Briskly, I write down: Buy vegan turkey.
Then I stare at the page. Where am I going to find a vegan turkey?
OK, maybe I’m doing this wrong. Maybe what I need to start with is a very simple task, which I can accomplish straightaway. I write down Buy Luke’s present and open my laptop. I’ll order it in two minutes, tick it off, and I’ll be on the way.
I find the webpage for the coat and squint at the photos. It’s lovely. It’s perfect! It comes in navy and gray, I notice. Which would Luke prefer? I try to imagine him in the navy one…then the gray one…then the navy one again….
“Hi, sweetheart.” As I hear Luke’s voice, I put an arm across the screen, look up—and freeze. Luke’s standing in front of me, in exactly the same navy coat that’s on my screen. How did that happen? Did I somehow will it into being? Am I psychic? I suddenly feel like I’m in one of those films with tinkly wind chimes and weird stuff going on.
“Are you OK, Becky?” he says, surveying me curiously.
“Luke…” I falter. “Where did you get that coat?”
If he says, “But I’ve always had it, darling,” in a toneless voice, I will seriously freak out.
“I bought it today.” He swings it around. “Nice, isn’t it? I’ll take it to Madrid day after tomorrow.”
“You bought it today? But…”
My shock has been replaced by indignation. Luke bought it for himself? How could he? No one should ever buy anything for themselves in November or December, just in case.
“What?” says Luke, looking puzzled.
“That was going to be your Christmas present!” I say reproachfully. “You knew it was.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did! We saw it in Hector Goode a month ago, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” Luke peers at me as though I’m mad. “That’s why I went back to buy it.”
“But I told you I was going to get it for you for Christmas!” I erupt in frustration. “You should have waited!”
“Becky, I remember our conversation very well,” says Luke calmly. “You didn’t mention Christmas presents once.”
Honestly. Luke is so literal. It’s a major character flaw of his, actually. I often tell him so.
“I was subtle! I said, ‘Well, maybe a little elf will get it for you!’ What did you think I meant by ‘a little elf’?”
“Look, Becky,” says Luke, clearly amused. “Don’t fret. This can still be my Christmas present. I love it. Thank you very much.” He drops a kiss on my head, then turns toward the door, but I’m not mollified.
“You can’t have your Christmas present in November,” I call after him. “You have to have something to open on Christmas Day.”
“Get me some aftershave,” says Luke over his shoulder.
Aftershave? Is he for real? Aftershave? Aftershave is the most unimaginative present for a man you could ever choose out of a Presents for Dad catalog full of golf tees and bad ties.
On the other hand…it’s quite easy.
I turn to my Christmas planner and, after Buy Luke’s present, I add, Aftershave. But I won’t get the same one he always uses, I decide as I write. Ha. I’ll get a fab new surprise aftershave.
Then I turn my attention to Minnie, who’s playing by the fireplace with her adorable little tea set. She’s handing out cups to all her teddies and pouring out “tea” from the dinky teapot.
“Minnie, poppet,” I say. “It’s going to be Christmas before too long, and maybe if you’re good, Father Christmas will bring you a present! What d’you think you would like?”
“I would like…” replies Minnie, still engrossed in her tea party, “a hamper. Please,” she adds as an afterthought. “Pleeeeeease, I want a hamper.”
I stare at her, puzzled. A hamper? Like…a Fortnum’s hamper full of smoked salmon? A laundry hamper?
Then my eye falls on the tea-set box, which advertises other products in the range. Of course! She’s been begging me for ages to buy the full picnic hamper with plastic glasses and napkins and pretend food. Well, that’s easy enough.
I quickly log on to the website where we got the tea set and search picnic hamper. It’s gorgeous, with a gingham lining and little knives and forks and even a sweet little vase of plastic flowers. There are only five left in stock, so thank God I asked her about this early enough. Plus my details are already stored on the site, so it takes me a minute to buy it. Done!
As the email arrives in my in-box—Confirmation of your order—I feel a jab of pride. I’ve started Christmas shopping! I grab my Christmas planner, write Get Minnie present, and tick it off. Ha! I’m so on top of things. I just need to continue like this, in a calm, orderly way.
* * *
—
Except of course, as soon as you want to be calm and orderly, life decides to trip you up. By seven-thirty the next morning, I’m not remotely calm or orderly. I’m rushing hectically round the house, helping Luke look for a vital set of papers that he needs for a meeting and has gone “missing.”
