OK, CHRISTMAS DOESN’T COUNT. Everyone knows that.
You can’t expect a toddler to behave perfectly when it’s all so exciting and there are sweets and decorations everywhere. And it’s no wonder Minnie woke up at 3:00 a.m. and started yelling for everyone. She just wanted us all to see her stocking. Anyone else would have done the same.
Anyway, I’ve already torn out the first page of the Incident Book and shredded it. Everyone’s allowed to have a false start.
I take a sip of coffee and happily reach for a Quality Street chocolate. God, I love Christmas. The whole house smells of roasting turkey, carols are playing over the sound system, and Dad’s cracking nuts by the fire. I can’t help feeling a glow as I look round the sitting room: at the tree twinkling with lights and the nativity scene we’ve had since I was a child (we lost baby Jesus years ago, but we use a clothes-peg instead).
Little Minnie’s eyes when she saw her stocking this morning were like saucers. She just couldn’t take it in. She kept saying, “Stocking? Stocking?” in utter disbelief.
“Becky, love,” calls Mum. I head into the hall to see her at the door of the kitchen in her Santa apron. “Which Christmas crackers shall we have at lunch—novelty games or luxury gifts?”
“What about those ones you got from the German market?” I suggest. “With the little wooden toys inside.”
“Good idea!” Mum’s face brightens. “I’d forgotten about those.”
“Yup, I’ve got the paperwork here …” Luke heads past me toward the stairs, talking on his phone. “If you could run your eyes over the Sanderson agreement … Yup. I’ll be in the office by three. Just a few things to clear up here first. Cheers, Gary.”
“Luke!” I say indignantly as he switches off. “Christmas isn’t ‘a few things to clear up.’ ”
“I agree,” says Luke, not breaking his stride for a second. “Then again, it’s not Christmas.”
Honestly. Can’t he get into the spirit of it?
“Yes, it is.”
“In Bloomwood World, maybe. Everywhere else, it’s December twenty-eighth and people are getting on with their lives.”
He’s so literal.
“OK, maybe it’s not exactly Christmas Day,” I say crossly. “But it’s our second Christmas. It’s our special Christmas for Jess and Tom, and it’s just as important and you could try to be a bit festive!”
This whole two Christmases thing is fab. In fact, I think we should do it every year. It could be a family tradition.
“My love.” Luke pauses, halfway up the stairs, and starts counting off on his fingers. “One, it is not just as important. Two, I need to finalize this agreement today. Three, Tom and Jess aren’t even here yet.”
A text arrived from Jess and Tom overnight to say that their plane from Chile had been delayed. Since then, Janice has come across to our house approximately every twenty minutes to ask if we’ve heard anything, and could we possibly look online again, and have there been any reports of accidents or hijacks?
She’s even more hyper than usual, and we all know why: She’s desperately hoping that Tom and Jess have got engaged. Apparently Tom said in his last email that he had something to tell her. I heard her and Mum talking the other day, and Janice is obviously dying to hold another wedding. She’s got all sorts of new ideas for floral arrangements and the photos could be taken in front of the magnolia tree and it would “excise the memory of that ungrateful little harlot.” (Lucy. Tom’s first wife. Total cow, take it from me.)
“On the same subject, why on earth did Minnie get another stocking this morning?” adds Luke, lowering his voice. “Whose idea was that?”
“It was … Father Christmas’s idea,” I say a bit defiantly. “By the way, have you seen how good she’s being today?”
Minnie’s been helping Mum in the kitchen all morning and she’s been absolutely perfect, apart from a tiny moment with the electric mixer, which I won’t mention to Luke.
“I’m sure she is—” Luke begins, as the doorbell rings. “That can’t be them.” He consults his watch, looking puzzled. “They’re still in the air.”
“Is that Jess?” calls Mum excitedly from the kitchen. “Has anyone texted Janice?”
“It can’t be Jess yet!” I call back. “It must be Suze, arrived early.” I hurry to the front door and swing it open—and sure enough there’s the whole Cleath-Stuart family, looking like a photo spread from the Toast catalog.
Suze is stunning in a black shearling coat, her long blond hair streaming down; Tarquin is the same as ever, in an ancient old Barbour; and the three children are all gangly legs and huge eyes and Fair Isle sweaters.
“Suze!” I fling my arms round her.
“Bex! Happy Christmas!”
“Happy Christmas!” calls out Clemmie, sucking her thumb and holding on to Suze’s hand.
“And a happy you near!” chimes in Ernest, who is my godson and already has that bony, upper-class beanpole look going on. (“Happy you near” is an old Cleath-Stuart family saying. Like “Happy bad day” instead of “Happy birthday.” There are so many of them, they should issue a crib sheet.) He shoots an uncertain look up at Suze, who nods encouragingly—then he extends a formal hand to me, as though we’re meeting for the first time at the ambassador’s reception. I solemnly shake it, then scoop him up in a bear hug till he giggles.
