MINI SHOPAHOLIC

Tick Tock Playgroup

The Old Barn
4 Spence Hill
Oxshott
Surrey

Mrs Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey

Dear Mrs Brandon

Thank you for your letter. I’m glad you’re looking forward to the parents and children activity morning. Unfortunately there will be no dressing-up clothes for adults, nor will there be any facility for ‘swapping outfits with other parents’ as you suggest.

I’m glad to say that Minnie has broadened her activities in playgroup and is spending a lot of time in our new ‘Shop’ corner.

With kind regards

 

Teri Ashley
Play Leader

 

P.S. Please don’t worry about the minor ink-squirting incident. We are used to children and Mrs Soper can always re-dye her hair.

ONE

OK. Don’t panic. I’m in charge. I, Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood), am the adult. Not my two-year-old daughter.

Only I’m not sure she realizes this.

‘Minnie, darling, give me the pony.’ I try to sound calm and assured, like Nanny Sue off the telly.

‘Poneeee.’ Minnie grips the toy pony more tightly.

‘No pony.’

‘Mine!’ she cries hysterically. ‘Miiiine poneee!’

Aargh. I’m holding about a million shopping bags, my face is sweating, and I could really do without this.

It was all going so well. I’ve been round the whole shopping mall and bought all the last little things on my Christmas list. Minnie and I were heading towards Santa’s Grotto, and I only stopped for a moment to look at a dolls’ house. Whereupon Minnie grabbed a toy pony off the display and refused to put it back. And now I’m in the middle of Pony-gate.

A mother in J Brand skinny jeans with an impeccably dressed daughter walks past, giving me the Mummy Once-over, and I flinch. Since I had Minnie, I’ve learned that the Mummy Once-over is even more savage than the Manhattan Once-over. In the Mummy Once-over, they don’t just assess and price your clothes to the nearest penny in one sweeping glance. Oh no. They also take in your child’s clothes, pram brand, nappy bag, snack choice and whether your child is smiling, snotty or screaming.

Which I know is a lot to take in, in a one-second glance, but believe me, mothers are multi-taskers.

Minnie definitely scores top marks for her outfit. (Dress: one-off Danny Kovitz; coat: Rachel Riley; shoes: Baby Dior.) And I’ve got her safely strapped into her toddler reins (Bill Amberg leather, really cool, they were in Vogue). But instead of smiling angelically like the little girl in the photoshoot, she’s straining against them like a bull waiting to dash into the ring. Her eyebrows are knitted in fury, her cheeks are bright pink and she’s drawing breath to shriek again.

‘Minnie.’ I let go of the reins and put my arms round her so that she feels safe and secure, just like Nanny Sue recommends in her book, Taming Your Tricky Toddler. I bought it the other day, to have a flick through. Just out of idle interest. I mean, it’s not that I’m having problems with Minnie or anything. It’s not that she’s difficult. Or ‘out of control and wilful’, like that stupid teacher at the toddler music group said. (What does she know? She can’t even play the triangle properly.)

The thing about Minnie is, she’s . . . spirited. She has firm opinions about things. Like jeans (she won’t wear them), or carrots (she won’t eat them). And right now her firm opinion is that she should have a toy pony.

‘Minnie darling, I love you very much,’ I say in a gentle, crooning voice, ‘and it would make me very happy if you gave me the pony. That’s right, give it to Mummy . . .’ I’ve nearly done it. My fingers are closing around the pony’s head . . .

Ha. Skills. I’ve got it. I can’t help looking around to see if anyone’s observed my expert parenting.

‘Miiiine!’ Minnie wrenches the pony out of my arms and makes a run for it across the shop floor. Shit.

‘Minnie! MINNIE!’ I yell.

I grab my carrier bags and leg it furiously after Minnie, who has already disappeared into the Action Man section. God, I don’t know why we bother training up all these athletes for the Olympics. We should just field a team of toddlers.

As I catch up with her, I’m panting. I really have to start my post-natal exercises sometime.

‘Give me the pony!’ I try to take it, but she’s gripping it like a limpet.

‘Mine poneee!’ Her dark eyes flash at me with a resolute glint. Sometimes I look at Minnie and she’s so like her father it gives me a jolt.

Speaking of which, where is Luke? We were supposed to be doing Christmas shopping together. As a family. But he disappeared an hour ago, muttering something about a call he had to make, and I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably sitting somewhere having a civilized cappuccino over the newspaper. Typical.

‘Minnie, we’re not buying it,’ I say in my best firm manner. ‘You’ve got lots of toys already and you don’t need a pony.’

A woman with straggly dark hair, grey eyes and toddlers in a twin-buggy shoots me an approving nod. I can’t help giving her the Mummy Once-over myself, and she’s one of those mothers who wears Crocs over nubbly home-made socks. (Why would you do that? Why?)

