Mini Shopaholic (19 page)

By the time I’ve finished them all, I feel a million times better. It turns out Erica’s a proper caterer! She’s going to do a whole selection and serve them herself.
And
the Missoni coat looks fabulous on her, especially when I throw in a patent belt and some knee-high shiny Prada boots (which always cut into my shins and I never wore anyway) and re-do her hair.

And she said if I want to expand to catering the whole party, she’s willing to barter some more!

I’m glowing all over with pride. It worked! Here I am, bartering in my local community, being totally green and worthy, using the world’s resources the way we were
meant
to. Without money, without credit cards, without waste. Wait till I tell Jess!

Happily I drift inside and check on Minnie. Then I turn on my laptop, and just out of interest, summon up Erica’s catering website. Wow. It’s really impressive. There she is, looking all smart and professional in her apron. And there’s a page of testimonials … and here’s a list of party menus … and …

What?

I stare at the web-page in shock. I don’t believe this.

The Missoni coat, Prada boots and belt that I bartered were worth a total of sixteen hundred quid at
least –
and it says here I could get exactly the same lot of canapés for twelve hundred in her ‘Special Nibbles Deal’.

I’ve spent four hundred quid too much. No
wonder
she was so keen.

As I close down the computer, I’m absolutely seething. I was right the first time. Bartering’s a stupid, rubbish system and there was a
reason
it went out of fashion and I’m never doing it again, ever. What’s wrong with
money?

D
R
J
AMES
L
INFOOT
36 H
ARLEY
S
TREET
L
ONDON
W1

Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Street
Oxshott
Surrey

17 February 2006

Dear Rebecca

Thank you for your letter of 15 February.

I am indeed a specialist in the heart and lungs and was sorry to hear of your symptoms. However, I think it unlikely they have been brought about by ‘shopping cold turkey’.

I do not agree that it is imperative that you ‘buy a few little things for the sake of your health’. Nor can I issue you with a ‘prescription to go shopping’.

I suggest you visit your local GP if symptoms persist.

Kind regards

James Linfoot

CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT
FOR MONETARY POLICY
5th Floor
180 Whitehall Place
London SW1

Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey

20 February 2006

Dear Rebecca

Thank you for your letter of 16 February.

I can understand your unhappiness at your unfortunate recent bartering experience. I will indeed, if I get the chance, warn the Chancellor that ‘bartering is not the way to go after all’. Please do not worry: he has not already embarked on ‘swapping all our stuff with France’s’.

If it is any consolation, the inefficiencies of illiquid financial instruments have always been a source of frustration to investors. Coincidentally, I am currently writing a paper entitled ‘A History of the Valuation and Pricing of Illiquid Investments since 1600’ for
The British Journal of Monetary Economics
. With your permission, I would like to use your example of bartering disappointment as anecdotal ‘flavour’. I will, of course, credit you in a footnote if you so wish.

Yours sincerely

Edwin Tredwell
Director of Policy Research

ALARIS PUBLICATIONS LTD
PO Box 45
London E16 4JK

Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey

27 February 2006

Dear Rebecca

Thank you for your demo CD: ‘Becky’s Inspirational Speeches’, which we have listened to. They were certainly very lively and some of the anecdotes most amusing.

You assert that your ‘profound and spiritual message comes across loud and clear’. Unfortunately, after several careful listens, we were unable to detect exactly what that message was. Indeed, there seemed to be several messages in your text – some contradicting the others.

We will not therefore be releasing a twelve-part set and advertising it on the TV, as you suggest.

Yours truly

Celia Hereford
Director (Mind-Body-Spirit)

ELEVEN

It’s happening. It’s actually, definitely happening. The party invitations have gone out! No turning back now.

Bonnie emailed the final guest list over yesterday, to my secret-party email account. As I ran my eye down it, I suddenly felt a bit nervous. I’d forgotten how well connected Luke is. Some really important, grown-up people have been invited, like the chairman of Foreland Investments and the whole board of the Bank of London. There’s even someone called the Right Reverend St John Gardner-Stone, who sounds petrifying and I can’t believe he was ever a friend of Luke’s. (I quickly Googled him – and when I saw his massive bushy beard, I believed it even less.)

Two hundred important people coming for a party. And I don’t have a marquee yet. No one else responded to my barter ad, and there’s no
way
I can afford one from a posh hire company. My stomach clenches with anxiety every time I think about it. But I have to stay positive. I’ll get one somehow. I just have to. And I’ve got the canapés and the pound-shop table confetti and I’ve made forty pom-poms already …

Could I
make
a marquee? Out of shopping bags?