“Suzie, dear! Merry Christmas!” Mum hurries into the hall and gives her a warm hug. “And Tark—” She stops in her tracks. “Lord …” She glances anxiously at me. “Your lordship … ness …”
“Ahm … please, Mrs. Bloomwood.” Tarkie has turned a bit pink. “Tarquin is fine.”
Tarkie’s grandfather died of pneumonia a couple of months ago. Which was really tragic and everything, but there again, he was ninety-six. Anyway, the point is, Tarkie’s dad inherited the title of earl—and Tarkie gets to be a lord! He’s Lord Tarquin Cleath-Stuart, which makes Suze “Lady.” It’s all so grown-up and posh I can hardly get my head round it. Plus, they now have even more squillions of money and land and stuff than they had before. Their new house is in Hampshire, only about half an hour away from here. It’s called Letherby Hall and it looks just like Brideshead Revisited. They don’t even live in it full time; they’ve got a place in Chelsea too.
You’d think Tarkie could stump up for a new scarf. He’s unwinding the most threadbare, ratty thing from around his neck—it looks like it was knitted by his old nanny twenty years ago. Well, it probably was.
“Did you get any nice Christmas presents, Tarkie?” I ask.
I’ve bought him this brillant aromatherapy diffuser thing, which I’m sure he’ll love. Well, Suze will love.
“Absolutely.” He nods fervently. “Suze bought me a rather wonderful merino tup. Such a surprise.”
“That sounds fab!” I exclaim. “Merino is so in right now. You should see the new John Smedley collection; you’d love it.”
“John Smedley?” Tarkie seems baffled. “I don’t know the name. Is he … a breeder?”
“The knitwear designer! You know, you could put a turtle-neck under your tux,” I say in sudden inspiration. “That’s a really cool look. Is it single-breasted?”
Tarkie looks totally at sea, and Suze gives a gurgle of laughter.
“Bex, I didn’t give him a tux. I gave him a tup. An uncastrated sheep.”
An uncastrated sheep? What kind of Christmas present is that?
“Oh, I see.” I try my hardest to summon some enthusiasm. “Of course. An uncastrated sheep! Er … lovely.”
“Don’t worry, I gave him a jacket too,” adds Suze, grinning at me.
“For when I’m out on my bike,” Tarkie chimes in. “It’s absolutely super, darling.”
I already know better than to say, “Oh, cool, a Belstaff?” Tarkie doesn’t mean “bike” like most people mean “bike.” Sure enough, Suze is scrolling through pictures on her phone and turns it to show me a photo of Tarkie in a tweed jacket, perched on a vintage penny-farthing. He’s got loads of antique bikes—in fact, sometimes he even lends them to TV companies as props and advises on the way they were ridden in the olden days. (The only thing is, the people don’t always listen. And then Tarkie sees the show on TV and they’re doing it wrong and he gets all depressed.)
“Why don’t all the children come into the kitchen for some squash and biscuits.” Mum is rounding up Ernest, Clementine, and Wilfrid like a mother hen. “Where’s Minnie? Minnie, darling, come and see your friends!”
Like a fireball, Minnie rockets into the hall from the kitchen, dressed in her scarlet Christmas dress, the sparkly red pom-pom hat, and a pair of pink fairy wings which she’s refused to take off since finding them in her stocking.
“Ketchup!” she cries triumphantly, and aims the bottle at Suze’s gorgeous coat.
My heart freezes.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no. How did she get hold of that? We always put it on the top shelf now, ever since …
“Minnie, no. No.” I make a swipe for the ketchup, but she dodges me. “Minnie, give it to me. Don’t you dare—”
“Ketchup!” The stream of red is streaking through the air before I can even react.
“Nooo!”
“Minnie!”
“Suze!”
It’s like Apocalypse Now; I see the whole thing as if in slow motion. Suze gasping and shrinking back, and Tarquin diving in front of her, and the ketchup landing in a massive blob on his Barbour.
I don’t dare look at Luke.
“Give that to me!” I grab the ketchup out of Minnie’s hand. “Naughty girl! Suze, Tarkie, I’m so sorry …”
“I do apologize for our daughter’s terrible behavior,” chimes in Luke, a meaningful edge to his voice.
“Oh, no problem,” says Suze. “I’m sure she did it by accident, didn’t you, darling?” She ruffles Minnie’s hair.
“Absolutely,” chimes in Tarkie. “No harm done. If I could just …” He gestures awkwardly at the tomato ketchup, which is dripping down the front of his Barbour.
“Of course!” I hastily take his Barbour from him. “Well dived, Tarkie,” I can’t help adding admiringly. “You were really quick.”
“Oh, it was nothing.” He looks abashed. “Any decent chap would have done it.”
It just goes to show how devoted Tarquin is to Suze. He dived in front of her without a moment’s hesitation. It’s quite romantic, actually.
I wonder if Luke would take a hit of tomato ketchup for me. I might ask him later. Just casually.
“Luke,” says Tarquin, a little diffidently, as they shake hands. “Wondered if I could pick your brains about something?”