‘It’s monstrous, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Those ponies are forty pounds! My kids know better than to even ask,’ she adds, shooting a glance at her two boys, who are slumped silently, thumbs in mouths. ‘Once you give in to them, that’s the beginning of the end. I’ve got mine well trained.’

Show off.

‘Absolutely,’ I say in dignified tones. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘Some parents would just buy their kid that pony for a quiet life. No discipline. It’s disgusting.’

‘Terrible,’ I agree, and make a surreptitious swipe for the pony, which Minnie adeptly dodges. Damn.

‘The biggest mistake is giving in to them.’ The woman is regarding Minnie with a pebble-like gaze. ‘That’s what starts the rot.’

‘Well, I never give in to my daughter,’ I say briskly. ‘You’re not getting the pony, Minnie, and that’s final.’

‘Poneeee!’ Minnie’s wails turn to heart-rending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)

‘Good luck, then.’ The woman moves off. ‘Happy Christmas.’

‘Minnie, stop it!’ I hiss furiously as soon as she’s disappeared. ‘You’re embarrassing both of us! What do you want a stupid pony for, anyway?’

‘Poneeee!’ She’s cuddling the pony to her as though it’s her long-lost faithful pet that was sold at market five hundred miles away and has just stumbled back to the farm, footsore and whickering for her.

‘It’s just a silly toy,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s so special about it, anyway?’

And for the first time I look properly at the pony.

Wow. Actually . . . it is pretty fab. It’s made of painted white wood with little glittery stars all over, and has the sweetest hand-painted face. And it has little red trundly wheels.

‘You really don’t need a pony, Minnie,’ I say – but with slightly less conviction than before. I’ve just noticed the saddle. Is that genuine leather? And it has a proper bridle with buckles and the mane is made of real horse hair. And it comes with a grooming set!

For forty quid this isn’t bad value at all. I push one of the little red wheels, and it spins round perfectly. And now I think about it, Minnie doesn’t actually have a toy pony. It’s quite an obvious gap in her toy cupboard.

I mean, not that I’m going to give in.

‘It winds up, too,’ comes a voice behind me, and I turn to see an elderly sales assistant approaching us. ‘There’s a key in the base. Look!’

She winds the key, and both Minnie and I watch, mesmerized, as the pony starts rising and falling in a carousel motion, while tinkly music plays.

Oh my God, I love this pony.

‘It’s on special Christmas offer at forty pounds,’ the assistant adds. ‘Normally, this would retail for seventy. They’re handmade in Sweden.’

Nearly 50 per cent off. I knew it was good value. Didn’t I say it was good value?

‘You like it, don’t you, dear?’ The assistant smiles at Minnie, who beams back, her stroppiness vanished. In fact, I don’t want to boast, but she looks pretty adorable with her red coat and dark pigtails and dimpled cheeks. ‘So, would you like to buy one?’

‘I . . . um . . .’ I clear my throat.

Come on, Becky. Say no. Be a good parent. Walk away.

My hand steals out and strokes the mane again.

But it’s so gorgeous. Look at its dear little face. And a pony isn’t like some stupid craze, is it? You’d never get tired of a pony. It’s a classic. It’s, like, the Chanel jacket of toys.

And it’s Christmas. And it’s on special offer. And who knows, Minnie might turn out to have a gift for riding, it suddenly occurs to me. A toy pony might be just the spur she needs. I have a sudden vision of her aged twenty, wearing a red jacket, standing by a gorgeous horse at the Olympics, saying to the TV cameras, ‘It all began one Christmas, when I received the gift that changed my life . . .’

My mind is going round and round like a computer processing DNA results, trying to find a match. There has to be a way in which I can simultaneously: 1. Not give in to Minnie’s tantrum, 2. Be a good parent and 3. Buy the pony. I need some clever blue-sky solution like Luke is always paying business consultants scads of money to come up with . . .

And then the answer comes to me. A totally genius idea which I can’t believe I’ve never had before. I haul out my phone and text Luke:

Luke! Have just had a really good thought. I think Minnie should get pocket money.

Immediately a reply pings back: Wtf? Why?

So she can buy things, of course! I start to type – then think again. I delete the text and carefully type instead:

Children need to learn about finance from early age. Read it in article. Empowers them and gives responsibility.

A moment later Luke texts: Can’t we just buy her the FT?

Shut up, I type. We’ll say two pounds a week shall we?

R u mad? comes zipping back. 10p a week is plenty.

I stare at the phone indignantly. 10p? He’s such an old skinflint. What’s she supposed to buy with that?

And we’ll never afford the pony on 10p a week.

50p a week, I type firmly, is national average. (He’ll never check.) Where r u anyway? Nearly time for Father Christmas!!

