seeing Minnie’s costume,” says Luke with relish. “I’ve seen you put in all those hours of work, Becky,” he adds before I can reply, “and I hope Minnie knows how lucky she is to have you. Because I do,” he adds gently. And there’s something about his warm, loving expression that makes me catch my breath. “I’ve brought my camera,” he adds more matter-of-factly, taking it out. “Thought the occasion warranted it.”
Luke hardly ever brings that camera. It’s the high-spec one he uses for special moments, when he thinks his phone isn’t good enough. And suddenly my throat feels clogged.
“Luke,” I say into his ear. “I need to tell you something. Minnie…” I swallow. “Well, she won’t be in the costume I made. I gave it to another child to wear.”
“What?” Luke freezes in shock. “You gave it— Why?”
“Shh!” I try to hush him. “They needed it. It’s…there’s a story. It was the right thing to do.”
Luke is still staring at me in disbelief. “So what’s Minnie going to wear?”
“It’s fine. I cobbled something together. She doesn’t mind.”
“But do you mind?” says Luke at once—and I can’t quite answer. I thought I wouldn’t mind at all. But sitting here in the hubbub of anticipation, it’s hard not to feel just a tiny bit…
Anyway. It’s fine.
Luke is silent for a moment, gazing at me with his dark eyes.
“You worked every night on that costume, Becky,” he says at last, his voice so low I can barely hear. “It meant so much to you.”
“I know.” I hesitate. “But I’m very lucky. And they’re not so lucky. I can’t say any more than that.”
Luke doesn’t reply but takes my hand and squeezes it tight. And I think: I am lucky. Whatever else goes wrong, I’m lucky.
* * *
—
Although half an hour later I’m not feeling quite so lucky. I’m sure improvisation is great for creativity and all that. But it’s really, really bad for putting on a children’s Nativity play.
The story is all over the place. Some children have obviously been coached by their parents, whereas others clearly have no idea what they’re doing. One has started crying, and one has told the Angel Gabriel he needs the toilet.
My legs are numb, sitting on this plastic chair. We seem to have been watching this play forever. Jesus has been born, and the shepherds (including Wilfie and Clemmie) have been and gone, and everyone’s sung “Away in a Manger” and “Let It Go.” (Huh?) But now all the children seem a bit stuck.
“We have nowhere else to stay,” intones Mary, mournfully clutching the plastic baby Jesus in her lap. “There are no hotels.”
She’s said that line about thirty times.
“The donkey is tired,” ventures Joseph, although the donkey left the stable twenty minutes ago and changed costume into an angel.
“We have nowhere else to stay,” says Mary a bit desperately. “There are no hotels.”
“Kings!” I can see Miss Lucas hissing and beckoning enthusiastically. “Kings! Come on!”
A moment later Minnie and two boys walk onto the stage, all dressed up in their bright shiny costumes. The audience is so calcified with boredom that everyone seems to wake up, and wild applause breaks out, as though the three kings are celebrities appearing in a pantomime.
I can’t help gazing wistfully at Harvey, because he looks amazing. The midnight-blue silk is spectacular, and the gold sequins are gleaming under the lights, and even his casket is all iridescent and magnificent.
But Minnie looks good, too, I tell myself defensively. In more of a bohemian, thrown-together way. At once she beams and waves at us, looking delighted to be the center of attention.
“I have myrrh for the baby Jesus,” announces the first king in a monotone. He’s a stolid boy called George, who clearly has had his line drummed into him by his mum.
“I have frankincense for the baby Jesus,” says Harvey, enunciating clearly and sending a sweet smile to the audience.
And now it’s Minnie’s turn. I’m quite nervous, I suddenly realize. My daughter, onstage in a play! I glance at Luke, and he grins back.
I can see Minnie peering at Harvey’s glittery casket—the one I made for her and which we practiced with at home—then at her own box with the golden “G”s. She frowns, looking confused, draws breath, then pauses.
“I have Gucci,” she says at last. “For the baby Jesus.” At once there’s a series of snorts along our row.
“Gucci?” says Luke, beside me. “Myrrh, frankincense, and Gucci?”
“Gold!” I mouth desperately at her, hoping she can