Mini Shopaholic

  ‘Luke, let’s have another baby!’ I say in a rush. ‘Tonight!’

  There’s silence. For an instant I wonder whether Luke even heard. Then he raises his head, looking totally astonished.

  ‘Are you nuts?’

  I stare back at him, affronted.

  ‘Of course I’m not nuts! I think we should have a little brother or sister for Minnie. Don’t you?’

  ‘My petal.’ Luke sits back on his heels. ‘We can’t control one child. How on earth would we control two? You saw the way she behaved today.’

  Not him, too.

  ‘What are you saying?’ I can’t help sounding hurt. ‘Do you think Minnie’s spoiled?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ Luke says carefully. ‘But you have to admit, she’s out of control.’

  ‘No she’s not!’

  ‘Look at the facts. She’s been banned from four Santa’s Grottos.’ He ticks off on his fingers. ‘And St Paul’s Cathedral. Not to mention the incident at Harvey Nichols and the fiasco at my office.’

  Is he going to hold that against her for ever? They shouldn’t have expensive artwork on the walls, is what I say. They’re supposed to be working, not walking around looking at art all day.

  ‘She’s just spirited,’ I say defensively. ‘Maybe a baby would be good for her.’

  ‘And drive us insane.’ Luke shakes his head. ‘Becky, let’s hold our horses on this one, OK?’

  I feel crushed. I don’t want to hold my horses. I want to have two children in matching pom-pom hats.

  ‘Luke, I’ve really thought about this carefully. I want Minnie to have a lifelong friend and not grow up an only child. And I want our children to be close in age, not years apart. And I’ve got a hundred quid’s worth of vouchers for Baby World which I never spent!’ I add, suddenly remembering. ‘They’ll expire soon!’

  ‘Becky.’ Luke rolls his eyes. ‘We’re not having another baby just because we’ve got some vouchers for Baby World.’

  ‘That’s not why we’d have the baby!’ I say, indignantly. ‘That was just an extra reason.’

  Trust him to pick on that. He’s just avoiding the issue.

  ‘So what do you mean? That you never want another baby?’

  A guarded look flashes over Luke’s face. For a moment he doesn’t answer, but finishes wrapping the present, straightening every corner perfectly and smoothing the Sellotape down with his thumbnail. He looks exactly like someone putting off talking about something which is a sore point.

  I watch in growing dismay. Since when was having a second baby a sore point?

  ‘Maybe I would like to have more than one child,’ he says at last. ‘In theory. One day.’

  Well, he couldn’t sound less enthusiastic.

  ‘Right,’ I gulp. ‘I see.’

  ‘Becky, don’t get me wrong. Having Minnie has been … amazing. I couldn’t possibly love her any more, you know that.’

  He meets my eyes directly and I’m too honest to do anything except nod silently.

  ‘But we’re not ready to have another one. Face it, Becky, it’s been a hell of a year, we don’t even have our own house yet, Minnie’s a handful, we’ve got enough on our plate as it is … Let’s just forget about it for now. Enjoy Christmas, enjoy being the three of us. Talk about it again in a year’s time, maybe.’

  A year’s time?

  ‘But that’s ages away.’ To my horror my voice shakes slightly. ‘I was hoping we might have another baby by next Christmas! I’d even got perfect names planned for if we conceived it tonight. Wenceslas or Snowflake.’

  ‘Oh, Becky.’ Luke takes hold of both my hands and sighs. ‘If we could get through just one day without a major incident, maybe I’d feel differently.’

  ‘We can easily get through a day. She’s not that bad!’

  ‘Has there been a single day in which Minnie has not created havoc of some sort?’

  ‘OK,’ I say a bit defiantly. ‘You wait. I’m going to start a Minnie Incident Book and I bet we don’t have any entries. I bet Minnie will be an angel tomorrow.’

  Silently I resume wrapping presents, breaking off the Sellotape with extra snap, just to show how hurt I feel. He probably never wanted any children at all. He probably resents me and Minnie. He probably wishes he was still a bachelor, zooming around in his sports car all day long. I knew it.

  ‘So, is that all the presents?’ I say eventually, plonking a big spotted bow on the final package.

  ‘Actually … I’ve got one more thing.’ Luke looks sheepish. ‘I couldn’t resist.’

