too late to do the crumb-whatsit thing now?” when Luke walks into the kitchen.
“Jesus,” he says, and breathes out hard.
“What?”
“I’ve just been on the phone to Nadine.”
“Nadine?” I put down my smearing knife and stare at him. “How come?”
“She called me about her business pitch.”
“On a Saturday?”
“She said she’d been waiting impatiently for my call.” He winces. “She seemed to have…let’s say the wrong idea about how things had gone when we met.”
“In what sense?”
“In the sense that she thought I was about to write her a check, give her a car, and rename my company ‘Brandon and Nadine’s Communications.’ ”
“Oh my God.” I stare at him, half-horrified and half-wanting to giggle. “But that’s ridiculous! You didn’t promise anything. You just said, ‘There’s a lot to think about.’ I heard you with my own ears.”
“Of course I didn’t promise anything!” says Luke. “She’s a chancer. Or deluded. Or both. Hi, Suze,” he adds.
“Hi, Luke,” says Suze blithely. “So Craig and Nadine aren’t your new best friends after all? Shame.”
I shoot a suspicious glare at her. I can sense a big old “told you so” in her voice, although if I confront her, she’ll say, “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Tell you what,” says Luke, starting to make some coffee. “Nadine got quite nasty on the phone. She implied they need the money.”
“Need the money?” I stare at him. “How can they need the money?”
“She pretty much implied that Craig is broke.” Luke shrugs. “I’m just going on what she said.”
“But he’s a rock star!” I say, bewildered. “He went to Warsaw! He can’t be broke!”
“That’s right, Bex,” says Suze in a deadpan voice. “Because rock stars never go to Warsaw when they’re broke. They take in extra washing and cut coupons.”
“Ha ha.” I roll my eyes.
“Poor Bex.” Suze suddenly relents. “I see you’ve washed the blue dye out of your hair. And where are your killer slutty boots? Are you ever going to wear them again?”
“They’re upstairs,” I say with dignity. “And of course I’ll wear them again, upon the right occasion.”
“I like the killer slutty boots,” says Luke cheerfully. “Don’t knock the killer slutty boots. Does anyone want coffee?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “We’re about to go and meet Jess for lunch, and you’re picking up Minnie, remember?”
“Actually, those boots are really nice,” says Suze, her eyes focusing on my feet. “Are those new?”
“Yes! Brand new!”
They’re a pair of caramel ankle boots, which I’d forgotten I ordered until they arrived this morning. I turn this way and that to show them off to Suze—then it hits me. Is this a hint?
“Suze, have them,” I say impulsively.
“Have them?”
“For Christmas!” I start tugging one off. “Try them on!”
“No! I’m not having your brand-new boots that you’ve never even worn!” says Suze, almost crossly. “Put that back on, Bex. We should get going. What are you going to do with your cake?”
“Dunno,” I admit, squirming my foot back into its boot.
“That’s a cake?” says Luke in astonishment, peering at the misshapen pile of sponge and buttercream on the counter. “I thought—” He stops himself. “I mean, Minnie will love it, whatever.”
“Put it in the freezer,” advises Suze. “Then make some more buttercream and pile it on top. You can’t have too much buttercream. And spray it with edible glitter,” she adds airily. “It’ll be fine. Come on, let’s go.”
* * *
—
I’ve been really looking forward to visiting a packaging-free shop—and as I walk into Waste Not Foods, I feel a blinding revelation. This is where we should shop. All the time! Here!
I mean, look at it. There are rustic wooden boxes filled with earthy potatoes and carrots. There are eggs with feathers still on them. And there are loads of big glass jars, like in old-fashioned sweets shops, filled with nuts and oats and stuff like that. You just help yourself! It’s genius!
“Hi,” says a girl behind the till. She has a nose ring and hair tied up with twine and is wearing one of those brown linen artist-type tops that I always half-want to buy but that actually make me look like a sack.
Not that she looks like a sack.
I mean, OK, she does a tiny bit, but she probably doesn’t mind looking like a sack.
“Hi!” I beam at her. “Fab shop!”
There are festive brown burlap stockings hung up by the door, each containing a fair-trade chocolate bar wrapped in recycled paper, an eco–coffee cup, and a copy of a book called How We’re All Doomed. I am so coming back