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.”