OK, whatever. I’ll be there, comes the reply.

Result! As I put away my phone, I’m doing a quick mental calculation. 50p a week for two years makes £52. Easily enough. God, why on earth have I never thought of pocket money before? It’s perfect! It’s going to add a whole new dimension to our shopping trips.

I turn to Minnie, feeling rather proud of myself.

‘Now listen, darling,’ I announce. ‘I’m not going to buy this pony for you, because I’ve already said no. But as a special treat, you can buy it for yourself out of your own pocket money. Isn’t that exciting?’

Minnie eyes me uncertainly. I’ll take that as a yes.

‘As you’ve never spent any of your pocket money, you’ve got two years’ worth, which is plenty. You see how great saving is?’ I add brightly. ‘You see how fun it is?’

As we walk to the check-out I feel totally smug. Talk about responsible parenting. I’m introducing my child to the principles of financial planning at an early age. I could be a guru on TV myself! Super Becky’s Guide to Fiscally Responsible Parenting. I could wear different boots in each episode—

‘Wagon.’

I’m jolted out of my daydream to see that Minnie has dropped the pony and is now clutching a pink plastic monstrosity. Where did she get that? It’s Winnie’s Wagon, from that cartoon show.

‘Wagon?’ She raises her eyes hopefully.

What?

‘We’re not getting the wagon, darling,’ I say patiently. ‘You wanted the pony. The lovely pony, remember?’

Minnie surveys the pony with total indifference. ‘Wagon.’

‘Pony!’ I grab the pony off the floor.

This is so frustrating. How can she be so fickle? She definitely gets that trait from Mum.

‘Wagon!’

‘Pony!’ I cry, more loudly than I meant to, and brandish the pony at her. ‘I want the poneee—’

Suddenly I get a prickly-neck feeling. I look round to see the woman with toddler boys, standing a few yards away, staring at me with her pebble-like eyes.

‘I mean . . .’ I hastily lower the pony, my cheeks burning. ‘Yes, you may buy the pony out of your pocket money. Basic financial planning,’ I add briskly to the pebble-eyed woman. ‘What we learned today is that you have to save up before you can buy things, didn’t we, darling? Minnie’s spent all her pocket money on the pony, and it was a very good choice . . .’

‘I’ve found the other pony!’ The assistant suddenly appears again, breathless and carrying a dusty box. ‘I knew we had one left in the stock room. They were originally a pair, you see . . .’

There’s another pony?

I can’t help gasping as she draws it out. It’s midnight blue with a raven mane, speckled with stars, and with golden wheels. It’s absolutely stunning. It complements the other one perfectly. Oh God, we have to have them both. We have to.

Rather annoyingly, the pebble-eyed woman is still standing there with her buggy, watching us.

‘Shame you’ve spent all your pocket money, isn’t it?’ she says to Minnie with one of those tight, unfriendly smiles which proves she never has any fun or sex. You can always tell that about people, I find.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I say politely. ‘That’s a problem. So we’ll just have to think of a solution.’ I think hard for a moment, then turn to Minnie.

‘Darling, here’s your second important lesson in financial planning. Sometimes, when we see an amazing, one-off bargain, we can make an exception to the saving-up rule. It’s called “Seizing the Opportunity”.’

‘You’re just going to buy it?’ says the woman in tones of disbelief.

What business is it of hers? God, I hate other mothers. They always have to butt in. The minute you have a child it’s as if you’ve turned into a box on an internet site, saying ‘Please add all your rude and offensive comments here.’

‘Of course I’m not going to buy it,’ I say, a little stonily. ‘She’ll have to get it out of her own pocket money. Darling,’ I crouch down to get Minnie’s attention, ‘if you pay for the other pony out of your pocket money at 50p a week, it’ll take about . . . sixty weeks. You’ll have to have an advance. Like an “overdraft”.’ I enunciate clearly. ‘So you’ll basically have spent all your pocket money till you’re three and a half. All right?’

Minnie looks a bit bewildered. But then, I expect I looked a bit bewildered when I took out my first overdraft. It goes with the territory.

‘All sorted.’ I beam at the assistant and hand over my Visa card. ‘We’ll take both ponies, thank you. You see, darling?’ I add to Minnie. ‘The lesson we’ve learned today is: never give up on something you really want. However impossible things seem, there’s always a way.’

I can’t help feeling proud of myself, imparting this nugget of wisdom. That’s what parenting’s all about. Teaching your child the ways of the world.

‘You know, I once found the most amazing opportunity,’ I add as I punch in my PIN. ‘It was a pair of Dolce & Gabbana boots at 90 per cent off! Only my credit card was up to my limit. But did I give up? No! Of course I didn’t!’

Minnie is listening as avidly as though I’m recounting The Three Bears.

