like the aftershave I always wear,” he says. “Shall we get some sleep?”
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The next morning, Luke is distinctly on the grouchy side. I say “morning,” but it’s more like the middle of the night. I would have thought that being the boss of your own company would mean you didn’t have to get up at silly o’clock to catch planes, but apparently it doesn’t work like that.
I kiss him goodbye, wincing slightly at the furry texture of his new mustache. (It’s for charity, I keep reminding myself.) As his taxi pulls away, I wave, trying to look as loving and apologetic as I can. Then I head into the kitchen and slump on a chair.
I feel fairly grouchy myself. I didn’t get enough sleep either, and I feel awful that I nearly blinded Luke. The whole thing was a total disaster. I spent ages collecting all those aftershave samples—and all for nothing. Luke doesn’t want a new aftershave. He wants the same old thing. It’s totally against the spirit of Christmas! Imagine if Father Christmas opened his letters and they all said, Dear Santa, please give me the same old thing. He’d go into a decline.
As I switch on the kettle, I remember that annoying guy in Selfridges, telling me that my husband didn’t want a new aftershave. I hate that he was right—and I stand by my reply. Some people are happy to go the extra mile for their husband’s Christmas present. So the coat didn’t work out and the aftershave didn’t work out. I’m undeterred. I feel all the more determined to find something that makes Luke’s jaw drop.
(In a good way. Not because it’s a purple mohair jacket. Although to be fair, I kept the receipt for that purple jacket, and I still think it suited him. It was all Mum’s fault for exclaiming, “Dear God!” in such appalled tones when he tried it on. Sometimes I don’t understand how I came from such a fashion-illiterate family, I really don’t.)
As I drop Minnie at school, I look around for Steph—in case she wants a chat or anything—but I can’t see her, so I head to work. I make myself a coffee, then lean against the cash desk, looking around the shop for present inspiration. But I’ve already given Luke the hip flask and the gentleman’s handkerchief set and the caramel sea salt chocolate. (Well, OK, that was mostly for me.)
I heave a gusty sigh, cursing myself. I should never have bought him the hip flask. I should have mentally earmarked it for Christmas.
“Are you OK, Bex?” Suze comes up, peering at me in surprise.
“Didn’t sleep very well,” I say morosely. “Actually, Luke and I had a row.”
“What about?”
“Christmas presents and stuff,” I say vaguely.
I won’t mention that I drew on Luke with a Sharpie; it sounds a bit weird.
“Oh, Christmas presents.” Suze rolls her eyes sympathetically. “We had a row too. Tarkie wants to give the children each a lamb, but I want to get them a piglet. Who wants a lamb when they could have a piglet?” She looks at me expectantly.
“Er…” Personally, I wouldn’t want either, but that’s probably not the answer Suze is hoping for.
“Does Minnie want a piglet?” Suze’s eyes light up. “Shall I get her one too?”
A piglet? In our garden? Oinking everywhere and making a mess and growing into a massive hog? I love Suze to bits, but there are certain areas of life where we simply don’t see eye to eye.
“I don’t think so,” I say carefully. “She’s not really a piglet girl. In fact, the only useful thing I’ve done so far for Christmas is buy Minnie’s present,” I add. “She’s desperate for a picnic hamper, and I’ve already ordered it.”
I’m expecting Suze to exclaim, “Well done!” or ask to see it online, but instead she looks doubtful.
“You’ve ordered it already?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Hmm.” Suze twists her mouth up. “Isn’t that a bit early? What if she changes her mind?”
Changes her mind? That hadn’t even occurred to me.
“She won’t,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “She’s wanted that hamper for ages.” But Suze just shakes her head.
“They’re totally fickle. I call it ‘the swerve.’ They say, ‘I really want a pogo stick, it’s all I want,