  He heads to the wardrobe and rifles at the back, behind his shoes. As he turns, he’s holding a scruffy cardboard box. He puts it down on the carpet and gently pulls out an old toy theatre. It’s made of wood, with faded paint and real little red velvet curtains and even tiny footlights.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘That’s amazing. Where did you find that?’

  ‘Tracked it down on eBay. I had one when I was a child, exactly like this. Same sets, characters, everything.’

  I watch, agog, as he pulls the tiny ropes and the curtains swish creakily back. The stage is dressed with sets for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, painted in incredible detail. One’s an interior scene with pillars, another is a woodland copse with a little brook and mossy bank, another is a big forest with distant spires of a castle on the background. There are tiny wooden characters in costumes, and even one with a donkey’s head, who must be … Puck.

  No, not Puck. The other one. Oberon?

  OK, I’ll quickly Google A Midsummer Night’s Dream while Luke’s downstairs.

  ‘I used to play with this with Annabel.’ Luke is staring at it as though entranced. ‘I must have been about … six? It was like going into a different world. Look, all the sets are on runners. It’s superb craftsmanship.’

  As I watch him pushing the characters back and forth, I feel a sudden little pang for him. I’ve never known Luke display any nostalgia for anything, ever.

  ‘Well, don’t let Minnie break it,’ I say gently.

  ‘She’ll be fine.’ He smiles. ‘We’ll put on a father-daughter Christmas performance tomorrow.’

  Now I feel a bit guilty. I take it back. Maybe Luke doesn’t resent me and Minnie. He’s had a hard year, that’s all.

  What I need to do is have a little Mummy – Minnie chat. Explain the situation to her. And she’ll reform her ways and Luke will reconsider, and everything will be perfect.

  THREE

  OK, Christmas doesn’t count. Everyone knows that.

  You can’t expect a toddler to behave perfectly when it’s all so exciting and there are sweets and decorations everywhere. And it’s no wonder Minnie woke up at 3 a.m. and started yelling for everyone. She just wanted us all to see her stocking. Anyone else would have done the same.

  Anyway, I’ve already torn out the first page of the Incident Book and shredded it. Everyone’s allowed to have a false start.

  I take a sip of coffee and happily reach for a Quality Street. God, I love Christmas. The whole house smells of roasting turkey, carols are playing over the sound-system and Dad’s cracking nuts by the fire. I can’t help feeling a glow as I look around the sitting room: at the tree twinkling with lights and the nativity scene we’ve had since I was little (we lost Baby Jesus years ago but we use a clothes peg instead).

  Little Minnie’s eyes when she saw her stocking this morning were like saucers. She just couldn’t take it in. She kept saying ‘Stocking? Stocking?’ in utter disbelief.

  ‘Becky, love,’ calls Mum. I head into the hall to see her at the door of the kitchen in her Santa apron. ‘Which crackers shall we have at lunch? Novelty games or luxury gifts?’

  ‘What about those ones you got from the German market?’ I suggest. ‘With the little wooden toys.’

  ‘Good idea!’ Mum’s face brightens. ‘I’d forgotten about those.’

  ‘Yup, I’ve got the paperwork here …’ Luke heads past me towards the stairs, talking on his phone. ‘If
you could run your eyes over the Sanderson agreement … Yup. I’ll be in the office by three. Just a few things to clear up here first. Cheers, Gary.’

  ‘Luke!’ I say indignantly as he switches off. ‘Christmas isn’t “a few things to clear up”.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Luke, not breaking his stride for a second. ‘Then again, it’s not Christmas.’

  Honestly. Can’t he get into the spirit of it?

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘In Bloomwood-world, maybe. Everywhere else, it’s December 28th and people are getting on with their lives.’

  He’s so literal.

  ‘OK, maybe it’s not exactly Christmas Day,’ I say crossly. ‘But it’s our second Christmas. It’s our special Christmas for Jess and Tom and it’s just as important and you could try to be a bit festive!’

  This whole two Christmases thing is fab. In fact I think we should do it every year. It could be a family tradition.

  ‘My love.’ Luke pauses, halfway up the stairs, and starts counting off on his fingers. ‘One, it is not just as important. Two, I need to finalize this agreement today. Three, Tom and Jess aren’t even here yet.’

  A text arrived from Jess and Tom overnight to say that their plane from Chile had been delayed. Since then, Janice has come across to our house approximately every twenty minutes to ask if we’ve heard anything, and could we possibly look online again, and has there been any news of accidents or hijacks?