‘I went round my flat, and searched in all my pockets and bags, and I collected up all my little coins . . . and guess what?’ I pause for effect. ‘I had enough money! I could get the boots! Hooray!’

Minnie claps her hands, and to my delight, the toddler boys start cheering raucously.

‘Do you want to hear another story?’ I beam at them. ‘Do you want to hear about the sample sale in Milan? I was walking along the street one day, when I saw this mysterious sign.’ I open my eyes wide. ‘And what do you think it said?’

‘Ridiculous.’ The pebble-eyed woman turns her buggy with an abrupt gesture. ‘Come on, it’s time to go home.’

‘Story!’ wails one of the boys.

‘We’re not hearing the story,’ she snaps. ‘You’re insane,’ she adds over her shoulder as she strides off. ‘No wonder your child’s so spoiled. What are those little shoes of hers then, Gucci?’

Spoiled?

Blood zings to my face and I stare at her in speechless shock. Where did that come from? Minnie is not spoiled!

And Gucci don’t even make shoes like that.

‘She’s not spoiled!’ I manage at last.

But the woman has already disappeared behind the Postman Pat display. Well, I’m certainly not going to run after her and yell, ‘At least my child doesn’t just loll in her buggy sucking her thumb all day, and by the way, have you ever thought about wiping your children’s noses?’

Because that wouldn’t be a good example to Minnie.

‘Come on, Minnie.’ I try to compose myself. ‘Let’s go and see Father Christmas. Then we’ll feel better.’

TWO

There’s no way on earth Minnie’s spoiled. No way.

OK, so she has her little moments. Like we all do. But she’s not spoiled. I would know if she was spoiled. I’m her mother.

Still, all the way to Santa’s Grotto I feel ruffled. How can anyone be so mean? And on Christmas Eve, too.

‘You just show everyone how well behaved you are, darling,’ I murmur determinedly to Minnie as we walk along, hand-in-hand. ‘You just be a little angel for Father Christmas, OK?’

‘Jingle Bells’ is playing over the tannoy and I can’t help cheering up as we get near. I used to come to this exact same Santa’s Grotto when I was a little girl.

‘Look, Minnie!’ I point excitedly. ‘Look at the reindeer! Look at all the presents!’

There’s a sleigh and two life-size reindeer and fake snow everywhere and lots of girls dressed as elves in green costumes, which is a new touch. At the entrance I can’t help blinking in surprise at the elf who greets us with a tanned cleavage. Is Father Christmas finding his elves at glamour model agencies these days? And should elves have purple acrylic nails?

‘Merry Christmas!’ she greets us and stamps my ticket. ‘Be sure to visit our Christmas Wishing Well and put in your Christmas Wish. Father Christmas will be reading them later on!’

‘Did you hear that, Minnie? We can make a wish!’ I look down at Minnie, who’s gazing up at the elf in silent awe.

You see? She’s behaving perfectly.

‘Becky! Over here!’ I turn my head to see Mum already in the queue, wearing a festive twinkly scarf and holding the handles of Minnie’s buggy, which is laden with bags and packages. ‘Father Christmas just went for his tea break,’ she adds as we join her. ‘So I think we’ll be another half an hour at least. Dad’s gone off to look for camcorder discs and Janice is buying her Christmas cards.’

Janice is Mum’s next-door neighbour. She buys all her Christmas cards half-price on Christmas Eve, writes them out on January the first and keeps them in a drawer for the rest of the year. She calls it ‘getting ahead of herself’.

‘Now, love, will you take a look at my present for Jess?’ Mum rootles in a bag and anxiously produces a wooden box. ‘Is it all right?’

Jess is my sister. My half-sister, I should say. She’s coming back from Chile in a few days’ time, so we’re going to have a second Christmas Day for her and Tom, with turkey and presents and everything! Tom is Jess’s boyfriend. He’s the only son of Janice and Martin and I’ve known him all my life and he’s very . . .

Well. He’s really . . .

Anyway, the point is, they love each other. And sweaty hands probably don’t matter so much in Chile, do they?

It’s fantastic that they’re coming over, especially as it means we can finally, finally have Minnie’s christening. (Jess is going to be a godmother.) But I can see why Mum’s stressed out. It’s tricky buying presents for Jess. She doesn’t like anything that’s new or expensive or contains plastic or parabens or comes in a bag that isn’t made of hemp.

‘I’ve bought this.’ Mum opens the lid of the box to reveal an array of posh glass bottles nestling in straw. ‘It’s shower gel,’ she adds quickly. ‘Nothing for the bath. We don’t want World War Three again!’

There was this slight diplomatic incident last time Jess was over. We were celebrating her birthday and Janice gave her a present of bubble bath, whereupon Jess launched into a ten-minute lecture on how much water a bath used and how people in the West were obsessed by cleanliness and everyone should just take a five-minute shower once every week like Jess and Tom did.

