‘Minnie! What are you doing?’ I give a shrill laugh. ‘That’s Mummy’s!’
I hurry over and grab the laptop from her – and as my eyes focus on the screen my blood runs cold. She’s about to bid £2,673,333,333 for the Chloé shoes.
‘Minnie!’ I grab the laptop away from her.
‘Miiiine!’ yells Minnie furiously. ‘Miiiine shoooooes!’
‘Is Minnie doing some computer art?’ Kyle heads over towards me with a pleasant smile and I hastily whip the laptop away.
‘She was just working with … numbers,’ I say a bit shrilly. ‘Would you like some coffee? Minnie, do you remember Kyla?’
Minnie gives Kyla a snooty look and starts banging the Play-Doh pots together.
‘I’ll be making my own Play-Doh from now on if that’s OK, Mrs Brandon,’ Kyla says. ‘I prefer to use organic flour.’
Wow. Organic home-made Play-Doh. You see, this is why you have an Ultimate Nanny. I can’t wait to boast about her at work.
‘And when do you think you’ll start teaching her Mandarin?’ I ask, because I know Luke will ask.
Luke is really into Minnie learning Mandarin. He keeps telling me how useful it will be for her in later life. And I think it’ll be cool too – except I’m also a bit apprehensive. What if Minnie gets fluent in Mandarin and I don’t understand her? Do I need to learn it too? I keep picturing a teenage Minnie cursing me in Mandarin, while I stand there frantically flicking through a phrasebook.
‘It depends on her aptitude,’ replies Kyla. ‘I started Eloise at eighteen months, but she was an exceptional child. Very bright and receptive. And so willing to please.’
‘She sounds great,’ I say politely.
‘Oh, Eloise is a wonderful child.’ Kyla nods fervently. ‘She still Skypes me every day from Boston for calculus and Mandarin practice. Before her athletic training, of course. She’s a gymnast now, too.’
OK, I’m already a bit sick of this Eloise. Calculus, Mandarin and gymnastics? That’s just showing off.
‘Well, Minnie’s very bright and receptive too. In fact, she wrote her first poem the other day,’ I can’t resist adding.
‘She wrote a poem?’ For the first time, Kyla sounds impressed. Ha. Suck on that, Eloise. ‘She’s writing already?’
‘She said it to me and I wrote it down for her,’ I explain after a slight pause. ‘It was a poem in the oral tradition.’
‘Tell me your poem, Minnie!’ Kyla exclaims brightly to Minnie. ‘How did it go?’
Minnie glowers at her and stuffs Play-Doh up her nose.
‘She probably doesn’t remember any more,’ I say quickly. ‘But it was very simple and lovely. It went …’ I clear my throat for effect. ‘ “Why do the raindrops have to fall?”’
‘Wow.’ Kyla seems bowled over. ‘That’s beautiful. So many levels in there.’
‘I know.’ I nod earnestly. ‘We’re going to put it on our Christmas cards.’
‘Good idea!’ enthuses Kyla. ‘You know, Eloise produced so many wonderful hand-crafted Christmas cards, she sold them for charity. She won the Philanthropy prize at her school. You know St Cuthbert’s, Chelsea?’
St Cuthbert’s, Chelsea is the school where Ernie goes. God, no wonder he’s miserable there if it’s full of Eloises.
‘Fantastic! Is there anything Eloise can’t do?’ There’s the tiniest edge to my voice, but I’m not sure Kyla notices.
‘So I guess today Minnie and I will just hang out together, get to know each other …’ Kyla chucks Minnie under the chin. ‘She’s obviously super-intelligent, but is there anything else I should know about her? Any foibles? Little problems?’
I smile fixedly back for a few moments. I know what Luke said. But there’s no way on earth I’m saying, ‘Yes, actually she was banned from four Santas’ Grottos and everyone thinks she’s wild and my husband won’t have another child as a result.’ Not after hearing all about Saint Eloise.
And anyway, why should I prejudice Minnie’s case? If this nanny is any good, she’ll work Minnie’s little quirks out and solve them herself. I mean, that’s her job, isn’t it?
‘No,’ I say at last. ‘No problems. Minnie’s a lovely, caring child and we’re very proud to be her parents.’
‘Great!’ Kyla exposes her buck teeth in a wide smile. ‘And does she eat everything? Vegetables? Peas, carrots, broccoli? Eloise used to love to help me make risotto with vegetables from the garden.’
