Authors: Sophie Kinsella
‘Dunno,’ I say despairingly. ‘I’ll just have to think of something.’
As I get back home that day, I find Mum and Minnie in the kitchen, both in aprons, icing cupcakes. (Mum got the icing set at the pound shop. And the cakes.) They’re so engrossed and happy that for a moment they don’t see me – and with no warning, I have the weirdest flashback to Elinor, standing in that dressing room, looking old and sad and lonely and asking if she could see her grandchild.
She hasn’t even seen Minnie since she was in her cradle. She’s missed
so
much of Minnie’s life already. Which I know is her own fault, and I know she’s a bitch. But even so …
Oh God. I feel so torn. Should I let Minnie get to know her? Not that I could see Elinor icing cupcakes exactly. But they could do something together. Look through the Chanel catalogue, maybe.
Minnie’s concentrating so hard on putting multi-coloured sprinkles on to her cakes, I don’t want to disturb her. Her face is pink with effort and her little nose is screwed up and there are sprinkles stuck to her cheek with butter icing. As I watch her, my heart feels all crunchy. I could stand here watching her for ever, carefully shaking her little pot. Then suddenly she sees me and her face lights up.
‘Mummy! Spinkles!’ She holds out the pot of sprinkles proudly.
‘Well done, Minnie!
Look
at all your lovely cupcakes!’ I swoop down and give her a kiss. Her face is dusted in icing sugar – in fact, there seems to be a thin layer of icing sugar over pretty much everything in the kitchen.
‘Eat.’ Now Minnie is hopefully offering me a cupcake. ‘Eat spinkles.’ She starts cramming it into my mouth.
‘Yum!’ I can’t help laughing as crumbs fall down my chin. ‘Mmm.’
‘So, Becky!’ Mum looks up from her piping bag. ‘How was the house?’
‘Oh!’ I come to. ‘Great.’
Which is kind of true. It
was
great, apart from the fact that half of it is stolen.
‘And you’re still all set to move in?’
‘Well.’ I rub my nose, and sprinkles fall on the floor. ‘There might be a
tiny
delay …’
‘Delay?’ Mum sounds immediately tense. ‘What kind of delay?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ I backtrack hastily. ‘It may be nothing.’
I watch Mum warily. Her shoulders have stiffened. That’s not a good sign.
‘Well, of course, if there
was
a delay,’ she says at last, ‘you’d stay on here. We wouldn’t dream of anything else.’
Oh God. She sounds so noble and self-sacrificing. I can’t bear it.
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that!’ I say quickly. ‘Although if it did … we could always … rent?’ I hardly dare say the word –and sure enough, she snaps on it like a shark scenting blood.
‘Rent?
You’re not
renting
, Becky. It’s just throwing money away!’
Mum’s pathologically opposed to renting. Every time I’ve tried to suggest that Luke and I rent, she’s behaved as though we’re deliberately paying money to a landlord to spite her. And when I say, ‘Loads of people in Europe rent,’ she just sniffs and says, ‘Europe!’
‘Becky,
is
there a problem?’ Mum stops icing and looks at me properly. ‘Are you moving out or not?’
I can’t tell her the truth. We’re just going to have to move out. Somehow.
‘Of course we’re moving out!’ I say brightly. ‘Of course we are! I just said there
might
be a delay. But there probably won’t. We’ll be gone in three weeks.’ And I hurry out of the kitchen before she can ask anything else.
OK. So I have three weeks to sort out the house situation. Or find another solution. Or buy a yurt.
God, yurts are expensive. I’ve just looked them up online. Thousands of pounds, just for a bit of tarpaulin. So I’m not sure we’ll be doing that. I’m not sure
what
we’ll be doing.
But I won’t think about it right now, because I’m about to do my first bit of bartering. Mum and Dad are out, and Luke’s got a business dinner, and Minnie’s in bed, so the way is clear. I’m quite excited! Here begins a whole new way of life. Zero-consumption, green, ethical bartering in the local community. The way life
should
be. I’ll probably never go shopping again. People will call me The Girl Who Never Goes Shopping.
My first barterer, called Nicole Taylor, is coming round at seven o’clock with a marquee, and I’m giving her two Marc Jacobs bags in return, which I think is a fair swap, especially as I never use them any more. I’ve wrapped them up in tissue paper and put them in the original packaging, and even thrown in a Marc Jacobs keyring to be generous. The only hitch I can foresee is that it might be hard getting the marquee into the garage if it’s really massive. But I’m sure I’ll manage somehow.
