I come to her rescue and approach Karina Gunderson in my most confident manner. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, the member of staff who first brought the sprygge concept to the store. Sprygge for us is an overpowering form of happiness and well-being. It’s radiant and joyful.” I spread my arms. “Euphoric and sublime. Yet complex. Yet in other ways, simple.”
I smile at Karina, hoping that we’ve wrapped up the subject of sprygge, but she seems unmoved.
“Yet not Norwegian,” she says. “As you claim.”
“I don’t think we’ve exactly claimed that,” I say after thinking for a moment. “Have we, Suze? What we’ve said is that some people think it originates from Norway.”
“Which people?” asks Karina Gunderson at once.
“I don’t think we specify which people,” I say after another pause for thought. “Just, you know, some people.”
“Exactly,” says Suze, finding her voice. “Some people.”
“Some people,” affirms Irene eagerly.
“Which is true,” I add in casual tones. “So.”
There’s a long silence. Karina Gunderson’s unreadable blue eyes are resting on me, making me feel a tad uncomfortable.
“Although obviously some people don’t,” I say, suddenly thinking of a way out. “There’s another school of thought that believes it’s, um…Finnish.”
“Exactly.” I avoid her eye. “It’s one of the big unanswered questions in life. Whither sprygge?” I allow myself a small dramatic flourish. “Research hasn’t confirmed the truth one way or another. But while the sprygge debate rages on in journals and…other places, we in our humble way simply want to bring happiness to the world. Through cushions and other gift products.”
“The mugs are popular,” adds Irene nervously. “Very popular, aren’t they, Becky? And the wall signs sold out.”
“Please have a complimentary mug,” says Suze in a rush, picking up a mug and proffering it. “Or…not,” she adds as Karina Gunderson makes no move to take it. “Either way.”
She looks at me and winces, and there’s another long, prickly pause. I can’t quite tell if Karina Gunderson is going to smile or call the police.
“Actually,” I continue cautiously, “here’s a funny coincidence. We’ve recently considered suspending the sale of sprygge products until the research on its origins has been concluded one way or the other. Haven’t we, Suze? And that might be wise. All things, um, considered.”
“Yes,” says Karina Gunderson. “It might.” She takes the mug from Suze and looks at it, her mouth twitching. “ ‘Don’t worry, be sprygge,’ ” she reads aloud, her tone giving nothing away. She gives us all a long look—then turns to Suze. “Goodbye. Your house is very beautiful.”
“Oh! Goodbye, then!” says Suze, her relief so obvious I want to laugh. We all watch as Karina Gunderson makes her way out of the store, then Suze collapses in my arms.
“Oh my God,” she says.
“I know.” I hug her back. “Don’t worry, she’s gone.”
“Bex, we have to stop this,” says Suze fervently. “Sprygge has to end. Right here, right now. Or we really are going to get into trouble.”
“I hate to say it,” I say sorrowfully, “but I agree. How much stock is left?”
“Not much,” says Irene. “Only ten mugs or so, three cushions, a few key rings…”
“Well, we’ll keep them as souvenirs,” says Suze, sounding resolute. “Everyone help yourself to what you want. But no more selling them. In fact—let’s get rid of the whole display.”
Irene starts gathering up the key rings and putting them into a cardboard box, while Suze and I pack away the mugs.
“It was fun, though, wasn’t it?” I say wistfully, pausing to run my finger along the words. “And now sprygge will never be in the Norwegian language.”
“I know, Bex,” says Suze, rolling her eyes. “But nor will we be in prison for fraud.”
* * *
—
Honestly. Suze always exaggerates. We were never going to go to prison. (Were we?) On the other hand, she’s ordered each of us a massive box of Hotel Chocolat truffles to celebrate the brief glory that was sprygge, so there’s always a silver lining.
She and I have both taken the afternoon off for the school Nativity play, and I decide to pop home beforehand. The temperature has plummeted, and as I look up at the solid white sky, I find myself thinking: Will it snow?
Maybe it will! I mean, why shouldn’t it? It’s got to snow sometime. Imagine if there’s a massive snowfall and it’ll be like we really are in a Christmas movie. We can make a snowman in the front garden and everyone will say, “D’you remember Becky’s Christmas? It