again. “Takings are up! Like, way up. This is our best year ever! It’s the sprygge effect,” she adds confidently.
“Really?” I say, distracted momentarily. “How do you know?”
“It’s all in the numbers! Sprygge is our star section! You’re so clever, inventing it, Bex!”
“Well, it was you who made all the products,” I point out.
“But you inspired me,” says Suze generously. “And we all sold them. So I thought everyone should have a bonus. And a present. I’ve got the Hotel Chocolat catalog. Come and have some coffee and help me choose nice things. Are you OK?” she adds, looking at me more closely. “You seem a bit…stressed.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Apart from…you know.”
“What?” she says, as though she has no idea.
“Christmas, of course!” I can’t help sounding just a tad resentful. Here am I, stressing about her row with Janice, and here Suze is, going on rafts and buying chocolate and behaving as though nothing’s wrong.
“Christmas will be OK, won’t it?” says Suze in surprise as we go into our tiny staff room.
“Not if no one’s talking to each other!”
“Oh, Bex, you’re overreacting,” says Suze, raising her eyes to heaven. “It’s only a spat. There’s always a spat at Christmas. One Christmas at my Uncle Mungo’s, things were so bad between some of my relations, it was all written out on the seating plan.”
“What was written out on the seating plan?”
“Who was talking to whom,” explains Suze. “And who wasn’t. My cousin Maud refused to even look at my Aunt Elspeth, so her chair had to face the other way. And my father had just tried to get Uncle Mungo excommunicated from the Church of Scotland, so Uncle Mungo threatened him with the carving knife. But it was fine,” she concludes comfortably. “Family stuff.”
“It doesn’t sound fine,” I say in horror. “It sounds awful! And I don’t want my Christmas to be like that. I want it to be harmonious. So I’m organizing a Christmas Eve bonding event.”
“A what?”
“A gingerbread-house-making party. Everyone has to come and wear Christmas sweaters and make up their differences. I’ll make hot chocolate and we’ll have a fire and—”
“Bex, you’re nuts,” interrupts Suze, and I stare at her, hurt. I thought she’d love the idea. “You look stressed out already,” she continues firmly. “You’re doing so much. Why on earth would you try to organize another thing? Just relax. It’ll all be OK.”
“What if it isn’t?” I shoot back—and I know I sound scratchy, but it hasn’t been the most wonderful day so far, and now here’s Suze, dissing my Christmas-movie idea. Also, I ordered twenty gingerbread-house kits on my phone on the way here.
“Bex,” says Suze. “Listen.” She takes a breath as though about to impart some advice—but before she can continue, Irene’s head appears round the door.
“Oh, Suze,” she says, sounding anxious. “There’s a customer here asking to see the manager. She’s asking about sprygge.”
“OK,” says Suze easily. “I’ll come out. What does she want to know?”
“Well, everything, really,” says Irene.
“Have you given her the spiel about ‘People say it comes from Norway’?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” says Irene, looking even more nervous. “She’s the Norwegian ambassador.”
I have never seen Suze more like a terrified cat. She practically leaps off her chair and stares at Irene, her eyes like plates.
“Norwegian?”
“The Norwegian ambassador.” Irene nods unhappily. “And she says she’s never heard of sprygge, and she wants to see the manager.”
“Oh God, oh God.” Suze looks faint. “Oh God. We’ll be prosecuted.” Her eyes dart toward the window as though she wants to climb out and escape—and I grab her arm.
“No, we won’t!” I say, more firmly than I feel. “People don’t get prosecuted for saying things are Norwegian. Come on. Let’s just go and…and say hello.”
As we emerge from the staff room, we see her at once—a well-dressed blond woman in a very cool parka. Suze looks as though she might run away any moment, so I nudge her in the ribs and she advances gingerly, holding out her hand.
“Hello,” she says to the woman, in a quaking voice. “And welcome to Letherby Hall Gift Shop. I am Susan Cleath-Stuart, manager and proprietor of…” She swallows. “How may I…um…”
“My name is Karina Gunderson,” says the woman in cool, pleasant tones. “I’m interested in your display.” She gestures at the sprygge table. “The assistant says it’s supposed to be Norwegian?”
Suze seems unable to answer. She opens her mouth and closes it again, shooting desperate looks at me.