Then I’ve got a fire-eater called Daryl, who’s swapping his services for a Luella clutch (which seems a bit weird, but maybe he wants it for his girlfriend or something). And a juggler, who’s getting a pair of Gina sandals. And some woman who cooks canapés who’s going to swap them for a Missoni coat. (I’ll be quite sorry to see that go, but the Banana Republic one I put up originally didn’t get a single offer.)
The one I’m most excited about is the fire-eater. He said he’d do a demonstration and everything. I wonder if he’s going to come along in a spangly costume! The doorbell rings and I feel a flurry of excitement as I hurry to the front door. This must be the marquee!
‘Hello!’ I fling the door open, half-expecting to see a great big wedding-style marquee, fully erected on the front lawn and all lit up.
‘Hiya.’ A thin girl looks at me sidelong from the front step. She’s only about sixteen, with lank hair hanging either side of a pale face, and she doesn’t seem to have a marquee with her, unless it’s folded up very small.
‘Are you Nicole?’ I say uncertainly.
‘Yeah.’ She nods and I get a waft of spearmint gum.
‘Have you come to barter a marquee for two Marc Jacobs bags?’
There’s a long pause, as though she’s mulling this over.
‘Can I see the bags?’ she says.
This isn’t going quite as I expected.
‘Well, can I see the marquee?’ I counter. ‘How big is it? Could I get two hundred people in it? Is it stripy?’
There’s another long pause.
‘My dad owns a marquee company,’ she says at last. ‘I can get you one, I swear.’
She can
get me one?
What kind of rubbishy bartering is this?
‘You were supposed to be bringing it with you!’ I say indignantly.
‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t, could I?’ she says sulkily. ‘But I’ll get you one. When d’you need it? Are those the bags?’ Her eyes have fallen greedily on the Marc Jacobs carriers by my feet.
‘Yes,’ I say reluctantly.
‘Can I have a look?’
‘I suppose so.’
She unwraps the first – a grey tote – and gasps, her whole face lighting up. I can’t help feeling a pang of empathy. I can tell she’s a fellow handbag-lover.
‘God, I love this. I
have
to have it.’ She’s already got it on her shoulder and is twisting it this way and that. ‘Where’s the other one?’
‘Look, you can only have them if you get me a marquee—’
‘Hey, Daryl.’ Nicole lifts a hand at another lank teenager who’s coming into the drive. This one’s a boy in skinny jeans with dyed black hair and a rucksack on his back.
Is
this
the fire-eater?
‘Do you know him?’ I say a bit disbelievingly.
‘We’re at sixth-form college together, doing fashion studies.’ Nicole chews her gum. ‘’Swhere we saw your ads online.’
‘Hi.’ Daryl shuffles up and raises a limp hand in a kind of greeting. ‘I’m Daryl.’
‘You’re really a fire-eater?’ I look at him dubiously. I was picturing someone more macho, with a permatan and gleaming teeth and a sequinned jockstrap. But then, I shouldn’t judge. Maybe this Daryl grew up in the circus or something.
‘Yeah.’ He nods several times, his eyes twitching.
‘And you want my Luella clutch in exchange?’
‘I collect Luella pieces.’ He nods fervently. ‘Love Luella.’
‘Daryl designs bags,’ puts in Nicole. ‘He’s, like,
really
talented. Where did you buy this?’ She’s still entranced by the Marc Jacobs bag.
‘Barneys in New York.’
‘Barneys?’ she gasps. ‘Have you been there? What’s it like?’
‘Actually, I used to work there.’
‘No
way.’
Now Daryl is goggling at me in awe. ‘I’m saving up to go to New York.’
‘We both are.’ Nicole nods vigorously. ‘I got up to a hundred and sixty pounds before Christmas. Only then it was the sales. And I went into Vivienne Westwood.’ She winces.
‘I went into Paul Smith.’ Daryl sighs. ‘Now I’m down to thirty quid.’
‘I’m down to minus eighty,’ says Nicole gloomily. ‘I owe my dad. He was like, “What do you need another jacket for?” and I was like, “Dad! It’s Vivienne
Westwood.”
And he just looked at me, like, “Huh?” ’
‘I know exactly how you feel,’ I can’t help chiming in sympathetically. ‘They just don’t understand. Which jacket was it?
Not
that fabulous red one with the lining?’
‘Yeah!’ Her face lights up. ‘It was! And these amazing shoes … I’ve got a photo somewhere …’ She starts scrolling through her phone.
She’s just like me! I have photos of all my favourite clothes.
‘Can I hold the Luella?’ ventures Daryl as I admire Nicole’s Westwood shoes.