Of course she did. I expect she’s got a bloody Michelin star, too.
‘Absolutely,’ I reply without a flicker. ‘Minnie adores vegetables. Don’t you, darling?’
Minnie has never eaten a carrot in her life. When I once tried to hide them in a shepherd’s pie, she sucked off all the shepherd’s pie and spat the carrots one by one across the room.
But I’m not admitting that to Miss Perfect Pants. If she’s such a hotshot nanny then she’ll be able to make Minnie eat carrots, won’t she?
‘So maybe you’d like to pop out for a while, while Minnie and I get to know each other!’ Kyla addresses Minnie brightly. ‘Want to show me your Play-Doh, Minnie?’
‘OK!’ I say. ‘See you later.’
I back out of the kitchen with my cup of coffee, almost straight into Mum, who’s skulking in the hall.
‘Mum!’ I exclaim. ‘Were you spying on us?’
‘Does she know “Edelweiss” yet?’ she says with a sniff. ‘Or are we still on “Doe, a Deer”?’
Poor old Mum. I really should try to cheer her up.
‘Look, why don’t we go out shopping or something?’ I suggest on impulse. ‘Kyla wants to get to know Minnie, and Dad’ll be here in the house in case she has any problems …’
‘I can’t go shopping!’ retorts Mum touchily. ‘We’re impoverished, remember? I’ve already had to cancel all our Ocado orders, you know. Your father was adamant. No more luxury quiches, no more smoked salmon … We’re on strict rations.’ Mum’s voice trembles slightly. ‘If I go anywhere, it’ll have to be the pound shop!’
I feel a sudden pang of sympathy for her. I’m not surprised Mum’s so miserable these days.
‘Well then, let’s go to the pound shop!’ I try to jolly her along. ‘Come on, it’ll be fun!’
By the time I’ve put my coat on, Mum has phoned Janice and she’s decided to come along to the pound shop too. And when we get outside, I find Jess waiting with her, dressed in an ancient ski jacket and jeans.
‘Hi, Jess!’ I exclaim as we start walking along. ‘How are you?’
I haven’t seen Jess for ages. She and Tom went to spend some time in Cumbria last week, and I didn’t even know she was back.
‘I’m going nuts,’ she says in a savage undertone. ‘I can’t stand it. Have you ever tried living with Janice and Martin?’
‘Er … no.’ I can’t imagine Janice and Jess would get on too well. ‘What’s up?’
‘First she wouldn’t stop trying to make us have another wedding. Now she’s given up on that, she wants us to have a baby.’
‘Already?’ I want to giggle. ‘But you’ve only been married five minutes!’
‘Exactly! But Janice won’t stop dropping hints. She sits there every evening, knitting something yellow and fluffy, but she won’t say what it is.’ Jess lowers her voice darkly. ‘It’s a baby blanket, I know it is.’
‘Well. Here we are.’ Mum breaks into our conversation as we arrive at the corner of the high street.
There’s a pound shop to our right and a 99p shop opposite. For a moment we survey both in doubtful silence.
‘Which one shall we go to?’ ventures Janice at last. ‘The 99p shop is slightly cheaper, obviously …’ She peters out.
Mum’s eyes keep being dawn across the road to Emma Jane Gifts, this gorgeous boutique full of cashmere knitwear and hand-made ceramics, which we both love pottering around. I can even see a couple of Mum’s friends from bridge in there, giving us little waves. But then Mum pulls herself up firmly as though going into battle,
and swivels towards the pound shop.
‘I have certain standards, Janice,’ she says with quiet dignity, like a general saying he’ll dress for dinner even though bombs are dropping all around him. ‘I don’t think we need to sink to the 99p shop quite yet.’
‘OK,’ whispers Janice nervously.
‘I’m not ashamed to be seen here,’ adds Mum. ‘Why should I be ashamed? This is our new way of life, and we’re all just going to have to get used to it. If your father says we have to exist on turnip jam, then so be it.’
‘Mum, he didn’t say we had to have turnip jam—’ I begin, but Mum is already sweeping in, her head proudly high. I exchange glances with Jess and follow.
Wow. This place is bigger than I thought. And there’s such a lot of stuff! Mum has already taken a basket and is putting tins of some dodgy-looking meat into it with jerky, resentful little movements.