“No problem.” Luke looks surprised. “Shall we go into the sitting room?”
“I’ll take the children into the kitchen and sort out this Barbour …” Mum takes it from me.
“And, Bex, you can show me all the stuff you got at the sales!” says Suze excitedly. “I mean … er … talk about the children,” she amends hastily as I give her a surreptitious kick.
AS WE SPRAWL on my bed and I start unpacking all the stuff I bought on Boxing Day, it feels like old times, when Suze and I used to share a flat in Fulham.
“This is what I’m wearing at the christening.” I shake out my brand-new Russian-style dress.
“Fantastic!” says Suze, as she tries on my new leather jacket. “Even better than the picture.”
I texted Suze a few photos from the sales, and she gave me her opinions. And in return she sent me some photos of her and Tarkie grouse-beating, or pigeon-shooting, or whatever they were doing. Suze is so sweet and loyal, just like the queen, she never once complains. But, honestly, where would you rather be? On some freezing cold moor or in Selfridges with 70 percent off?
“And … ta-daah!”
I pull out my prize purchase: my Ally Smith limited-edition cardigan with the famous signature button.
“Oh my God!” squeaks Suze. “Where did you get that? Was it on sale?”
“Sixty percent off! Only a hundred and ten pounds.”
“Look at the button.” Suze reaches out and strokes it lustfully.
“Isn’t it great?” I beam back happily. “I’m going to wear it so much, it’ll easily pay for itself—”
The door opens and Luke comes in.
“Oh, hi.” Instinctively, before I quite realize I’m doing it, I push one of my sale bags under the bed.
It’s not that he disapproves, exactly. I mean, it’s my money, I earned it, I can do what I like with it. It’s just that when Mum and I were up at 7:00 a.m. on Boxing Day, ready to hit the sales, Luke looked at us in bafflement, then looked at all the presents still under the tree, and then said, “Didn’t you get enough stuff yesterday?”
Which just shows how little he understands about anything. Christmas presents and the sales are totally different. They’re like … different food groups.
“Bex got the most amazing bargains at the sales,” says Suze supportively. “Don’t you love her new cardigan?”
Luke looks at the cardigan. He turns and studies me for a moment—then the cardigan again. Then he frowns as though something is puzzling him.
“How much was it?”
“A hundred and ten,” I say defensively. “Sixty percent off. It’s designer, limited edition.”
“So … you’ve just spent a hundred and ten pounds on a cardigan which is exactly the same as the one you’re wearing.”
“What?” I glance down at myself in bemusement. “Of course I haven’t. It’s nothing like it.”
“It’s identical!”
“No, it isn’t! How can you say that?”
There’s a short pause. We’re staring at each other as though to say, “Have I married a lunatic?”
“They’re both pale cream.” Luke ticks off on his fingers. “They both have one large button. They’re both cardigans. Identical.”
“But the button’s in a different place,” I explain. “It changes the whole shape. And this one has flared sleeves. They’re nothing like each other, are they, Suze?”
“Completely different.” Suze nods fervently.
It’s obvious from his expression that Luke doesn’t get it. Sometimes I wonder how someone so unobservant can be so successful in life.
“And this button’s red,” adds Suze helpfully.
“Exactly!” I point to the oversize button with trademark Ally Smith crystals. “That’s the whole point of the piece, this amazing button. It’s like … a signature.”
“So you spent a hundred quid on a button.”
God, he’s annoying sometimes.
“It’s an investment,” I inform him frostily. “I was just saying to Suze, I’ll wear it so many times, it’ll totally pay for itself.”
“How many would that be? Twice?”
I stare at him with utter indignation.
“Of course not twice. I’ll probably wear it …” I think a moment, trying to be absolutely realistic. “A hundred times. So each time will cost one pound ten. I think I can afford one pound ten for a designer classic of its time, don’t you?”
Luke makes a kind of snorting noise. “Becky, have you ever worn anything a hundred times? I’ll count it a success if you wear it once.”
Oh, ha-di-ha.
“I bet you I’ll wear it a hundred times. At least.” Determinedly, I shrug off my cardigan and start pulling on the Ally Smith one. “You see? I’ve already worn it once.”
I’ll show him. I’ll wear it a thousand times.
“I must go, Tarquin’s waiting for me.” Luke shoots Suze a quizzical look. “Quite a business you’ve inherited.”
“Oh, I know,” says Suze. “Poor Tarkie was getting in a state about it, so I said, ‘Ask Luke, he’ll know what to do.’ ”
“Well, I’m glad you did.” Luke has been rifling in his cabinet for some papers. He bangs it shut and heads out again. “See you later.”
“What was that about?” I say, puzzled. “What business?”
“Oh, it’s this Shetland Shortbread thing,” says Suze vaguely. “It’s quite a big deal, and now it belongs to us …”
Hang on a minute. Rewind.
“You own Shetland Shortbread?” I stare at her in amazement. “Those red tins you can buy in Waitrose?”
