on my lips. I don’t know how to tell her. Oh God. I can’t tell her.
But I have to. Somehow.
“Suze, come here.” I hustle her away from the sprygge table, to a corner well away from Irene.
“Suze, listen,” I say in a desperate undertone. “I made sprygge up.”
“What?” She stares at me, uncomprehending.
“I invented sprygge to annoy that snotty woman. I just plucked it out of the air. It’s not a real word.”
Slowly, I see the truth dawn on Suze’s face.
“No,” she falters. “You mean…” Her eyes dart to the sprygge table and back a few times. “You mean…Oh my God.” She swallows. “Bex, you’re joking.”
“I’m not,” I say in agonized tones. “Sorry.”
“But you gave a whole speech about it! You were so convincing! We all thought it was real!”
“I know! I was going to tell you it was made up, but…” I wrinkle my brow, trying to recall why I didn’t—then suddenly remember. “Craig came in and I forgot,” I confess shamefacedly.
Suze’s gaze is fixed on the sprygge table. I can see from her eyes that thoughts are crashing into her head, and not in a good way.
“I can’t believe you’d make something like that up,” she says. “How could you do that?” She turns on me with an accusing gaze.
“I didn’t think you’d go and make a stack of cushions saying, Don’t worry, be sprygge!” I retort defensively. “How could I have predicted that?”
“But then this is against the Trade Descriptions Act!” says Suze, gesturing around the shop in agitation. “We’ve been telling everyone it’s Norwegian! We could be sued! We could be prosecuted! We’ll have to pulp the whole collection.” Her head descends into her hands, and I feel an almighty wave of guilt.
“Suze, calm down.” I put my arms round her shoulders. “No one’s going to sue you.”
We both watch as our first customers of the day come in: two middle-aged women. They head straight to the sprygge table, and I can hear them exclaiming with interest.
“I need to go and tell them it’s all fake,” says Suze in dispirited tones.
“Suze, don’t!” I say impulsively. “Don’t pulp the collection. It would be such a waste. It’s only a word. And you’ve made such gorgeous things. Does it really matter if a few people have cushions saying sprygge in their house?”
“But we’re saying it’s Norwegian,” says Suze in hopeless tones. “We’re not being honest.”
“Well, then…let’s not say it’s Norwegian,” I suggest after a moment’s thought. “Let’s say, ‘Some people believe it comes from Norway.’ That’s true enough. All the customers from yesterday believe that, for a start. And anyway,” I continue, hit by a new idea, “language is constantly evolving. It’s fluid. There are new words in the dictionary every year! Why shouldn’t one of them be sprygge?”
“What do you mean?” Suze stares at me suspiciously.
“If we start using the word sprygge a lot, then maybe other people will, too, and then it’ll get into the language. That’s what language is,” I impress on Suze. “That’s how language develops. If anyone asks, we can say it’s practically Norwegian. We can say it’s ‘pending’ Norwegian.”
One of the customers is filling her basket with sprygge mugs, her eyes sparkling.
“My daughter will love these,” she’s saying to her friend. “So different!”
“So original!” agrees her friend, reaching for a cushion. “I’ve not seen them anywhere else.”
“You see?” I say to Suze. “They both look so thrilled. If we tell them the truth, we’re total spoilsports, and is that the Christmas spirit? No. It’s not. Here’s what I think: If the word sprygge makes people happy, then who are we to curtail that happiness?”
“It is a good word,” allows Suze reluctantly.
“It’s a brilliant word,” I agree, trying to imbue her with confidence. “It’s a positive, joy-spreading word, and it doesn’t matter where it came from.”
I’m about to go and help the customers with their purchases when my phone buzzes with a text. I open it up and read it. Then I read it again, swallowing hard.
“What?” says Suze, watching me.
“Um. Nothing. Just, um, Craig, asking Luke and me to go round later on for a glass of wine.” I attempt a casual tone. “He says, ‘Let’s have a special evening, the four of us.’ ”
Suze’s eyes widen dramatically.
“A special evening, the four of you?” she echoes, looking scandalized. “Bex, you know what that means!”
My mind has already jumped to exactly the same thought, but I’m not admitting it to Suze. Or even to myself.