Mini Shopaholic (10 page)

People Who Know About Party

Me
Suze
Tarquin
Danny
Jess
Tom

Total = 6

SIX

I’m already making good progress with this party – in fact I’m quite proud of myself, bearing in mind I’m not a professional party planner or anything. I’ve bought a special notebook which I’ve disguised by writing ‘High-heeled boots – possible options’ on the front. And already I have an extensive to-do list, which goes as follows:

Party – To-Do
List

Marquee – where get? Where put? How big?

Fire-eaters – where get??

Jugglers – where get???

Theme – what?

Food – what? how? (Chocolate fountain?)

Drink – NOT peach wine

Dancing – need dance-floor. Shiny? Black and white, lights up like
in
Saturday Night Fever?

G
ue
sts –
who? Track down old friends? (NOT Venetia Carter or Sacha de Bonneville)

Outfit –
Ba
lm
ain black
sequinned dress with Zanotti crystal sandals
and
Philippe Audibert cuff? Rol
and
Mouret turquoise dress with strappy Prada shoes? Azzaro red minidress
and black
Louboutins?

OK, so a few issues are a bit unresolved as yet. But the
most
urgent thing is to make sure Luke stays free on 7 April and doesn’t book a business trip or anything. Which means I’m going to have to rope in an accomplice.

I wait until I have a moment alone in the kitchen, then dial his office number.

‘Luke Brandon’s office, how may I help?’ come the perfectly modulated tones down the phone.

Luke’s personal assistant is called Bonnie, and she’s been with him for a year. She’s in her forties and has mid-blonde hair which she always arranges in the same classic chignon. And she always wears understated tweed dresses and court shoes and speaks in the same soft voice. At Brandon Communications parties she’s always the one on the fringes, cradling a glass of water, looking happy just to watch. I’ve tried to chat to her a couple of times, but she seems quite reserved.

Anyway, apparently she’s a total star. Luke had had a couple of disasters before he hired Bonnie and I’ve never known anyone enthuse as much as he did when Bonnie first started. Apparently she’s incredibly efficient and discreet, and almost telepathic at knowing what he’s going to need. I’d almost be worried, if it weren’t for the fact that I can’t actually imagine Bonnie having sex.

‘Hi, Bonnie?’ I say. ‘It’s Becky here. Luke’s wife.’

‘Becky! How are you?’

That’s the other thing. She always sounds pleased to hear from me, even though she must be thinking, ‘Oh bloody hell, it’s the wife again.’

‘I’m good, thanks. And you?’

‘I’m very well. Can I put you through to Luke?’

‘Actually, Bonnie, it was you I wanted to speak to. I’m throwing Luke a …’ I pause and glance around in sudden paranoia, just in case Luke’s come back early from work to surprise me and is even now silently creeping up behind me on tiptoes, arms outstretched. But he’s not.

Huh. Why doesn’t he ever do that?

Just to be doubly sure, I go and shut the kitchen door and pull a chair across it. This is all so cloak and dagger. I feel like those French Resistance girls in
‘Allo ‘Allo!

‘Becky, are you still there?’ Bonnie’s saying. ‘Becky? Hello?’

‘Listen very carefully, I will say this only once.’ I whisper into the phone in sepulchral tones. ‘I’m throwing a surprise party for Luke’s birthday. It’s top secret and you’re only the seventh person in the world to know about it.’

I almost want to add, ‘And now I’ll have to shoot you.’

‘I’m sorry, Becky …’ Bonnie sounds confused. ‘I can’t hear you. Could you speak up?’

For God’s sake.

‘A party!’ I say more loudly. ‘I’m throwing Luke a party on the seventh of April. And I want it to be a surprise, so could you block off the date in his diary and make something up?’

‘The seventh of April.’ Bonnie sounds unruffled. ‘That should be simple enough.’

You see? This is why she’s a brilliant PA. She behaves as though she’s done this kind of thing a million times.

‘And I want to invite all his friends from work, so could they all block off their diaries too? But don’t make it look suspicious or anything. And don’t tell anyone what it’s about yet. Maybe you could say it’s a big fire practice? And you should have a decoy birthday card going around the office,’ I add as the thought suddenly crosses my mind. ‘You know, nearer the time. And if Luke ever mentions his birthday, which he won’t, but if he
does
, you should just say—’

‘Becky …’ Bonnie cuts me off kindly. ‘Should we perhaps meet to discuss all this?’