“Exactly!” says Suze brightly. “It’s really scrummy. They make it on one of the farms.”
I’m flabbergasted. What else does Suze suddenly now own? Chocolate HobNobs? Kit Kats?
Ooh, that would be cool. I wonder how many free ones she’d get. Maybe … a box a year?
No, that’s ridiculous. It would be at least ten boxes a year, wouldn’t it?
AFTER I’VE SHOWN SUZE all my clothes, I pop downstairs and make some coffee and check that the children are OK. I come back up to find Suze wandering around the cluttered room and picking over my stuff, like she always does. She looks up, holding a pile of old photos which I’ve been meaning to put in albums. “Bex, I can’t believe you’re moving out of here at last. It seems like you’ve been here forever.”
“It has been forever. Two whole years!”
“What did your mum and dad say?”
“I haven’t told them yet.” I glance at the door and lower my voice. “I think they’ll really miss us when we’re gone. In fact … I’m a bit worried how they’ll take it.”
The truth is, Mum and Dad have got used to having us around. Especially Minnie. Every time one of our house purchases fell through, they were secretly glad, Mum once told me.
“God, of course.” Suze’s face crumples anxiously. “They’ll be devastated. Your poor mum will need loads of support. Maybe you can fix up some counseling!” she adds in sudden inspiration. “I bet they have empty-nest workshops or something.”
“I do feel guilty.” I sigh. “But we can’t stay here forever, can we? I mean, we need our own space.”
“Of course you do,” says Suze supportively. “Don’t worry, your parents will come to terms with it. So come on, show me the house! What’s it like? What does it need doing to it?”
“Well, it doesn’t really need anything done to it,” I confess, as I hand her the details. “It’s been decorated by a developer.”
“Eight bedrooms!” Suze raises her eyebrows. “Wow!”
“I know. It’s amazing! It’s so much bigger inside than it looks. And it’s all been freshly painted and everything. But still, we should put our stamp on it, shouldn’t we?”
“Oh, definitely.” Suze nods wisely.
Suze is so much more with it than Luke, who, by the way, hasn’t even been inside the place. I told him we needed to put our stamp on it and he said, “Why can’t we be happy with someone else’s stamp?”
“I’ve already made loads of plans,” I tell her enthusiastically. “Like, in the hall I thought we could have a really cool hat stand with a single studded Alexander Wang bag hanging from it. It would make such a statement.” I scrabble under the bed for the sketch I’ve done and show it to her.
“Wow,” breathes Suze. “That looks amazing. Have you got an Alexander Wang bag?”
“I’d have to buy one,” I explain. “And next to it, maybe a console table accessorized with some Lara Bohinc jewelry?”
“I love Lara Bohinc!” says Suze enthusiastically. “Have you got some of her stuff? You never showed me!”
“No, well, I’d have to buy some of that too. But, I mean, it wouldn’t be for me, would it?” I add hurriedly at her expression. “It would be for the house.”
For a moment Suze just looks at me. It’s the same look she gave me when I wanted us to set ourselves up as telephone fortunetellers. (Which I still think was a good idea.)
“You want to buy a bag and jewelry for your house?” she says at last.
“Yes! Why not?”
“Bex, no one buys a bag and jewelry for their house.”
“Well, maybe they should! Maybe their houses would look better if they did! And, anyway, don’t worry, I’m going to buy a sofa too.” I chuck a load of interiors magazines at her. “Go on, find me a nice one.”
Half an hour later, the bed is littered with interiors magazines and we’re both lying in silence, wallowing in pictures of amazing oversize orange velvet sofas and staircases with built-in lights and kitchens with polished granite mixed with reclaimed wood doors. The trouble is, I want my house to look like all of them. All at once.
“You’ve got a massive basement!” Suze is looking at the house details again. “What’s that going to be?”
“Good question!” I look up. “I think it should be a gym. But Luke wants to store his boring old wine there and do wine tastings.”
“Wine tastings?” Suze pulls a face. “Oh, have a gym. We could do Pilates together!”
“Exactly! It would be so cool! But Luke’s got all this valuable old wine in storage, and he’s really excited about getting it out again.”
That’s one thing I’ll never understand about Luke: his love of zillion-pound wine, when you could buy a really nice pinot grigio for a tenner and spend the rest on a skirt.
“So, there’s one bedroom for you and Luke …” Suze is still perusing the details. “One for Minnie …”
“One for clothes.”
“One for shoes?”
“Definitely. And one for makeup.”
“Ooh!” Suze looks up with interest. “A makeup room! Did Luke agree to that?”
“I’m going to call it the library,” I explain.
“But that still leaves three bedrooms.” Suze lifts her eyebrows significantly at me. “Any plans to … fill them up?”
You see? This is why I should have married Suze. She understands me.
“I wish.” I heave a sigh. “But guess what? Luke doesn’t want another baby.”
“Really?” Suze looks taken aback. “How come?”
“He says Minnie’s too wild and we can’t cope with two and we should just enjoy what we’ve got. He won’t budge.” I hunch my shoulders gloomily and flick through an article on antique baths.
