so we break off our conversation. And I’m just reaching for my napkin when my phone bleeps with a text. I glance at it to see if it’s Luke making any more shopping orders—but as I read it, I clap my hand over my mouth.
“No way,” I say, when I can find my voice.
“What?” says Suze.
“It’s Janice,” I say, and turn my phone round so the others can both read it:
Can’t wait for Minnie’s birthday tea, Becky love, and I’ll be bringing my new friend, Flo, if that’s OK. Love, Janice xxx
From: Anders Halvorsen
To: Becky Brandon
Subject: Re:Re:Re: An exciting new word for your dictionary—“sprygge”!
Dear Mrs. Brandon, née Bloomwood:
Thank you for your email.
Your definition of “sprygge” means nothing to me.
I do not recollect any old Norse “sprygge” myths, as you suggest, nor any “rhymes learned at my mother’s knee,” nor any jokes involving the word “sprygge.”
I must reiterate my previous answer: that I cannot put “sprygge” into the Norwegian National Dictionary. Thank you for your offer of a T-shirt reading “We’ll always have sprygge,” which I decline.
Yours sincerely,
Anders Halvorsen
Editor
Norwegian National Dictionary
I mean, basically Janice is declaring war. I know that sounds extreme, but that’s what it is: bringing a new friend onto our territory. She knows Mum will be there. She knows there’s tension between them. She’s doing this to stir up trouble.
Not that I have time to think about that right now, because I’m too busy piling buttercream onto Minnie’s birthday cake. I’ve made quite a lot. Like, two bowlfuls. I peer at the cake, which is still a bit wonky, and add another inch of buttercream. Then another. Then I think, Oh, sod it, and heap the rest up in the middle. As Suze said, you can’t have too much buttercream. And now it’s about a foot high and it looks fab.
Minnie has had a lovely birthday morning, happily opening all her cards and playing with her new monster truck and interactive fluffy kitten. (She saw it on a TV ad and begged for it, but I haven’t admitted that to Suze.) Now Suze and her children have arrived, and it’s mayhem. Minnie and Wilfie are running monster trucks up and down the sitting room floor, while Ernest plays a piece on the ancient piano (which came with the house and is totally out of tune). Meanwhile, Clemmie has found the “Jingle Bells” baubles and keeps setting them off at different times.
“That kitten is amazing!” says Suze, coming into the kitchen with Jess. “It purrs and drinks milk and everything! Where did you find it?”
“Oh…just came across it,” I say vaguely. “I looked for a sustainable wooden version, obviously,” I add quickly, glancing at Jess. “At Sustainable Wood Toys Dot Com. But they didn’t have one. Shame.”
“The toy industry has a lot to answer for,” replies Jess austerely.
“And you know something? Minnie still wants a hamper for Christmas,” I inform Suze, trying not to sound smug. “I asked her last night. That’s all she wants, a picnic hamper. I knew she wouldn’t swerve.”
“Don’t be so complacent,” says Suze, rolling her eyes. “There’s still time for a major swerve.”
“No, there isn’t.” I glare at her. “Don’t freak me out.”
“Christmas is still weeks away. Loads of time for a swerve.” Suze puts on a childish, breathless voice. “ ‘Mummy, all I want is a talking mermaid! If Father Christmas really loves me, that’s what he’ll bring me. He knows I’ve changed my mind, because he’s magic!’ ”
“Stop it. You’re just winding me up.”
“ ‘Does Father Christmas…not love me?’ ” continues Suze, in a broken, gulping voice. “ ‘Wasn’t I good, Mummy? Is that why he brought me this grotty old picnic hamper that I’ve lost all interest in?’ ”
“Shut up!” I can’t help giggling. “You’re evil!”
“Nice pinny, by the way,” says Suze, finally relenting and gesturing at my new festive apron.
“Oh,” I say, mollified. “D’you like it? I got it at the— Ooh!” I interrupt myself. “D’you want it for Christmas?”
“Bex, stop it!” Suze exclaims in exasperation. “Stop trying to give me all your new stuff! We’re giving each other Christmas presents from our own possessions,” she explains to Jess. “You know, to be non-consumerist and everything.”
“Sound idea.” Jess nods.
“Only Suze won’t even hint at what she wants,” I say reproachfully.
“In some cultures, if you admire another person’s possession, they immediately give it to you,” says Jess.
“Oh my God,” says Suze with a giggle. “Can you imagine? Bex and I would be constantly stripping off and swapping everything we own.