‘Your father will just have to adjust his taste buds to suit his wallet!’ she says, clattering another one in. ‘Maybe nutrition is something we can’t afford any more! Maybe vitamins are only for the super-rich!’
‘Ooh, chocolate bourbons!’ I say, spotting some. ‘Get some of those, Mum. And Toblerones!’
Hey. There’s a rack of cotton-wool balls over there. It would be crazy not to stock up on them. I mean, it wouldn’t make economic sense. And there are make-up applicators and even eyelash curlers! For a pound! I grab a basket and start filling it.
‘Jane!’ A breathless voice greets us and I see Janice, clutching a load of packets labelled ‘solar garden lights’. ‘Have you seen these? They can’t cost a pound, surely.’
‘I think everything’s a pound—’ I begin, but she’s already tapping the shoulder of a salesgirl.
‘Excuse me,’ she says politely. ‘How much is this item?’
The sales girl shoots her a look of ineffable contempt. ‘Pahnd.’
‘And this?’ She gestures at a garden hose.
‘Pahnd. Everyfink’s a pahnd. Pahnd shop, innit?’
‘But … but …’ Janice seems about to expire with excitement. ‘This is incredible! Do you realize how much these would cost in John Lewis?’
There’s a gasp from the next aisle along and I look up to see Mum brandishing a load of plastic storage boxes. Her martyred air has vanished and her eyes are bright. ‘Janice! Tupperware!’
I’m about to follow them when I notice a rack of glittery snakeskin belts. This is unbelievable. I mean, a belt for a pound! It would be criminal not to. And there’s a whole load of hair extensions and wigs … God, this place is brilliant. Why have I never come here before?
I put five belts and a selection of wigs into my basket, and throw in a few bits of ‘famous brands’ make-up (even though I haven’t heard of any of the brands), then wander down to find myself in front of a rack labelled ‘Second-hand supplies –catering returns, sold as seen’.
Wow. Look at this. There are loads of place cards and table confetti and stuff. Perfect for a party.
I stare at them silently for a few moments, my mind circling round and round. Obviously I can’t buy the stuff for Luke’s party at the pound shop. It would be really cheapskate and stingy.
But they only cost a pound. And they’re proper catering supplies. And would he mind?
Put it this way: the less I spend on place cards and party poppers, the more I can spend on champagne. And everything’s a pound. A pound!
Oh God, I can’t pass this up. It’s too good an opportunity. Hastily I start shoving packets of place cards, party poppers, table confetti and napkin holders into my basket. I won’t tell anyone I got them at the pound shop. I’ll say I got them bespoke from a specialist entertainment company.
‘Do you need another basket?’ Jess appears by my side.
‘Oh, thanks.’ I take it and add some pop-up candelabra decorations, which I’ve just noticed. They look a bit manky, but no one’ll notice if the lights are dim enough.
‘Is this for Luke’s party?’ She nods at my basket with interest. ‘How are the preparations going?’
Oh bloody hell. I can’t have Jess telling everyone the decorations came from the pound shop.
‘No!’ I say quickly. ‘Of course this isn’t for Luke! I’m just … getting inspiration. Aren’t you buying anything?’ I add, noticing she doesn’t have a basket. ‘Aren’t you going to stock up on Jiffy bags or something?’
I would have thought this place would be right up Jess’s street. She’s the one always giving me lectures about spending too much and why don’t I buy in bulk and live off potato peelings?
‘No, I don’t buy things any more,’ says Jess matter-of-factly.
Did I mishear that?
‘What do you mean, you don’t buy things?’ I say, still loading up my basket. ‘You must buy things. Everyone buys things.’
‘Not me.’ She shakes her head. ‘Since living in Chile, Tom and I have taken the decision to be zero-consumers, or as near as possible. We barter instead.’
‘You barter?’ I turn and stare at her. ‘What, with beads and stuff?’
Jess gives a snort of laughter. ‘No, Becky. Everything. Food, clothing, heating. If I can’t barter for it, I don’t do it.’
‘But … who with?’ I say incredulously. ‘No one barters any more. That’s, like, the Middle Ages.’
‘You’d be surprised. There’s a lot of like-minded people out there. There are networks, websites …’ She shrugs. ‘Last week I bartered six hours of gardening for a British Rail voucher. That got me up to Scully. It cost me nothing.’