“Could you just … jump him?” Suze says after a while. “And forget to take your pill accidentally-on-purpose and pretend it was a mistake? He’ll love the baby when it arrives.”
I can’t pretend this idea hasn’t crossed my mind. Secretly. But I couldn’t do it.
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to trap him. I want him to want another baby.”
“Maybe he’ll change his mind at the christening.” Suze’s eyes brighten. “You know, it was at Ernie’s christening that we decided to have another one. Ernie looked so adorable, and we thought how lovely it would be to give him a brother or sister, so we decided to go for it. Of course, we ended up with two more,” she adds as an afterthought. “But that won’t happen to you.”
“Maybe.” I’m silent a moment, gearing myself up for the big question. I don’t want to ask it. But I have to be brave. “Suze … can you be honest with me about something? Really, truly honest?”
“OK,” she says a bit apprehensively. “But not if it’s about how many times a week we have sex.”
What? Where did that come from? OK, now I instantly want to know how many times she has sex. It must be never. Or maybe all the time. God, I bet it’s all the time. I bet she and Tarkie …
Anyway.
“It’s not sex.” I force myself to return to the topic. “It’s … do you think Minnie’s spoiled?”
I can already feel myself wincing with trepidation. What if she says yes? What if my best friend thinks Minnie’s a monster? I’ll be totally mortified.
“No!” says Suze at once. “Of course Minnie’s not spoiled! She’s lovely. She’s just a bit … feisty. But that’s good! No children are perfect.”
“Yours are,” I say morosely. “Nothing ever goes wrong with them.”
“Oh my God! Are you kidding?” Suze sits upright and discards the house details altogether. “We’re having such problems with Ernie. His teacher keeps calling us in. He’s hopeless at everything except German, and they don’t even teach German.”
“Oh, Suze,” I say sympathetically.
I don’t need to ask why Ernie speaks German so well. Tarquin thinks Wagner is the only music worth listening to, and he plays it to all his children, every night. Don’t get me wrong, Ernie is my godson and I love him to bits. But last time I visited, he told me the whole story of something called the Something Singers and it went on for hours and I nearly seized up with boredom.
“I’ve got to go and see the headmistress,” Suze continues, looking upset. “What am I going to do if she asks him to leave?”
Forgetting all about my own problems, I put an arm round her shoulders and squeeze, feeling incensed. How dare anyone upset Suze? And who are these morons, anyway? I’ve seen Ernie’s school when I’ve gone with Suze to pick him up. It’s very snooty, with lilac blazers, and costs a million pounds a term or something, and they don’t even include lunches. They’re probably too busy counting the fees to appreciate real talent.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say robustly. “And if they don’t want Ernie, then it’s obviously a rubbish school.”
If I ever see that headmistress, I’ll give her my opinion, very pointedly. I’m Ernie’s godmother, after all. In fact, maybe I should go along to the meeting at the school and express my views. I’m about to suggest this to Suze, when she slaps her hand on the bed.
“I know, Bex! I’ve got it. You should get a nanny.”
“A nanny?” I stare at her.
“Who looks after Minnie when you’re at work? Still your mum?”
I nod. Since my maternity leave ended, I’ve worked two and a half days a week at The Look, where I’m a personal shopper. While I’m there, Mum looks after Minnie, which is brilliant because I can just leave her in the kitchen, having her breakfast, and she hardly even notices when I go.
“Does your mum take her to playgroup?”
I make a face. “Not really.”
Mum’s not into playgroups. She went to Tick Tock once, had a disagreement with a fellow grandmother about who’s the best Miss Marple on TV, and never went back.
“So what do they do?”
“Well, it varies,” I say vaguely. “They do lots of educational stuff …”
This is a slight fib. As far as I can tell, the program never varies. They go shopping and have tea at the Debenhams café, then come home and watch Disney videos.
God, maybe Suze is right. Maybe Minnie needs more routine. Maybe that’s what’s wrong.
“A nanny will knock her into shape,” says Suze confidently. “Plus she’ll organize her meals and washing and everything, and Luke will see how smooth everything can be. And he’ll change his mind instantly. Trust me.”
I knew Suze would have the answer. This is the solution. A nanny!
I have an image of a cross between Mary Poppins and Mrs. Doubtfire, all cozy with an apron and a spoonful of sugar and lots of wise, homespun words. The whole place will be calm and smell of baking bread. Minnie will become an angel child who wears a pinafore and sits quietly, making constructive Play-Doh, and Luke will instantly drag me off to bed and ravish me.
I mean, it would be worth it just for the ravishing.
“Everyone’s using Ultimate Nannies at the moment. They’re the latest thing.” Suze has already opened up my laptop and found the website. “Have a look. I’ll pop down and check on the children.”
I take the laptop from her and find myself looking at a website called Ultimate Nannies: raising well-balanced, accomplished children who will be the successes of tomorrow.