Result! As I put down the phone I’m beaming. Everything’s falling into place. Bonnie’s already offered to put together a guest list and we’re having lunch next week. Now I just have to decide on a party venue.

My gaze drifts outside. The garden would be perfect. But we’d never be able to keep it secret from Luke.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ Mum comes hurrying into

the kitchen, followed by Minnie. Her face is pink and she’s breathing fast. ‘It’s not just Bank of London! All the banks are like Swiss cheese! Full of holes! Have you heard, Graham?’ she adds agitatedly to Dad, who is just coming in. ‘The entire banking structure is going to collapse!’

‘It’s a bad business.’ Dad nods, flicking on the kettle.

I’ve stopped watching the news because it’s too depressing, but the Bank of London crisis is still going on like some kind of soap opera. Now they’ve stopped the cashpoints working and a few people have thrown stones at the windows. The Prime Minister appeared on the TV last night and told everyone to please stop taking their money out. But all that did was make everyone freak out even more. (I knew it would. Didn’t I say? They really should make me an adviser at Number 10.)

‘Luke says we won’t all lose our money,’ I venture.

‘Oh Luke does, does he?’ Mum bristles. ‘And would Luke like to tell us if any other financial institutions are about to fold? Or would that be too much trouble?’

She’s never going to forgive him, is she?

‘Mum,’ I say for the millionth time, ‘Luke
couldn’t
have told us. It was confidential and sensitive. And you would have told the whole of Oxshott!’

‘I would
not
have told the whole of Oxshott!’ she says sharply. ‘I would have warned Janice and Martin and a few other dear friends and that is all. And now we’ll probably lose everything. Everything.’ She shoots me a resentful look as though it’s all my fault.

‘Mum, I’m sure we won’t lose everything.’ I try to sound confident and reassuring.

‘I heard a commentator on the radio this morning predicting anarchy! Civilization will collapse! It’s war!’

‘Now, now, Jane.’ Dad pats her on the shoulder. ‘Let’s not overreact. We simply might have to tighten our belts a little. Pull in our horns.
All
of us, Becky.’ He gives me a significant look.

I can’t help feeling a bit offended. What was that look for?

Excuse me, I’m an adult. I’m a
mother
. You move back in with your mum and dad and they immediately start treating you like a teenager who’s spent her travelcard money on a pair of legwarmers.

Which I only did
once
.

‘Poor Janice has taken to her bed with the strain, you know.’ Mum lowers her voice discreetly, as though Janice might hear us from inside her house. ‘It was bad enough for her hearing Jess and Tom’s news.’

‘Poor Janice,’ Dad and I say, in automatic unison.

‘She had her heart set on that wedding. I mean, I know the younger generation like to do things differently, but really, is it so hard to walk down an aisle in a veil? Janice had already planned the table decorations
and
the wedding favours. What’s she going to do with all that silver fabric?’

Mum keeps on talking, but I’ve been gripped by a sudden idea.

Janice’s garden. Of course! We could put up a marquee there and Luke would never suspect a thing! He’d just think Martin and Janice were having their own bash!

‘… and not a single wedding picture for the mantelpiece …’ Mum is still in full indignant flow.

‘Hey, Mum,’ I interrupt. ‘Listen. Don’t tell Luke, but I’m going to hold a surprise birthday party for him. And I was just thinking – do you reckon Janice would let me do it in her garden?’

There’s silence. Both Dad and Mum are eyeing me weirdly.

‘A party, love?’ Mum sounds tense. ‘You mean, a few friends over?’

‘No! A big party! With a marquee and everything.’

Now Mum and Dad are exchanging looks.

‘What?’ I say, rankled.

‘It sounds rather … big.’

‘It will be big,’ I say defiantly. ‘And brilliant. I’m going to have a dance-floor that lights up, and fire-eaters, and Luke will be completely blown away.’

I think about this every night; in fact I always conjure up the same image in my head: Luke staring in shock at the most amazing party in the world, and being literally unable to speak. I can’t
wait
.