  She’s even more hyper than usual and we all know why: she’s desperately hoping that Tom and Jess have got engaged. Apparently Tom said in his last email that he had ‘something to tell her’. I heard her and Mum talking the other day and Janice is obviously gagging to hold another wedding. She’s got all sorts of new ideas for floral arrangements and the photos could be in front of the magnolia tree and it would ‘excise the memory of that ungrateful little harlot’. (Lucy. Tom’s first wife. Total cow, take it from me.)

  ‘On the same subject, why on earth did Minnie get another stocking this morning?’ adds Luke, lowering his voice. ‘Whose idea was that?’

  ‘It was … Father Christmas’s idea,’ I say, a bit defiantly. ‘By the way, have you seen how good she’s being today?’

  Minnie’s been helping Mum in the kitchen all morning and she’s been absolutely perfect, apart from a tiny moment with the electric mixer, which I won’t mention to Luke.

  ‘I’m sure she is,‘ Luke begins, as the doorbell rings. ‘That can’t be them.’ He consults his watch, looking puzzled. ‘They’re still in the air.’

  ‘Is that Jess?’ calls Mum excitedly from the kitchen. ‘Has anyone texted Janice?’

  ‘It can’t be Jess yet!’ I call back. ‘It must be Suze, arrived early.’ I hurry to the front door and swing it open – and sure enough, there’s the whole Cleath-Stuart family, looking like a photo spread from the Toast catalogue.

  Suze is stunning in a black shearling coat, her long blonde hair streaming down, Tarquin is the same as ever in an ancient old Barbour, and the three children are all gangly legs and huge eyes and Fair Isle jumpers.

  ‘Suze!’ I fling my arms round her.

  ‘Bex! Happy Christmas!’

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ calls out Clemmie, sucking her thumb and holding on to Suze’s hand.

  ‘And a happy you near!’ chimes in Ernest, who is my godson and already has that bony, upper-class beanpole look going on. (‘Happy you near’ is an old Cleath-Stuart family saying. Like ‘Happy bad day’ instead of ‘Happy birthday’. There are so many of them, they should issue a crib sheet.) He shoots an uncertain look up at Suze, who nods encouragingly – then extends a formal hand to me as though we’re meeting for the first time at an ambassador’s reception. I solemnly shake it, then scoop him up in a bear-hug till he giggles.

  ‘Suzie, dear! Merry Christmas!’ Mum hurries into the hall and gives her a warm hug. ‘And Tark—’ She stops in her tracks. ‘Lord …’ She glances anxiously at me. ‘Your Lordship … ness …’

  ‘Ahm … please, Mrs Bloomwood.’ Tarkie has turned a bit pink. ‘Tarquin is fine.’

  Tarkie’s grandfather died of pneumonia a couple of months ago. Which was really tragic and everything, but there again, he was ninety-six. Anyway, the point is, Tarkie’s dad inherited the title of Earl – and Tarkie gets to be a lord! He’s Lord Tarquin Cleath-Stuart, which makes Suze ‘Lady’. It’s all so grown-up and posh I can hardly get my head round it. Plus, they now have even more squillions of money and land and stuff than they had before. Their new house is in Hampshire, only about half an hour away from here. It’s called Letherby Hall and it looks just like Brideshead Revisited, and they don’t even live in it full time, they’ve got a place in Chelsea too.

  You’d think Tarkie could stump up for a new scarf. He’s unwinding the most threadbare, ratty old thing from around his neck that looks like it was knitted by his old nanny twenty years ago. Well, it probably was.

  ‘Did you get any nice Christmas presents, Tarkie?’ I ask.

  I’ve bought him this really cool aromatherapy diffuser thing, which I’m sure he’ll love. Well, Suze will love.

  ‘Absolutely.’ He nods fervently. ‘Suze bought me a rather wonderful Merino tup. Such a surprise.’

  Tup? Does he mean tux?

  ‘That sounds fab!’ I exclaim. ‘Merino is so in right now. You should see the new John Smedley collection, you’d love it.’

  ‘John Smedley?’ Tarkie seems a little baffled. ‘I don’t know the name. Is he a breeder?’

  ‘The knitwear designer! You know, you could put a turtle-neck under your tux,’ I say in sudden inspiration. ‘That’s a really cool look. Is it single-breasted?’

  Tarkie looks totally at sea, and Suze gives a gurgle of laughter.

  ‘Bex, I didn’t give him a tux. I gave him a tup. An uncastrated sheep.’

