As I get near the iconic red banners of Hamleys, I feel a spring in my step. A machine is pumping bubbles into the air outside the shop, Christmas music is blasting through speakers, and two elves in stripy tights are handing out shopping baskets. I’m about to take one, when I feel a buzzing in my pocket and pull out my phone. It’s him! Adam Sandford has replied already!
But as I read his words, my delight evaporates.
Dear Mrs. Brandon, née Bloomwood:
Thank you so much for your inquiry regarding the portmanteau. I would be delighted to craft one for your husband, but I’m sure you will understand that it is a time-consuming process to make such a bespoke item and that I have a waiting list. I estimate I should have one ready for you in approx. 36 months. Would that suit?
Yours kindly,
Adam Sandford
Thirty-six months? Three years? What good is that?
“Excuse me!” says a woman holding about six Hamleys carrier bags, and I quickly turn away. I walk along disconsolately, thinking hard. Now I’ve seen that portmanteau, every other present idea for Luke seems really lame. Should I go and visit Adam Sandford? Or ask him to recommend another portmanteau maker? But why would he recommend a rival? Unless maybe his son went into the trade…
And then, out of the blue, the answer hits me.
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside the London Billiards and Parlour Music Club, Est. 1816, again. Here’s my plan: I’m going to join the club and enter the raffle. And if I don’t win, I’ll persuade the person who does win to sell it to me. Perfect! You probably need references or whatever to join the club, but I’m sure I can busk that. OK. Let’s go.
Straightening my back, I enter the club and stride up to the desk, where the same ninety-three-year-old man as before is sitting. He eyes me dubiously, but I draw breath before he can say anything.
“Hello, again! My name is Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, and I would like to join the London Billiards and Parlour Music Club,” I announce grandly. “My reference is Tarquin Cleath-Stuart, whose ancestor founded billiards in 1743.”
This might not actually be true, but they’ll never know, and I can easily make Tarkie go along with it.
“His name was Billiard Cleath-Stuart,” I embellish for good measure. “Hence the name Billiards. My next reference is Danny Kovitz, the international designer, also a renowned supporter and campaigner for billiards.”
I’ll get Danny to make a T-shirt with I B Billiards on it. It’ll be fine.
“My third reference—” I begin, but the man lifts a hand. He doesn’t seem to be at all impressed by my list of references; in fact, he seems to be waiting to get a word in.
“Young lady,” he says testily.
“Becky,” I correct him.
“Young lady,” he repeats with emphasis. “The London Billiards and Parlour Music Club is open only to gentlemen members.”
I stare at him, the wind taken out of my sails. Gentlemen members? That is so unfair.
Ooh. Shall I identify as a man? Shall I say, “Actually, it’s not Becky, I forgot for a moment; it’s Geoff”?
No. Because that would let them off the hook. They should let women join. Why can’t women join?
“Well, I would like to dispute that,” I say briskly. “As a woman who is passionate about both billiards and parlour music, I feel it is discriminatory of this club to exclude me. To whom may I write on this matter?”
The man gazes at me frostily for a few moments.
“The chairman is Sir Peter Leggett-Davey,” he allows at last. “You may write to him at this address.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, making a small bow. “I am, sir, yours, et cetera.”
I’m not quite sure what I meant by that, but it just popped out.
“Goodbye,” says the man in final tones.
“Goodbye,” I echo, and whirl round, intending to make an impressive exit, only I bash my bag on his desk by mistake and have to add, “Oh, oops, sorry.”
As I head out onto the street, I’m already composing letters to Sir Peter Leggett-Davey in my head—and I give a most almighty jump when I feel a hand on my arm and hear a voice exclaiming, “Young lady, you were tremendous!”
I wheel round to see an elderly man gazing at me with shining eyes. He’s tall and thin, with liver spots and longish silver hair and a violet paisley cravat tucked into his shirt.