Janice and Martin had just had a jacuzzi installed, so this didn’t go down very well.

‘What do you think?’ says Mum.

‘Dunno.’ I peer cautiously at the label on the box. ‘Does it have additives? Does it exploit people?’

‘Oh, love, I just don’t know.’ Mum looks gingerly at the box as though it’s a nuclear armament. ‘It says “all-natural”,’ she ventures at last. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘I think it’ll be OK.’ I nod. ‘But don’t tell her you bought it in a shopping mall. Tell her you bought it from a small independent cooperative.’

‘Good idea.’ Mum brightens. ‘And I’ll wrap it in newspaper. What have you got her?’

‘I bought her a yoga mat hand-made by peasant women in Guatemala,’ I can’t help saying smugly. ‘It funds village agricultural projects and it uses recycled plastic components from computers.’

‘Becky!’ says Mum admiringly. ‘How did you find that?’

‘Oh . . . research.’ I shrug airily.

I won’t admit I Googled ‘green worthy present recycle environment lentils giftwrap’.

‘Kiss-mas! Kiss-MAS!’ Minnie is dragging at my hand so hard I think she’ll pull my arm off.

‘Do the Wishing Well with Minnie, love,’ suggests Mum. ‘I’ll keep your place.’

I dump the ponies on the buggy and lead Minnie towards the Wishing Well. It’s surrounded by fake silver birch trees with fairies hanging down from the branches and if it weren’t for the screeching kids everywhere it would be quite magical.

The wishing cards are laid out on a fake tree stump that you can use as a table. I pick up a card, which has ‘Christmas Wish’ printed in swirly green writing at the top, and give one of the felt-tips to Minnie.

God, I remember writing letters to Father Christmas when I was little. They used to get quite long and involved, with illustrations and pictures cut out of catalogues, just in case he got confused.

A pair of pink-faced girls of about ten are posting their wishes, all giggly and whispery, and just the sight of them gives me a rush of nostalgia. It seems wrong not to join in. I might jinx it or something.

Dear Father Christmas, I find myself writing on a card. It’s Becky here again. I pause, and think for a bit, and then quickly scribble down a few things.

I mean, only about three. I’m not greedy or anything.

Minnie is scribbling earnestly all over her card, and has got felt-tip on her hands and her nose.

‘I’m sure Father Christmas will understand what you mean,’ I say gently, taking it from her. ‘Let’s post it in the well.’

One by one I drop the two cards in. Tiny fake snowflakes are drifting down from above and ‘Winter Wonderland’ is being piped out of a nearby speaker and I suddenly feel so Christmassy I can’t help closing my eyes, clenching Minnie’s hand and wishing. You never know . . .

‘Becky?’ A deep voice penetrates my thoughts and my eyes snap open. Luke is standing in front of me, his dark hair and navy coat dusted with fake snow, a glint of amusement in his eyes. Too late I realize I’ve been fervently mouthing ‘Please . . . please . . .’ with my eyes squeezed shut.

‘Oh!’ I say, a bit flustered. ‘Hi. I was just . . .’

‘Talking to Father Christmas?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I regain my dignity. ‘Where’ve you been, anyway?’

Luke doesn’t answer me, but starts walking away, beckoning for me to follow.

‘Leave Minnie with your mother a moment,’ he says. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

I’ve been married to Luke for three and a half years now, but I still don’t always know the way his mind is working. As we stride along his mouth is hard, and I almost start to feel nervous. What could it be?

‘Here.’ He comes to a halt in a deserted corner of the shopping mall, and gets out his BlackBerry.

On the screen is an email from his lawyer, Tony. It consists of a single word: ‘Settled’.

‘Settled?’ For a split second I don’t understand – then I have a sudden flash of realization.

‘Not – Arcodas? They’ve settled?’

‘Yup.’ And now I can see a tiny smile glimmering.

‘But – you never said . . . I had no idea . . .’

‘Didn’t want to raise your hopes. We’ve been talking for three weeks. It’s not the greatest deal for us . . . but it’s fine. We’ll be fine. The point is, it’s done.’

My legs feel a bit shaky. It’s over. Just like that. The Arcodas case has been hanging over us for so long it’s started to feel part of the family. (Not a good part, obviously. The malevolent old witchy aunt with the warty nose and the nasty cackle.)

It’s two years since Luke went into battle with Arcodas. I say ‘battle’. It wasn’t like he firebombed them or anything. He just refused to work for them, on a matter of principle: the principle being that he didn’t want to represent a load of bullies who mistreated his staff. He owns a PR company, Brandon Communications, and has had most of his employees for years. When he found out the way Arcodas had been behaving to them, I’ve never seen him so angry.