‘Of course! Here it is.’ I hand him the Luella clutch and Daryl gazes at it reverently for a moment. ‘So … maybe we should get down to business. Could you demonstrate your fire-eating? It’s for a party. I want a really cool display.’
There’s a tiny pause, then Daryl says, ‘Yeah. Sure. I’ll show you.’
He puts his rucksack on the ground, rifles in it for a moment, then produces a long wooden stick, which he sets alight with a Zippo.
That doesn’t look anything like a normal fire-eater’s stick. It looks like a bamboo cane out of the garden.
‘Come on, Daryl.’ Nicole is watching him with concentration. ‘You can do it.’
Daryl throws back his head, exposing a skinny neck, and lifts up the stick. With a trembling hand, he brings the flame within a few inches of his mouth, then flinches and jerks it away.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘Bit hot.’
‘You can do it!’ encourages Nicole again. ‘Come on. Just think,
Luella.’
‘OK.’ His eyes are closed and he seems to be psyching himself up. ‘I’m doing it. I’m doing it.’
The stick is half on fire by now. OK, there’s no
way
this guy is a proper fire-eater.
‘Wait!’ I exclaim as he lifts the flaming stick up again. ‘Have you ever done this before?’
‘Learned it off YouTube,’ says Daryl, his face sweating. ‘I’ll do it.’
YouTube?
‘Exhale, Daryl,’ chimes in Nicole, looking anxious. ‘Remember,
exhale.’
He lifts the stick up again, his hand shaking. Orange flames are billowing up like an inferno. In a minute he’s going to set us all alight.
‘C’mon,’ he’s muttering to himself.
‘C’mon
, Daryl.’
‘Stop it!’ I shout in horror. ‘You’ll hurt yourself! Look, you can have the Luella clutch, OK? You can
have
it! Just don’t burn your face!’
‘Really?’ Daryl lowers the stick, looking a bit white and trembly, then suddenly jumps as the flame licks his hand. ‘Ow! Fuck!’ He drops it to the ground, shaking his hand, and we watch it slowly burn itself out.
‘You’re not a fire-eater at all, are you?’ I say at last.
‘Nah.’ He scuffs his foot. ‘Just wanted the clutch. Can I really still have it?’
I can’t blame him. To be honest, if I saw an ad offering a designer bag in return for fire-eating skills, I’d probably pretend I could fire-eat, too. But still, I can’t help feeling deflated. What am I going to do about Luke’s party now?
‘OK.’ I sigh. ‘You can have it.’
I look at Nicole, her face all hopeful, her arm still wrapped round the grey Marc Jacobs bag. The truth is, I never use either of those bags any more. And something tells me I’m never going to get a marquee for them.
‘And Nicole, you can keep the Marc Jacobs bags if you like.’
‘Legend!’ She nearly explodes with joy. ‘For real? Do you want me to … wash your car or anything?’
‘No thanks!’ I can’t help laughing.
Nicole’s face is glowing. ‘This is
awesome
. Oh look, there’s Julie.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I say. ‘Another friend of yours.’
A blonde teenage girl is coming up the drive, holding three coloured balls.
‘Hi!’ She smiles hesitantly. ‘I’m the juggler? For the Gina sandals?’
‘Can you juggle?’ I say bluntly.
‘Well …’ She looks anxiously at Nicole, who grimaces back and shakes her head. ‘Um … I’m a quick learner?’
As Daryl, Nicole and Julie head back down the drive, I sink on to the front step and stare out, hugging my knees. I can’t help feeling gloomy. Some bartering that was. I mean, it’s not that I
begrudge
giving away stuff. In fact, it was a pleasure to see my things going to good homes. And all three of them were really grateful.
But still, it wasn’t exactly a successful transaction, was it? If you ask me, bartering’s crap and I don’t know why I ever believed Jess. I’m down three designer bags and a pair of sandals and I haven’t got anything to show for it. The party isn’t any further forward … and we haven’t got a house … and we’ve got to move out … My head is sinking further and further forward, and it’s a few moments before I hear a gentle voice saying, ‘Rebecca?’
I look up to see a woman in a neat jacket and skirt holding out a tray of food.
‘It’s Erica,’ she says. ‘From Oxshottmarketplace.com? With the canapés for the Missoni coat? I thought I’d bring a selection and you could make your choice.’
I struggle to my feet and stare at her suspiciously for a moment. ‘Can you actually cook?’
Erica laughs. ‘Take a bite,’ she gestures at the tray, ‘and you tell me.’
Silently I reach forward, take a canapé and bite into it. It’s prawn and chilli on shortcrust pastry and it’s delicious. And so is the avocado and mozzarella roll.