  An uncastrated sheep? What kind of Christmas present is that?

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I try my hardest to summon some enthusiasm. ‘Of course. An uncastrated sheep! Er … lovely.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I gave him a jacket, too,’ adds Suze, grinning at me.

  ‘For when I’m out on my bike,’ Tarkie chimes in. ‘It’s absolutely super, darling.’

  I already know better than to say ‘Oh cool, a Belstaff?’ Tarkie doesn’t mean ‘bike’ like most people mean ‘bike’. Sure enough, Suze is scrolling through pictures on her phone, and turns it to show me a photo of Tarkie in a tweed jacket, perched on a vintage penny-farthing. He’s got loads of antique bikes – in fact sometimes he even lends them to TV companies as props and advises on the way they were ridden in the olden days. (The only thing is, they don’t always listen. And then Tarkie sees the show on TV and they’re doing it wrong and he gets all depressed.)

  ‘Why don’t all the children come into the kitchen for some squash and biscuits?’ Mum is rounding up Ernest, Clementine and Wilfrid like a mother hen. ‘Where’s Minnie? Minnie darling, come and see your friends!’

  Like a fireball, Minnie rockets into the hall from the kitchen, dressed in her scarlet Christmas dress, the sparkly red pompom hat and a pair of pink fairy wings which she’s refused to take off since finding them in her stocking.

  ‘Ketchup!’ she cries triumphantly, and aims the bottle at Suze’s gorgeous coat.

  My heart freezes.

  Oh no. Oh no, oh no. How did she get hold of that? We always put it on the top shelf now, ever since …

  ‘Minnie, no. No.’ I make a swipe for the ketchup, but she dodges me. ‘Minnie, give it to me, don’t you dare—’

  ‘Ketchup!’ The stream of red is streaking through the air before I can even react.

  ‘Nooo!’

  ‘Minnie!’

  ‘Suze!’

  It’s like Apocalypse Now. I see the whole thing as if in slow motion: Suze gasping and shrinking back, and Tarquin diving in front of her, and the ketchup landing in a massive blob on his Barbour.

  I don’t dare look at Luke.

  ‘Give that to me!’ I g
rab the ketchup out of Minnie’s hand. ‘Naughty girl! Suze, Tarkie, I’m so sorry …’

  ‘I do apologize for our daughter’s terrible behaviour,’ chimes in Luke, a meaningful edge to his voice.

  ‘Oh, no problem,’ says Suze. ‘I’m sure she did it by accident, didn’t you, darling?’ She ruffles Minnie’s head.

  ‘Absolutely,’ chimes in Tarkie. ‘No harm done. If I could just …’ He gestures awkwardly at the tomato ketchup, which is dripping down the front of his Barbour.

  ‘Of course!’ I hastily take his Barbour from him. ‘Well dived, Tarkie,’ I can’t help adding admiringly. ‘You were really quick.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing.’ He looks abashed. ‘Any decent chap would have done it.’

  It just goes to show how devoted Tarquin is to Suze. He dived in front of her without a moment’s hesitation. It’s quite romantic, actually.

  I wonder if Luke would take a hit of tomato ketchup for me. I might ask him later. Just casually.

  ‘Luke,’ says Tarquin a little diffidently as they shake hands. ‘Wondered if I could pick your brains about something?’

  ‘No problem.’ Luke looks a little surprised. ‘Shall we go in the sitting room?’

  ‘I’ll take the children into the kitchen and sort out this Barbour …’ Mum takes it from me.

  ‘And Bex, you can show me all the stuff you got at the sales!’ says Suze excitedly. ‘I mean … er … talk about the children,’ she amends hastily as I give her a surreptitious kick.

  *

  As we sprawl on my bed and I start unpacking all the stuff I bought on Boxing Day it feels just like old times, when Suze and I used to share a flat in Fulham.

  ‘This is what I’m wearing at the christening.’ I shake out my brand-new Russian-style dress.

  ‘Fantastic!’ says Suze, as she tries on my new leather jacket. ‘Even better than the picture.’

  I texted Suze a few photos from the sales, and she gave me her opinion. And in return she sent me some photos of her and Tarkie grouse-beating, or pigeon-shooting, or whatever they were doing. Suze is so sweet and loyal, just like the Queen, she never once complains. But honestly, where would you rather be? On some freezing-cold moor, or in Selfridges with 70 per cent off?