Christmas Shopaholic - Sophie Kinsella Page 0,123

phone.

“How’s the turkey?” I say. “Does it look well rested? Luke?” I add, as he doesn’t seem able to respond. “Luke?”

Finally, Luke raises his head and gazes at me for a few seconds.

“Becky,” he says in an odd voice, “I’ve just had an email from someone called Simon Millett, wishing me happy Christmas and filling me in on a few things.”

What? He emailed Luke? That sneak.

“Oh,” I say hastily. “Well, I wouldn’t listen to him—”

“According to him, you did a bit more than just ‘see my present in a window.’ He’s sent me a link to the London Clubs’ newsletter. Which, actually, I do receive,” he adds, in an even odder voice, “but never bother to read. Because I never expected to see a picture of my wife in it.”

He turns around his phone, and I see a photo of me addressing the ninety-three-year-olds, my hands aloft and my mouth wide open. Who chose that awful shot? I bet it was Sir Peter.

“Oh, right,” I say, as Luke seems to be expecting an answer. “Yes. I’ve joined a club.” I try to sound casual. “I was going to mention it. You can come along as my guest, if you like.”

“Becky…” Luke trails off, appearing almost speechless. “A billiards club?”

“Well, I wanted the portmanteau!” I say defensively. “It had your initials on it.”

“So you changed the laws of one of the oldest clubs in town,” Luke says, gazing at me as though there are a thousand other things he wants to say but doesn’t know where to start. “You swept the floor with them, according to this chap Simon Millett. I wish I’d been there.”

“Well, you know.” I shrug. “I wasn’t just going to get you boring old aftershave—”

And then I can’t speak, because Luke has enveloped me in a tight hug. In fact, so tight I can hardly breathe.

“There’s no one like you, Becky,” he says against my neck, his voice husky. “No one in the whole wide world.”

This is something Luke says to me quite a lot. And sometimes I’m not sure if he means it in a good way or a bad way. But right now I’m fairly sure it’s in a good way.

At last we draw apart and take a few deep breaths and remember what we’re supposed to be doing, which is serving Christmas lunch. Luke carries in the turkey and I follow him with Peppa Pig the vegan turkey. The whole dining room erupts into cheers, and Tarkie exclaims throatily, “And so say all of us!”

The next few minutes are a blur of carving and spooning and passing dishes along. But at last everyone has a plate of food and we’ve pulled the crackers (sustainable, hand-block-printed by Nepalese women) and everyone’s wearing a paper hat—and Christmas lunch is under way. The table looks fab, with its highland ribbons and neon table confetti and Scandi candlesticks. (My theme in the end was “eclectic.”) Martin has piled his plate with sprouts, Suze has piled hers with broccoli, and everyone has taken at least one doughnut. Peppa Pig is a massive hit—I think we might have to have a vegan-doughnut turkey every year now.

“Well!” says Mum, whose word was “Source” and has just revealed to me she thought at first Tom and Jess meant “Sauce” and was quite confused and had to have it explained. “What a wonderful Christmas!” She rises to her feet and bangs her pudding spoon on her plate until there’s quiet around the table. “Everyone! I would like to make a speech. We all know that Becky hasn’t had it easy these last few days, what with one thing and another. But here we are, enjoying a wonderful Christmas, in this beautifully decorated house, and I would like to say to you, Becky and Luke and Minnie: Thank you!” She raises her glass. “To the Brandons!”

“The Brandons!” everyone echoes, rising to their feet, and Suze chimes in, “Née Bloomwood!” and everyone bursts into laughter and then sits down again to dig happily into their food.

I sit back in my chair and watch everyone for a moment, just absorbing the happiness of it all—Mum cutting up Minnie’s turkey, and Suze checking out her paper hat in the mirror, and Jess suspiciously reading the leaflet about the sustainable credentials of the crackers. Christmas is the best. Even if it goes wrong, it’s the best. Then I turn to Luke, who’s sitting on my left, at the head of the table.

“What did you think of the words, by the way?” I say to him, under the cover of conversation. “Tom and Jess’s presents, I mean.”

“Pretty impressive,” says Luke. “Not what I expected, somehow.”

“Me neither.” I nod, before adding in my most casual manner, “So…what word would you give me?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Luke, with an easy laugh.

“Go on, Luke, give me a word. Give me a word for Christmas.” I’m half-joking—but half serious too. I suddenly want to hear his word. The word he would choose for me.

As though sensing this, Luke puts down his knife and fork. He turns to me, and his dark eyes lock on to mine for what seems an endless span of time before he says, quietly, “Beloved.”

My face flashes hot and I feel a prickle in my nose. Beloved. That’s his word for me, beloved.

I love my new dress. Of course I do. But this is the present I’ll always remember.

“That’s a good one,” I say, trying to keep my composure. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Luke takes his knife and fork back up and resumes eating. “Now you give me a word,” he adds. “Something good, mind.”

I’m silent for a moment, thinking hard. Then I draw a slightly shaky breath and say, “OK. I’ll give you a word.”

“Excellent!” Luke wipes his mouth. “Will I like it?”

“I think you’ll like it,” I say, my heart thumping hard. “I really think you will. Ready?”

I wait until he puts down his knife and fork. I wait until he turns his head to look at me directly. I wait. And wait.

Then I lean forward and whisper gently into his ear, “Pregnant.”

The London Billiards and Parlour Music Club

Est. 1816

St. James’s St.

London SW1

Dear Mrs. Brandon, née Bloomwood:

Thank you for your recent letter requesting use of the Prince of Wales room for your “baby shower,” an American term, I believe.

I am afraid that this will be impossible. It is an unsuitable purpose for the room in question. Further, there can be no question of your filling a room in this club with “zillions of balloons,” as you put it. Some of our members are very elderly, and such a sight might prove alarming, if not fatal, to them.

Yours sincerely,

Sir Peter Leggett-Davey

Chairman

The London Billiards and Parlour Music Club

Est. 1816

St. James’s St.

London SW1

Minutes from Members’ Quarterly Meeting (Cont’d.)

Motion 6

That Mrs. Brandon (née Bloomwood) should be permitted to

1. host a “baby shower” event in the Prince of Wales room; 2. furnish the Prince of Wales room with inflatable balloons; 3. create a “tier of cupcakes”; 4. serve prosecco; and 5. play amplified music by the popular artist known as “Beyoncé.”

Proposed by Mrs. Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood)

Seconded by Lord Edwin Tottle

Carried: 56 votes to 3.