‘Fire-eaters?’ echoes Mum, looking perturbed. ‘Becky, love …’

‘It’ll be George Michael all over again,’ Dad mutters darkly to Mum, and I give a sharp intake of breath. That is
against
our family code. No one was supposed to mention George Michael ever again. We even turn off ‘Careless Whisper’ whenever it comes on.

‘I heard that, thank you, Dad.’ I give him a furious stare. ‘And it
won’t.’

The George Michael incident was so painful, I can barely bring myself to remember the details. So I won’t. Except that I was turning thirteen, and my whole class thought George Michael was entertaining at my birthday party. Because I’d said he was. And they all came with their autograph books and cameras …

I feel a bit queasy, just thinking about it.

Thirteen-year-old girls are mean.

And I had
not
made it up, like everyone said. I had
not
. I phoned the fan club and the man said he was sure George would have loved to be there and I kind of … misunderstood.

‘And do you remember the fairies, Graham?’ Mum suddenly claps a hand to her head. ‘All those sobbing, hysterical little girls.’

Why do parents have to
remind
you of things all the time? OK, so maybe I shouldn’t have told my schoolfriends that I had real fairies in my garden and they were coming to my fifth birthday party and everyone would get a wish. And then I shouldn’t have said the fairies had changed their minds because no one had given me a nice enough present.

But I was
five
. You do things when you’re five. It doesn’t mean you’re going to do them when you’re twenty-nine.

‘Anything else you want to bring up from my past?’ I can’t help sounding hurt.

‘Love.’ Mum puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m just saying … birthday parties haven’t been your strong point. Have they, now?’

‘Well, this one will be,’ I retort, but Mum still looks anxious.

‘Just don’t make too many
promises
, darling.’

‘Why don’t you take Luke out to dinner instead?’ suggests Dad. ‘The King’s Arms does a lovely set meal.’

OK, I officially give up on all my friends and family. The King’s
Arms?

‘I don’t want a dreary old set meal in a pub! I want to throw Luke a
party
. And I’m going to, even if you think it’ll be a disaster!’

‘We don’t!’ says Mum hastily, shooting a glance at Dad. ‘That’s not what we were saying, and I’m sure we can all help—’

‘You don’t need to,’ I say haughtily. ‘I have all the help I need, thank you.’

And I sweep out of the kitchen before either of them can reply. Which I know is really immature and teenagery of me. But honestly. Parents are so …
annoying
.

And anyway, they’re all wrong, because hosting a surprise party is a doddle. Why don’t I do it more often? By that evening, I’ve got it all sorted. We’re having a marquee in Janice’s garden on 7 April. Janice and Martin are totally on board and sworn to utter secrecy. (So is the plumber who was fixing their tap and listening in to the whole conversation. He’s absolutely promised not to say a word.)

On the less good side, Mum’s even more hysterical than before. She’s heard some scare story on the radio about how Britain’s national debt is a big black hole and pensions are all going to collapse, and basically money won’t exist any more. Or something. So we’re having a family conference. Minnie’s in bed and a bottle of wine is open and we’re sitting round the table in the kitchen.

‘So,’ Dad begins, ‘clearly the world is in a bit of a … state.’

‘I’ve just looked in the cellar.’ Mum sounds a bit tremulous. ‘We’ve still got all that bottled water we bought for the Millennium bug. And eight boxes of canned food, and all the candles. We’d be all right for three months, I think, although what we’d do about little Minnie …’

‘Jane, we’re not under
siege
,’ says Dad a little testily. ‘Waitrose is still open, you know.’

‘You never know! We need to be prepared! It said in the
Daily World
—’

‘But there may be financial worries ahead,’ Dad interrupts, looking grave. ‘For all of us. So I suggest that we all look at ways that we can CB.’

There’s a gloomy silence round the table. None of us is very keen on CB. It’s Dad’s shorthand for Cut Back and it’s never any fun.

‘I know where all the money’s going,’ says Mum adamantly. ‘It’s on those luxury roasted nuts from Marks & Spencer you insist on buying, Graham. Do you know how much they cost? And you sit there in front of the TV, eating handfuls at a time …’

‘Nonsense,’ says Dad heatedly. ‘You know where our money goes? It’s on jam. How many pots of jam do we need? Who needs …’ He reaches into a cupboard and grabs a pot at random. ‘Gooseberry and elderflower?’

I bought that, actually, at a craft fair.