My jaw sags slightly as I scroll down. Bloody hell. These nannies don’t look anything like Mrs. Doubtfire. They look like Elle Macpherson. They’ve all got perfect teeth and perfect abs and intelligent-looking smiles.
Our modern, trained nannies are loving, trustworthy, and educated. They will take full control of your child’s routine and cook a balanced menu. They will stimulate your child’s development—physically, emotionally, and intellectually. Ultimate Nannies are highly qualified in child nutrition, safety, cultural enrichment, and creative play. Many are fluent in French or Mandarin and/or offer instruction in music, Kumon math, martial arts, or ballet.
I feel totally inadequate as I scroll through pictures of smiley girls with long shiny hair cooking vegetable risottos, bouncing balls in the garden, or dressed up in judo kit. No wonder Minnie has tantrums. It’s because no one’s doing martial arts or making sushi with her. All this time I’ve totally deprived her. Suddenly, making jam tarts in the kitchen with Mum seems totally lame. We don’t even make the pastry ourselves; we get it out of a packet. We have to hire an Ultimate Nanny, as soon as possible.
The only thing is—tiny point—do I want some shiny-haired girl dancing around the place in her tight jeans and sushi-making apron? What if she and Luke really hit it off? What if he wants “martial arts” lessons too?
I hesitate for a moment, my hand hovering over the mouse pad. Come on. I have to be mature here. I have to think of the benefits to Minnie. I have to remember that I have a loving, faithful husband and last time I thought he was playing around with a shiny-red-haired girl whose name I won’t even deign to remember (you see, Venetia? That’s how little you mean to me), I’d got it all wrong.
Plus, if the nanny is really sexy and swishy-haired, I can arrange her hours so Luke never sees her. Seized by determination, I fill in the form and press Send. This is the answer! Bring in the experts. The only person I’ll have to talk round is Mum. She’s not keen on nannies. Or day care. Or even babysitters. But that’s only because she watches too many real-life dramas about evil nutcase nannies. I mean, not every nanny can be a stalker impersonating a dead woman with the FBI on her tail, surely?
And doesn’t she want her grandchild to be accomplished and well balanced? Doesn’t she want Minnie to be a success of tomorrow?
Exactly.
AS I HEAD DOWNSTAIRS, I find Suze with Luke and Tarquin in the sitting room. There’s an empty coffeepot and a massive mound of paperwork on the table, and they’ve obviously been hard at it.
“You have to think of Shetland Shortbread as a brand,” Luke is saying. “You’re sitting on something that could be a huge global success, but you need to raise its profile. Find a story, a personality, a USP, an angle. Establish your brand values.” He looks all fired up and enthusiastic, the way he always does when he can see potential in a new project.
Tarquin, on the other hand, looks like a rabbit caught in headlights.
“Absolutely,” he says nervously. “Brand values. Ahm … Suze, darling, Luke’s been terribly helpful. We can’t thank you enough.”
“Really, it’s nothing.” Luke claps him on the shoulder. “But you need to sort yourself out, Tarquin. Build an effective business team, strategize, and go from there.”
I stifle a giggle. Even I know that Tarquin isn’t the strategizing sort.
“I’ll read those contracts for you and give you my take on them.” Luke picks up his BlackBerry. “I know your people have approved them, but as I said, I think you can do better.”
“Really, Luke,” protests Tarquin feebly. “You’ve given me far too much time and expertise already—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Luke shoots him a brief smile and switches his BlackBerry on.
Tarquin’s bony face is growing flushed. He shoots an agonized glance at Suze, twists his hands, and clears his throat.
“Luke, I know you have your own company,” he suddenly blurts out. “But I’d be delighted to offer you a job. Business manager of the entire estate, all my concerns. Any salary. Any terms.”
“A job?” Luke looks taken aback.
“Oh yes!” Suze claps her hands with enthusiasm. “Brilliant idea! That would be amazing. We could provide accommodation too, couldn’t we?” she adds to Tarkie. “The little castle in Perthshire would be perfect! I mean, not nearly as nice as your house in Maida Vale,” she adds loyally. “But as a second home?”
“Any terms?” says Luke slowly.
“Yes,” replies Tarquin after only a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll do it for sixty percent of all gross revenues,” Luke shoots back.
There’s a stunned silence. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is Luke seriously considering giving up Brandon Communications to run the Cleath-Stuart estate?
Would we live in a castle?
Oh my God. We’d be a clan. We could have our own tartan! Hot pink with silver and black. It would be the “McBloomwood of Brandon” tartan, and we’d do Scottish dancing and Luke would wear a sporran …
“I … ahm …” Tarquin glances wildly at Suze. “Ahm. That seems … reasonable—”
“Tarquin!” Luke practically explodes. “Of course sixty percent is not bloody reasonable! And that is why you need a new business adviser you can trust, and that is why I’m setting up a meeting for you with some consultants I can highly recommend, and I’m coming along to make sure you understand everything—” He taps at his BlackBerry, then stops as it starts buzzing like an angry bee. “Sorry, a few messages coming in …” He peers at the screen, his face jolts in surprise, and he taps something back.
