted. “Not yet. Although it won’t be that much longer,” I add, determined to be positive. “I’m sure of it. Anyway, they’re going to live in Mum and Dad’s house while they’re here—and my parents are moving to a flat in Shoreditch!”
“Shoreditch?” Suze’s eyes widen in shock. “Your mum and dad?”
“I know! I said, ‘Why Shoreditch?’ and Dad said he wants smashed avocado.”
“Smashed avocado?” Suze looks so gobsmacked, I can’t help giggling. “Does he know you can get avocados in Waitrose in Cobham?” she adds earnestly, and that sets me off again.
“Good morning, girls!” Irene, our other sales assistant, comes bustling up, dressed in Letherby tweed trousers and a merino wool sweater.
Irene is in her sixties and very sweet. She’s worked for the gift shop ever since it was basically a cupboard with a few boxes of fudge, and she still remembers “Mad” Lord Cleath-Stuart, who was Tarkie’s great-great-uncle and commissioned the pink-tiled hall with the erotic murals that no one ever mentions.
“Good morning, Irene!” Suze greets her. “How were things in the shop yesterday?”
“Very good,” says Irene, nodding. “Nothing to report. Oh, except that a customer asked me to say hello to you, Becky.”
“To me?” I say in surprise. Usually it’s old family friends of Suze’s, called things like Huffy Thistleton-Pitt, who pop in to say hello.
“He said he understood that you worked here and seemed very disappointed not to see you.” Irene nods. “Asked me to pass on his regards. What was his name now?” Irene’s brow crumples deeply. “Arnold? I wrote it down somewhere, I wonder where….”
“Arnold?” I frown. I don’t know anyone called Arnold.
“Arnold was the surname. Or was it Irwin?” she adds thoughtfully.
“Irwin?” I shake my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He was a young chap,” Irene elaborates. “Your sort of age. Striking.” She looks at me expectantly, as though I’ll say, “Oh, the striking guy. Of course, him.”
“Well, let me know if you remember,” I say kindly. “If not, no worries.”
Irene wanders off again and Suze grins. “A striking guy, huh, Bex?”
“I wouldn’t trust Irene’s taste,” I retort, rolling my eyes. “It was probably my old geography teacher.”
“Was he striking?”
“His dandruff was pretty striking,” I say, and we both start giggling again.
“So anyway,” says Suze, composing herself, “we didn’t finish talking about Christmas. Tell me what I can do to help. Let me know the plan. Except we must go to the morning service at St. Christopher’s,” she adds, “because the vicar’s written a special Christmas carol medley and he’s really proud of it. Can that fit in your plan of the day?”
“Of course!” I say. “Definitely! I mean, I haven’t exactly got a plan of the day yet,” I add, feeling the need to be honest. “Or any kind of plan. But it’s early days.”
“Oh, totally,” Suze agrees at once. “The most important thing when you host Christmas is, have enough booze.”
“Mum said the most important thing was the turkey,” I counter, already feeling a bit anxious.
“Oh, well, the turkey,” says Suze airily. “The turkey goes without saying— Wait.” She interrupts herself, suddenly looking stricken. “If Jess is coming, do we all have to be vegan?”
“No, it’s fine, we can eat turkey,” I reassure her. “And I’ll buy Jess and Tom a vegan turkey.”
“A vegan turkey?” Suze goggles at me. “Does that exist?”
“I bet it does,” I say confidently. “There’s vegan everything. Oh, and by the way, Jess thinks we should give each other sustainable, non-consumerist, locally sourced presents that reflect the true spirit of fellowship rather than the hollow pleasures of shopping.”
“Right.” Suze stares at me, looking a bit shaken. “Wow. I mean…good point. Definitely. We should only buy local things. It’s, like, vital for the planet.”
“Absolutely.”
“Totally.”
Silence falls between us, and I feel like we’re both reappraising our Christmas lists.
“I mean…Harvey Nichols is quite local, isn’t it?” says Suze at last. “Compared to some places.”
“Compared to like…Australia.”
“Exactly!” Suze looks relieved. “I mean, some people go on ridiculous shopping trips. My cousin Fenella once went on a Christmas shopping trip to New York.”
“That’s so un-green,” I can’t help saying, a little censoriously. “Let’s agree, we’ll only shop locally at, you know, Selfridges and Liberty and places.”
“OK,” says Suze, nodding earnestly. “We’ll do that. Only local shopping. Ooh, what are you going to get Luke?” she adds. “Have you got any ideas?”
“I’m sorted,” I say smugly.
“Already?” Suze stares at me.
“Well, I haven’t actually bought it yet,” I admit, “but I know exactly what I’m getting him. We were in Hector Goode and we saw this lovely coat and Luke said he liked it. So I said, ‘Well, maybe a little elf will get it for you!’ ”
“Lucky thing,” says Suze enviously. “I have no idea what I’m going to get Tarkie! Why haven’t you bought it yet?”
“I wanted to see if it was going to be reduced,” I explain. “But the shop people won’t tell me. They’re so unhelpful.”
“So unhelpful,” agrees Suze sympathetically. “What about waiting till Black Friday?”
“It might sell out. So I’ve decided I’ll order it tonight—” I stop midstream as two women in Puffa jackets enter the gift shop, and I approach them, smiling. “Hello! Welcome to the Letherby Gift Shop. Can I help, or are you happy to browse?”
The pair of them ignore me. A lot of people do that, I’ve noticed, but I always just smile even more brightly.
“Hygge,” says one, looking dubiously at the sign. “What’s that?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” chimes in her friend. “Only isn’t it all nonsense?”
Nonsense? I gaze at her, feeling insulted. How dare she call my lovely table nonsense?
“Hygge is a Scandinavian word,” I explain as charmingly as I can. “It means coziness and warmth…friendship over the cold winter…lighting lots of candles and making yourself feel good. Like Christmas,” I add, suddenly resolving to host a totally hygge Christmas. God, yes. I’ll have a million candles and woolly throws and warming glasses of glogg. (Glug? Glygge?)
As the women walk away, I start making a mental list—candles, throws, glogg—then realize I really need to start writing this stuff down. I’ll buy a special Christmas planning notebook, I decide. And a gorgeous new festive pen. Yes. And then it will all fall into place.
That evening I sit down on the sofa with my brand-new Christmas-planning notebook and pen. (Both from the Letherby leather range, 15 percent staff discount.) Minnie’s quietly playing with her tea set before bed, so I’ve got time to start on my master list.
I write down Christmas on the first page and look at it with satisfaction. There. Started. People get in such a flap about Christmas, and there’s no need. It’s simply a matter of itemizing the tasks you need to do, calmly completing them, and ticking them off. Exactly.