So he quit, and they took him to court for breach of contract. (Which just proves how awful and overbearing they are.) Whereupon Luke took them to court for not paying for the services they’d already received.

You’d have thought the judge would have realized who was the good guy instantly and ruled in Luke’s favour. I mean, hello, don’t judges have eyes? But instead they’ve had stupid hearings and adjournments and the whole thing has dragged on, and been totally stressy. I have to say, my opinion of lawyers, judges, so-called ‘mediators’ and the whole legal system is a lot lower after all this. Which I would have told them, if they’d only let me speak.

I was dying for Luke to call me as a witness. I had my outfit ready and everything. (Navy pencil skirt, white shirt with ruffle, patent courts.) And I’d written this brilliant speech, which I still know by heart. It begins: ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to look into your hearts. And then I ask you to look at the two men before you. One honourable, upstanding hero who puts the well-being of his staff before money . . .’ (where I would point at Luke), ‘. . . and one odious, sexist man who bullies everyone and has as much integrity as he does dress sense . . .’ (where I would point at Iain Wheeler from Arcodas). Everyone would have been stirred up and cheered and the judge would have had to bang his gavel and cry ‘Order! Order!’ And then I was going to cunningly assess the jury, like they do in John Grisham novels, and work out which ones were on our side.

Anyway, all my plans were spoiled when Luke said there wasn’t going to be a jury, it wasn’t that kind of court. And then he said it was a murky swamp full of dirty tricks and he’d be damned if I got dragged into all this too and I should stay at home with Minnie. So I did, even though the frustration nearly killed me.

Now Luke exhales and pushes his hands through his hair.

‘Over,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘At last.’

‘Thank God.’

As I reach up to hug him, I can see traces of weariness in his face still. This whole thing has nearly wiped Luke out. He’s been trying to run his company, and deal with the case, and keep his staff motivated, and win new business.

‘So.’ He puts his hands on my shoulders and surveys me. ‘We can start to move on. In all sorts of ways.’

It takes me a moment to realize what he means.

‘We can buy the house!’ I catch my breath.

‘I put in the offer straight away.’ He nods. ‘They said they’d give an answer by the end of the day.’

‘Oh my God!’ I can’t help giving a little jump of excitement. I can’t believe this is all happening at last. The case is over! We can finally move out of Mum and Dad’s and have our own family home!

We’ve tried to move out before. In fact, several times. We’ve got as far as drawing up contracts for four houses in all, but each one has been doomed. Either the vendor didn’t really want to sell (House Three), or they suddenly demanded loads more money (House One), or the house didn’t actually belong to them but to their uncle in Spain and it was all a scam (House Four), or it burned down (House Two). I’d started to think we were jinxed, and then Luke said maybe we should wait till the Arcodas business was over.

‘Lucky Five?’ I raise my eyes hopefully towards Luke, who just crosses his fingers and grins.

This house has got everything going for it. It’s in a brilliant road in Maida Vale, and it has a lovely garden with a swing hanging from a tree, and is amazingly spacious inside. And it’s nearly ours! I feel a sudden burst of exhilaration. I have to go and buy Livingetc, right now. And Elle Deco, and House & Garden and Wallpaper* . . .

‘Shall we get back?’ I say casually. ‘I might just pop into Smith’s on the way and pick up a few magazines . . .’

And I’d better get Grand Designs, and World of Interiors, and 25 Beautiful Homes . . .

‘In a minute.’ Something about Luke’s voice alerts me, and I look up to see he’s taken a few paces away. His face is averted and his chin is stiff. Something doesn’t look right about him.

‘Hey, are you OK?’ I say cautiously. ‘There’s no bad news, is there?’

‘No. But there’s something I wanted to . . . run past you.’ He pauses, his hands cradling the back of his neck, his gaze distant, almost as though he can’t bring himself to look at me. ‘Weird thing happened a few moments ago. I was in Waterstones, waiting for the call about Arcodas. Just wandering around . . .’ He pauses again, for a long time. ‘And I found myself buying a book for Annabel. The new Ruth Rendell. She’d have loved it.’

There’s silence for a moment. I don’t know how to respond.

‘Luke . . .’ I begin tentatively.

‘I bought a bloody Christmas present for her.’ He squeezes his fists into his temples. ‘Am I going nuts?’

‘Of course you’re not going nuts! You’re just . . .’ I break off helplessly, wishing I had something wise and profound to say; trying desperately to remember bits from that book on bereavement I bought.

Because that’s the other awful thing that happened this year. Luke’s step-mum died in May. She was only ill for a month and then she was gone and it absolutely hit Luke for six.

I know Annabel wasn’t his biological mother – but she was his true mum. She brought him up, and she understood him like no one else, and the worst thing is, he hardly saw her before she died. Even when she was really ill, he couldn’t drop everything and rush to Devon because he had Arcodas hearings in London and they’d been adjourned so many times already it was impossible to delay again.