“I knew Luke would never really say yes.” Suze makes a rueful face at me. “He’d never abandon his business.”
“I know.” I nod, although secretly I feel a bit let down. I’d already mentally moved to a Scottish castle and called our second baby Morag.
“Well, you must please let me buy you a titchy,” Tarquin is saying to Luke in those posh, stilted tones of his. “Or lunch? Or could I offer you a weekend’s shooting? Or … or … a summer in our house in France? Or—”
“Jesus Christ,” Luke suddenly says in a low voice. He seems stunned by whatever he’s reading on the BlackBerry.
“What?” I say, alert. “What is it?”
Luke looks up and for the first time seems to realize that we’re all watching him.
“Nothing.” He puts on the smooth smile which means he’s not about to discuss it. “Becky, I must go. I’ll be late tonight, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t go!” I say in dismay. “What about our second Christmas? What about Jess and Tom?”
“Give them my love.” He’s already out of the room.
“What’s up?” I call after him. “What’s the crisis?” But he doesn’t answer, and a moment later I hear the front door bang.
“Who’s that at the door?” Mum’s voice travels down the corridor. “Is somebody there?”
“It’s only Luke,” I call back. “He’s got to go in to work; there’s been an emergency—”
“No, it’s not!” I can hear the front door opening and Dad’s voice raised. “Jess! Tom! Welcome!”
Jess is here? Oh my God!
I hurry into the hall, followed by Suze, and there she is. As tall and thin and toned as ever, with a deep tan and cropped hair bleached by the sun, in a gray hoody over faded black jeans.
“Becky.” She hugs me, dropping her mammoth rucksack. “Good to see you. We just saw Luke rushing off. Hi, Suze.”
“Welcome back! Hi, Tom!”
“Has anyone texted Janice?” Mum hurries out of the kitchen. “Does Janice know?”
“I’ll call over the fence,” says Dad. “Much quicker than sending a text.”
“Quicker than a text?” retorts Mum. “Nonsense! Texts are instant, Graham. It’s called modern technology.”
“You think you could send a text more quickly than I could call over the fence?” scoffs Dad. “I’d like to see you try. By the time you get your phone out—”
“By the time you’ve walked across, I’ll have sent the text!” Mum’s already whipped her phone out.
“Janice!” Dad yells as he hurries across the drive. “Janice, Tom is here! You see?” he calls back triumphantly to Mum. “Good old-fashioned instant communication. The human voice.”
“I’d forgotten what your parents are like,” says Tom in an amused undertone to me, and I grin back. He’s looking good. Edgier than before, unshaven and leaner round the cheeks. It’s as though he’s finally grown into his face. Plus he’s chewing gum, so the breath isn’t an issue. “Jane,” he adds, “I’m heading home anyway, so you really don’t need to text my mum—”
Mum ignores him. “You think texts are quicker, don’t you, Becky, love?” she says firmly as she taps on her phone. “You tell your father to stop living in the dark ages.”
But I don’t reply. I’m too transfixed by Jess’s left hand as she undoes her hoody zip. She’s wearing a ring! On her fourth finger! OK, it’s not exactly a Cartier solitaire. It’s made of bone or wood or something, with what looks like a tiny gray pebble set in it.
Still, it’s a ring! On her engagement finger!
I catch Suze’s eye, and she’s obviously noticed it too. This is so cool. Another family wedding! Minnie can be a bridesmaid!
“What is it?” Mum looks alertly from Suze to me. “What are you—Oh!” She suddenly notices the ring too.
Tom has disappeared and Jess is bending over her rucksack, oblivious to us. Mum starts mouthing something long and elaborate above Jess’s head. She repeats it several times, looking frustrated that we can’t understand. Then she starts gesturing, and I get a fit of the giggles.
“Come into the sitting room!” I manage to say to Jess. “Sit down. You must be exhausted.”
Mum nods. “I’ll make some tea.”
Trust Jess to get engaged all discreetly and not say a word. If it were me I’d have run straight in, saying, “Guess what? Look at my pebble ring!”
“Jess!” Janice’s high-pitched voice greets us as she arrives at the front door. Her hair is freshly dyed a virulent auburn, and she’s wearing mauve eye shadow, which matches her shoes and her bracelet. “Love! Welcome back!”
Her gaze falls instantly on Jess’s ring. Instantly. Her chin jerks up, and she inhales sharply, then catches Mum’s eye.
I’m going to erupt with laughter if I don’t get away. I follow Mum into the kitchen, where the children are all sitting in front of The Little Mermaid. We make the tea and cut the children some ham sandwiches, all the time whispering about the ring and when Jess and Tom are going to tell everyone.
“We must all act naturally,” Mum says, putting two bottles of champagne in the freezer to cool down quickly. “Pretend we haven’t noticed. Let them tell us in their own time.”