“Did you put them in here?” he says, yanking out the drawer of the dresser in the hall.
Immediately I bristle. Why’s he blaming me? Why would I put some boring old set of papers anywhere?
“No,” I say politely. “I didn’t.”
“What about in here?” He reaches for the cupboard doors of the dresser. “What do we keep in here, anyway?” As he speaks, he opens a door and a deluge of canvas bags falls out.
“That’s nothing,” I say hastily, rushing forward to stop him, but it’s too late. Damn.
“What on earth is this?” says Luke incredulously, looking at the mountain of bags at his feet.
“Just…er…some bags,” I say.
“What bags?”
“Bags! You know, bags! Maybe your papers are in the kitchen. Let’s go and look.”
I’m trying to hurry him away, but Luke doesn’t move. He stares at the massive, tangled pile of bags for a moment, then starts pulling them apart and reading the slogans on them.
“Bag for Life. Bag for Life. Tote for Life. Greener Bag. Tesco. Waitrose…Becky, what the hell?”
OK. So the truth is, I do sometimes buy a bag for life and then forget to take it out with me next time and have to buy another one. Which is not ideal, because I’ve ended up with a cupboardful.
But I’ve often found with Luke that attack is the best form of defense.
“I try to buy bags for life,” I inform him loftily, “because I’m a responsible consumer and I’ve given up on plastic bags. But you’re suggesting I should use plastic bags instead and choke the oceans? Well, that’s an interesting insight into your moral compass, Luke. Very interesting.”
Luke’s mouth twitches and I lift my chin defiantly.
“I’m not saying you should use plastic,” he says calmly. “I’m suggesting you use one bag, for life. The clue’s in the name, my love. ‘Bag for life,’ not ‘bag for one use, then stuff it in a cupboard and buy another one.’ ”
He opens the other dresser door, and an even bigger mountain of totes falls out. Shit. I was hoping he wouldn’t see those.
“Oh my God,” he says, looking genuinely appalled. “Becky, how many bloody bags for life do you need? How long are you planning to live?”
“They’ll come in handy one day,” I say defensively. “Anyway, you haven’t found your papers. You’re just procrastinating.”
At that moment, Minnie comes into the hall, pushing her dollies’ Moses basket on wheels. Luke glances down at it, then does a double take.
“There they are!” he exclaims, and grabs a stash of papers out of the Moses basket.
“That is miiine, Daddy!” says Minnie crossly, trying to snatch them back. “It is for my barkit.”
“Barkit” is Minnie-talk for “basket.” And, yes, I know we ought to correct her pronunciation, but it’s so sweet. I mean, she can talk. She’s perfectly articulate for her age (Miss Lucas said so when I consulted her). It’s just that she misfires on a few words, like “monter” and “barkit” and “raffodils” for “daffodils.”
“They’re not for your barkit, poppet,” says Luke to Minnie. “They’re important papers for Daddy. Here you are.” He tucks a bag for life around Minnie’s doll Speaky in the Moses basket. “And there’s plenty more of them.” He kisses Minnie’s head, then straightens up. “So I’m picking up Minnie from Suze’s?”
“If that’s still all right.” I nod. “I’ll head into town straight after work. I’d better crack on with the Christmas shopping.” I heave a slightly browbeaten sigh. “It’s quite a tall order, hosting Christmas, you know.”
“I know,” says Luke, looking concerned. “Becky, I’m really willing to help. I do have to travel a fair bit before Christmas—but just give me jobs to do and I’ll do them.”
“OK.” I nod again. As he kisses me, his top lip feels a bit prickly and I blink in surprise. “Haven’t you shaved today?”
“Oh,” says Luke, looking a bit self-conscious. “Ah. I’m growing a mustache.”
“A mustache?” I stare at him.
“You know, for Movember,” he explains. “For charity.”
“Right!” I quickly plaster on a smile. “Of course. Good for you!”
I’m not massively keen on mustaches, truth be told. But doing it for charity is worthwhile, so I must be supportive. “It looks great already,” I add encouragingly, and kiss him again. “It really suits you. See you later!”
“Have fun shopping,” Luke replies, and I stare at him, a bit offended. Wasn’t he listening?