He shouldn’t feel guilty. I’ve told him so a million times. There was nothing he could do. But even so, I know he does. And now his dad is in Australia with his sister, so Luke can’t even make up by spending time with him.

As for his real mother . . . we don’t even mention her.

Ever.

Luke’s always had a pretty love-hate relationship with Elinor. It makes sense, since she abandoned him and his dad when Luke was tiny. But he was on fairly civil terms with her when she blew it, big time.

It was around the time of the funeral, when he’d gone to see her for some family business reason. I still don’t know exactly what she said to him. Something about Annabel. Something insensitive and probably downright rude, I’m guessing. He’s never told me exactly, or even referred to the incident again – all I know is, I’ve never seen him so white; so catatonic with fury. And now we never even mention Elinor’s name any more. I don’t think he’ll ever reconcile with her, his whole life. Which is fine by me.

As I look up at Luke I feel a little squeeze in my heart. The strain of this year has really hit him hard. He’s got two little lines between his eyes which he doesn’t lose even when he smiles or laughs. It’s like he can’t ever look 100 per cent happy.

‘Come on.’ I put my arm through his and squeeze it tight. ‘Let’s go and see Father Christmas.’

As we’re walking along, I casually steer Luke to the other side of the mall. No reason, really. Just because the shops are nicer to look at. Like the bespoke jewellers . . . and that shop with the silk flowers . . . and Enfant Cocotte, which is full of hand-made rocking horses and designer wenge cribs.

My pace has slowed right down and I take a step towards the brightly lit window, full of creeping lust. Look at all these gorgeous things. Look at the tiny rompers, and the little blankets.

If we had another baby, we could get all new lovely blankets. And it would be all snuffly and cute and Minnie could help to wheel it in the pram, and we’d be a real family . . .

I glance up at Luke to see if perhaps he’s thinking the same thing as me and will meet my eyes with a soft, loving gaze. But instead, he’s frowning at something on his BlackBerry. Honestly. Why isn’t he more tuned in to my thoughts? We’re supposed to be married, aren’t we? He should understand me. He should realize why I’ve led him to a baby shop.

‘That’s sweet, isn’t it?’ I point at a teddy-bear mobile.

‘Mm-hmm.’ Luke nods without even looking up.

‘Wow, look at that pram!’ I point longingly at an amazing-looking hi-tech contraption with bouncy wheels that look like they came off a Hummer. ‘Isn’t it great?’

If we had another baby we could buy another pram. I mean, we’d have to. The crappy old pram Minnie had is completely bust. (Not that I want another baby just to get a cool pram, obviously. But it would be an added bonus.)

‘Luke.’ I clear my throat. ‘I was just thinking. About . . . us. I mean . . . all of us. Our family. Including Minnie. And I was wondering—’

He holds up his hand and lifts his BlackBerry to his ear.

‘Yes. Hi.’

God, I hate that silent ring-mode. It gives you no warning at all that he’s getting a call.

‘I’ll catch up with you,’ he mouths to me, then turns back to his BlackBerry. ‘Yup, Gary, I got your email.’

OK, so this isn’t a great time to discuss buying a pram for a mythical second baby.

Never mind. I’ll wait till later.

As I hurry back to Santa’s Grotto, it suddenly occurs to me that I might be missing Minnie’s turn, and I break into a run. But as I skid round the corner, breathless, Father Christmas isn’t even back on his throne yet.

‘Becky!’ Mum waves from the front of the queue. ‘We’re next! I’ve got the camcorder all ready . . . Ooh look!’

An elf with a bright, vacant smile has taken the stage. She beams around and taps the microphone for attention.

‘Hello, boys and girls!’ she calls out. ‘Quiet now. Before Santa starts seeing all the children again, it’s Christmas wish time! We’re going to pull out the wish of one lucky child, and grant it! Will it be a teddy? Or a doll’s house? Or a scooter?’

The microphone isn’t working properly and she taps it in annoyance. Even so, excitement is rippling through the crowd, and there’s a surge forward. Camcorders are waving in the air and small children are swarming through people’s legs to see, their faces all lit up.

‘Minnie!’ Mum is saying excitedly. ‘What did you wish for, darling? Maybe they’ll choose you!’

‘And the winner is called . . . Becky! Well done, Becky!’ The elf’s suddenly amplified voice makes me jump.

No. That can’t be . . .

It must be another Becky. There must be loads of little girls here called Becky.

‘And little Becky has wished for . . .’ She squints at the wishing card. ‘ “A Zac Posen top in aquamarine, the one with the bow, size 10.”’

Shit.

‘Is Zac Posen a new TV character?’ The elf turns to a colleague, looking bemused. ‘Is that, like, a spinning top?’