I stare at her, gobsmacked. In fact, to be honest I feel a teeny bit affronted. Here we all are, feeling really virtuous because we’re shopping in the pound shop. And Jess has to trump everyone by not shopping at all, ever. That’s so typical of her. Next she’ll probably invent some form of anti-shopping. Like anti-matter, or anti-gravity.
‘So … could I barter?’ I say, as a sudden thought hits me.
‘Of course you could,’ says Jess. ‘In fact, you should. You can get anything and everything. Clothes, food, toys … I’ll send you links to the websites I use most.’
‘Thanks!’
Yes! I resume filling my basket, full of exhilaration. This is the answer. I’ll barter for everything I need for Luke’s party. It’ll be easy. And those posh, zillion-pound party organizers can sod off. Who needs them when you have a pound shop and a bartering website?
Ooh. Star Wars fairy lights, two strings for a pound! And some Yoda shot glasses.
I pause thoughtfully. Maybe the party could have a Star Wars theme. I mean, I’m not sure Luke’s exactly into Star Wars … but I could get him into it, couldn’t I? I could rent out the DVDs and suggest we join the fan club and I expect he’d be a total enthusiast by 7 April.
Except there are also some really fab disco-ball garlands. And some jewelled pewter-effect platters reading ‘King Arthur’s Court’, with matching goblets. Oh God, now I’m torn.
Maybe it could be a Seventies-disco-Star-Wars-King-Arthur fusion themed party?
‘You could barter for those, too,’ Jess says, watching me disapprovingly as I pick up a disco-ball garland. ‘Or even better, make decorations with recycled materials. It’s far more environmentally friendly.’
‘I know,’ I say patiently. ‘I should have dreary old paper-chains made of newspaper.’
‘I’m not talking about paperchains made out of newspaper!’ She looks offended. ‘There are lots of creative decorating ideas on the web. You can re-use silver foil, decorate plastic bottles …’
Silver foil? Plastic bottles? What am I, six years old?
‘Look, Jess!’ Janice’s bright voice interrupts us and I look up to see her rounding the corner, clutching a small packet. ‘I’ve found some vitamins! Folic acid! That’s supposed to be good for you young girls, isn’t it?’
I exchange looks with Jess.
‘Only if they’re planning to become pregnant,’ says Jess icily.
‘Well, I’ll
just pop it in my basket, anyway.’ Janice’s casual air is fooling no one. ‘And look at this! It’s a baby-name book! A thousand names for only a pound! Girls and boys.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ mutters Jess, hunching her arms around herself defensively.
‘What do you need a baby-name book for, Janice?’ I ask.
‘Well!’ Janice’s cheeks grow pinker and she looks from me to Jess. ‘You never know …’
‘I do know!’ Jess suddenly erupts. ‘Listen, Janice. I’m not pregnant. And I’m not going to be pregnant. Tom and I have decided that when we have a family, we’ll be adopting a disadvantaged child from South America. And it won’t be a baby, and it’ll have a South American name. So you can keep your bloody folic acid and your baby-names book!’
She stalks off, out of the shop, leaving me and Janice both absolutely gobsmacked.
A South American child! That is so cool.
‘Did she just say … they’re adopting?’ says Janice at last, her voice quivering.
‘I think it’s a fab idea!’ I say firmly. ‘Hey, Mum!’ I call over to Mum, who’s filling a basket with dried flowers. ‘Jess is going to adopt a South American child!’
‘Ooh!’ Mum’s eyes light up. ‘How lovely!’
‘But what about all my knitting?’ Janice looks ready to burst into tears. ‘I’ve made a whole newborn layette! Yellow and white, for a girl or a boy, and little Christmas outfits up to age six!’
OK, Janice is officially insane.
‘Well, no one asked you to, did they?’ I point out. ‘Maybe you could give them all to charity.’
I think I’m turning into Jess. I’ve even got her hardness in my voice. But honestly! Why on earth was Janice knitting baby clothes before Jess and Tom were even engaged?
‘I’ll talk to Tom.’ Janice seems to come to a sudden decision. ‘He’s only going along with this silly plan to please Jess. He’ll want a child of his own, I know he will. He’ll want to carry on our gene pool. Martin’s family dates back to Cromwell, you know. He’s had a family tree done.’
‘Janice,’ I begin, ‘I really wouldn’t get involved—’
‘Look!’ Her gaze suddenly focuses on the shelf in front of her. ‘A pair of gardening gloves! Padded! For a pound!’