Yeah, right. As we enter the sitting room, Jess is on the sofa, apparently unaware of Janice, Martin, Dad, and Suze sitting in a semicircle opposite, all staring at her left hand as though it’s glowing radioactive. As I sit down, I glance out the window and see Tarquin with Ernie in the garden. Tarkie’s making weird lunging gestures with his arms, which Ernie is copying beside him. I nudge Suze and say in an undertone, “I didn’t know Tarkie did tai chi. He’s really good!”
Suze swivels round and peers out the window. “That’s not tai chi! They’re practicing fly-fishing.”
Both Tarkie and Ernie look totally absorbed—in fact, they make a really sweet sight, like a father bear teaching its baby cub to hunt on a TV nature documentary. (Except for the tiny fact that they’re trying to catch imaginary fish. With nonexistent rods.)
“You know, Ernie’s already caught a trout in our river!” says Suze proudly. “With only a teeny bit of help.”
You see. I knew he was talented. He’s obviously at the wrong school. He should be at fish-catching school.
“So!” says Mum brightly. “Tea, Jess?”
“Yes, thanks.” Jess nods.
Mum pours out tea and there’s a little pause—a little does-anyone-have-any-announcements-to-make? kind of pause. But Tom and Jess say nothing.
Janice puts her cup to her lips, then puts it down again, then breathes out shakily as though she can’t bear the tension. Then her face lights up.
“Your present! Jess, I made you a little something …” She practically gallops to the tree, picks up a parcel, and starts ripping off the wrapping paper herself. “Homemade honey hand cream,” she says breathlessly. “I told you I’ve started making cosmetics, all-natural ingredients … Put some on!”
Janice thrusts the hand cream at Jess. We all watch, mesmerized, as Jess takes the ring off, applies hand cream, then puts the ring back on, without saying a word.
Nice try, Janice, I feel like saying. Good effort.
“It’s great.” Jess sniffs her hand. “Thanks, Janice. Good for you, making your own.”
“We’ve all got you eco things, love,” says Mum fondly. “We know how you are, with your chlorine dyes and your natural fibers. It’s been quite an education for us, hasn’t it, Becky?”
“Well, I’m glad.” Jess takes a sip of tea. “It’s amazing how Western consumers are still so misguided.”
“I know.” I shake my head pityingly. “They have no idea.”
“They’ll fall for anything with the word green in it.” Jess shakes her head too. “There’s apparently some vile, irresponsible company that sells yoga mats made of toxic computer parts. Trying to peddle them as ‘recycled.’ Guatemalan kids are getting asthma from making them.” She bangs the sofa with her hand. “How can anyone be stupid enough to think that’s a good idea?”
“God, yes.” I swallow hard, my face hot, not daring to look at Mum. “What total utter morons they must be. Actually, I’ll just tidy up the presents a bit …” Trying to look casual, I head toward the Christmas tree and shove the Guatemalan yoga mat behind the curtains with my foot. That’s the last time I believe that so-called bloody “green” catalog. They said they were helping people, not giving them asthma! And what am I going to give Jess now?
“My present for you hasn’t arrived yet,” I say to Jess as I resume my seat. “But it’s … er … potatoes. A great big sack. I know how much you like them. And you can use the sack afterward as organic recycled luggage.”
“Oh.” Jess looks a bit taken aback. “Thanks, Becky.” She takes a sip of tea. “So, how are preparations going for the christening?”
“Brilliantly, thanks.” I seize on the change of subject with relief. “The theme is Russian. We’re going to have blinis with caviar and vodka shots, and I’ve got the most gorgeous dress for Minnie to wear—”
“Have you decided about middle names yet?” Mum chimes in. “Because Reverend Parker was on the phone yesterday, asking. You really have to come to a decision, love.”
“I will!” I say defensively. “It’s just so hard!”
We couldn’t quite choose Minnie’s middle names when we went to register her birth. (OK, the truth is, we had a slight argument. Luke was totally unreasonable about Dior. And Temperley. And no way was I agreeing to Gertrude, even if it is from Shakespeare.) So we put her down as Minnie Brandon and decided we’d finalize the other names at the christening. The trouble is, the more time goes by, the harder it gets. And Luke just laughs whenever he reads my choices and says, “Why does she need any middle names, anyway?” which is really unhelpful.
“So, do you have any news, Tom?” Janice blurts out in sudden desperation. “Has anything happened? Anything to tell? Big, small … anything? Anything at all?” She’s leaning forward on her chair like a seal ready to catch a fish.
“Well, yes.” Tom gives the tiniest of grins. “As it happens, we do.” And for the first time, he and Jess exchange one of those shall-we-tell-them? looks.
Oh my God.
They really are! They’re engaged!
Mum and Janice have both stiffened on the sofa; in fact, Janice looks like she’s about to implode. Suze winks at me and I grin back happily. We’ll have such fun! We can start buying Brides and I’ll help Jess choose her wedding dress, and she’s not wearing some dreary old recycled hemp thing, even if it is greener—
“Jess and I would like to announce …” Tom looks happily around the room. “We’re married.”