and Irene have disappeared somewhere, so I force myself to approach the group with a pleasant smile.
“Hello, may I help you?”
As I’m speaking, I give Mean Blondie a Manhattan Once-Over and realize she must have scads of money. That coat is £800 on Net-a-Porter; I’ve seen it.
“We’re fine, thanks,” says the nice woman who liked the Rodin.
“Is that tweed suit standard?” chimes in Mean Blondie, eyeing me closely—and I realize she’s given me the Manhattan Once-Over. “I didn’t see anything like that on the racks,” she adds, studying the fraying. “Is it for sale?”
Hmm. This woman might be mean, but at least she appreciates my artistry.
“It’s a bespoke outfit, actually,” I say, softening. “Here at Letherby, we believe that tweed doesn’t have to be boring. It can be frayed, pleated, edgy, vibrant….It has limitless possibilities,” I finish, feeling quite inspired. I could be a spokesperson for the Tweed Promotion Board! “Are you interested in ordering a customized suit for yourself?”
I’ll customize it myself, I’m thinking in slight excitement. I’ll start a business! I’ll call my label Becky’s Bespoke Tweed, and people will say…
“No,” she says flatly. “I just wondered why you look so strange.”
Strange?
My excitement collapses and I force myself not to glare at her. Instead, I say as politely as I can, “Well, enjoy the rest of the store.”
I pretend to be busy with a display of tweed purses, but as the women walk off, I eye Mean Blondie’s back malevolently. If she says one more nasty thing…
They look at the soaps and the shampoos, but they don’t put any in their baskets. Nor any marmalade or jam. Then they stop to look at my gorgeously arranged hygge table.
“Hygge Collection?” says Mean Blondie disparagingly, reading my handwritten sign. “For God’s sake, really? Aren’t we all hygged to death? Isn’t it a little bit over?”
OK, that’s it. I’ve had enough. They’re not calling me “over.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say smoothly, striding over and removing the hygge sign. “That sign’s out of date. This is actually our brand-new sprygge collection.”
I cross out Hygge Collection, turn the cardboard sign over, firmly write Sprygge Collection, then place it back on the table.
“Sprygge?” Mean Blondie stares at me.
“Yes, sprygge. Haven’t you heard of sprygge?” I say in pitying tones. “It is rather new to this country. Rather niche. Norwegian,” I add for good measure.
To be absolutely truthful, the word sprygge popped out of my mouth before I could stop it. But now that I’ve written it down, I think it looks really good.
“What does it mean?” asks another of the women.
“If you don’t speak Norwegian, it’s hard to convey,” I say, playing for time. “But it’s…a positiveness. A radiant, joyful, yet complex feeling. More intense than hygge. Like…turbo-hygge.”
“Turbo-hygge?” echoes Mean Blondie skeptically.
“Yes,” I say defiantly. “It’s the sense of euphoria and relief you feel when everything seemed as though it was going desperately wrong but then turned out OK. It’s that feeling.”
“I know that feeling!” says the dark-haired woman.
“There you go!” I smile at her. “Imagine you’re going to miss your train and you’re utterly panicked, but then you run up the platform and you just catch it. As you’re sitting there, panting, the sensation you feel spreading through your body is sprygge.”
“I never knew there was a word for that,” says the third woman curiously. “Language is so interesting.”
“Exactly!” I nod at her. “And these carefully curated products accompany that wonderful feeling.” I gesture at the table. “The scented candles soothe your nerves…the blanket reassures you that everything’s OK now…and the chocolates say: Well done, you made it, you deserve a treat!”
Mean Blondie is still peering at me superciliously, but her friends seem quite transfixed.
“I’ll take a candle,” says the dark-haired woman.
“I’ll have some chocolates,” puts in the third woman. “I think we do deserve a treat, don’t we?”
“Well, I might have a blanket,” says Mean Blondie reluctantly.
To my slight disbelief, all three women start picking up items from the table and looking at them with more interest. Sprygge worked!
I turn to see both Suze and Irene watching me from the other side of the shop and beam proudly back.
“I’ll just leave you to browse,” I say to the women. “Please let me know if you need any more help.”
I head toward Suze and Irene, mouthing, “Result!” and doing a discreet little fist pump.
“Wow, Bex,” says Suze as I reach her. “That sounded amazing!”
“Very interesting, dear,” says Irene admiringly.
“Look, they’re buying loads!” adds Suze in a whisper. “Bex, where