Honestly, how can she work in a department store and not have heard of Zac Posen?

‘How old is Becky?’ The elf is smiling brightly around. ‘Becky, sweetheart, are you here? We haven’t got any tops, but maybe you’d like to choose a different toy from Santa’s sleigh?’

My head is ducked down in embarrassment. I can’t bring myself to raise my hand. They didn’t say they’d read the bloody Christmas wishes out loud. They should have warned me.

‘Is Becky’s mummy here?’

‘Here I am!’ calls Mum, gaily waving her camcorder.

‘Ssh, Mum!’ I hiss. ‘Sorry,’ I call out, my face boiling. ‘It’s . . . um, me. I didn’t realize you’d be . . . Choose another wish. A child’s wish. Please. Throw mine away.’

But the elf can’t hear me above the hubbub.

‘“Also those Marni shoes I saw with Suze, not the stack heels, the other ones.” ’ She’s still reading out loud, her voice booming through the sound-system. ‘Does this make sense to anyone? “And . . .” ’ She squints more closely at the paper. ‘Does that say “A sibling for Minnie”? Is Minnie your dolly, love? Aww, isn’t that sweet?’

‘Stop it!’ I cry out in horror, pushing forward through the crowd of small children. ‘That’s confidential! No one was supposed to see that!’

‘ “And above all, Father Christmas, I wish that Luke—” ’

‘Shut UP!’ In desperation I practically dive at the Grotto. ‘That’s private! It’s between me and Father Christmas!’ I reach the elf and try to wrench the paper out of her hand.

‘Ow!’ she cries.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say breathlessly. ‘But I’m Becky.’

‘You’re Becky?’ Her mascaraed eyes narrow – then she looks down at the paper again and I see comprehension dawning. After a few moments her face softens. She folds the paper and hands it back to me.

‘I hope you get your Christmas wish,’ she says quietly, away from the microphone.

‘Thanks.’ I hesitate, then add, ‘Same to you, whatever it is. Happy Christmas.’

I turn to go back to Mum – and through the thicket of heads I glimpse Luke’s dark eyes. He’s standing there, near the back.

My stomach flips over. What exactly did he hear?

He’s coming towards me now, weaving his way through the families, his expression impenetrable.

‘Oh, hi.’ I try to sound casual. ‘So . . . they read out my Christmas wish, isn’t that funny?’

‘Mm-hmm.’ He’s giving nothing away.

There’s an awkward-ish little silence between us.

He did hear his name, I can tell. A wife has an unerring instinct for these things. He heard his name and now he’s wondering what I was wishing about him.

Unless maybe he’s just thinking about his emails.

‘Mummy!’ A shrill, unmistakable voice cuts through my head and I forget all about Luke.

‘Minnie!’ I turn, and for one frantic moment I can’t see her.

‘Was that Minnie?’ Luke is also alert. ‘Where is she?’

‘She was with Mum . . . shit.’ I grab Luke’s arm and point at the stage in horror.

Minnie’s sitting on top of one of Father Christmas’s reindeer, holding on to its ears. How the hell did she get up there?

‘Excuse me . . .’ I barge my way between the parents and kids. ‘Minnie, get down!’

‘Horsey!’ Minnie kicks the reindeer joyfully, leaving an ugly dent in the papier mâché.

‘Would someone remove this child, please?’ an elf is saying into the microphone. ‘Would the parents of this child please come forward at once?’

‘I only let go of her for a minute!’ says Mum defensively as Luke and I reach her. ‘She just ran!’

‘OK, Minnie,’ says Luke firmly, striding up on to the stage. ‘Party’s over.’

‘Slide!’ She’s clambered up on to the sleigh. ‘Mine slide!’

‘It’s not a slide, and it’s time to get down.’ He takes Minnie round the waist and pulls, but she’s hooked her legs through the seat and is gripping on to the sleigh with superhero strength.

‘Could you get her off, please?’ the elf says, with barely restrained politeness.

I grab Minnie’s shoulders.

‘OK,’ I mutter to Luke. ‘You get the legs. We’ll yank her off. After three. One-two-three—’

Oh no. Oh . . . fuck.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what we did. But the whole bloody sleigh is collapsing. All the presents are falling off the sleigh on to the fake snow. Before I can blink, there’s a sea of children dashing forward to grab them while their parents yell at them to come back now, Daniel, or there won’t be any Christmas.

It’s mayhem.

‘Present!’ wails Minnie, stretching her arms out and kicking Luke’s chest. ‘Present!’

‘Get that bloody child out of here!’ the elf erupts in toxic rage. Her eyes range meanly over me and Mum, and even Janice and Martin, who have appeared out of nowhere, both wearing festive jumpers with reindeers on and clutching Christmas Discount Shop bags. ‘I want your whole family to leave at once.’