I have a sudden vision of a perfect patchwork marquee, with hundreds of designer names shining all over it …

No. Let’s be realistic. Pom-poms is my limit.

On the plus side, my latest fab plan is to get the party sponsored. I’ve written loads of letters to the marketing directors of companies like Dom Perignon and Bacardi, telling them what a great opportunity it will be for them to become involved with such a glitzy, high-profile event. If just a few of them send us some free stuff, we’ll be sorted. (And obviously I’ve sworn them to secrecy. If any of them blab, they’re
dead.)

I glance nervously down at myself, and brush a speck off Minnie’s little pink tweed coat. We’re walking along Piccadilly, and I’ve never felt so apprehensive in all my life. Two hundred yards away is the Ritz, and in the Ritz is Elinor, waiting in a suite, and that’s where we’re headed.

I still can’t quite believe I’ve done this. I’ve set up a secret meeting. I’ve said absolutely nothing to Luke. It feels like the most massive betrayal. But at the same time … it feels like something I’ve just got to do. I’ve got to give Elinor a chance to know her grandchild. Just one.

And if it’s a disaster or if Elinor says anything appalling, I’ll just whisk Minnie away and pretend it never happened.

The Ritz is as grand and beautiful as ever, and I have a sudden flashback to coming here with Luke for a date, before we were even going out together. Imagine if I’d known then that we’d end up getting married and having a daughter. Imagine if I’d known I’d end up betraying him with a secret meeting with his mother—

No. Stop it. Don’t think about it.

As we walk into the Ritz, a dark-haired bride is standing a few feet away, wearing the most amazing sheath dress with a long sparkly veil and tiara, and I feel a sudden pang of lust. God, I’d love to get married again.

I mean, to Luke, obviously.

‘Pin-cess.’ Minnie is pointing at the bride with her chubby finger, her eyes like saucers. ‘Pin-cess!’

The bride turns and smiles charmingly down at Minnie. She takes a little pink rosebud out of her bouquet, rustles over to us and hands it to Minnie, who beams back, then reaches for the biggest, most succulent rose.

‘No, Minnie!’ I grab her hand just in time. ‘Thanks so much!’ I add to the bride. ‘You look lovely. My daughter thinks you’re a princess.’

‘Pince?’ Minnie is looking all around. ‘Pince?’

The bride meets my eye and laughs. ‘There’s my prince, sweetheart.’ She points to a man in morning dress who’s approaching over the patterned carpet.

Yikes. He’s short, squat, balding and in his fifties. He looks more like a frog. I can tell from Minnie’s puzzled frown that she’s not convinced.

‘Pince?’ she says again to the bride. ‘Where pince?’

‘Congratulations and have a lovely day!’ I say hastily. ‘We’d better go.’ And I hurriedly lead Minnie away, her little voice still piping up, ‘Where pince?’

I’m half-hoping the man at the reception desk might say, ‘Sorry, Elinor Sherman’s gone out for the afternoon,’ and we can forget all about it and go to Hamleys instead. But she’s clearly primed the staff, because he immediately leaps to attention and says, ‘Ah yes, Mrs Sherman’s visitors,’ and escorts me up in the lift himself. And so, before I know it, I’m standing in an elegant carpeted corridor, knocking on the door, my hand suddenly trembling.

Maybe this was a terrible idea. Oh God. It was, wasn’t it? It was a terrible, terrible,
bad
idea—

‘Rebecca.’ She opens the door so suddenly, I squeak in fright.

‘Hi.’ I clutch Minnie’s hand tighter and for a moment we all just stare at each other. Elinor’s dressed in white bouclé, with giant pearls round her neck. She seems to have got even thinner, and her eyes are weirdly wide as she looks from me to Minnie.

She’s
scared
, I suddenly realize.

Everything’s turned on its head. I used to be petrified of
her
.

‘Come in.’ She stands aside and I gently lead Minnie in. The room’s beautiful, with grand furniture and a view over Green Park, and there’s a table laid with a teapot and a posh tiered cake stand full of little éclairs and things. I guide Minnie to a stiff sofa and lift her on to it. Elinor sits down too, and there’s a silent moment so twitchy and uncomfortable I almost feel like screaming.

At last Elinor draws breath. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she says to Minnie.

Minnie just gazes back with huge eyes. She seems a bit cowed by Elinor.

‘It’s Earl Grey,’ Elinor adds to Minnie. ‘I will order a different variety if you would prefer.’

She’s asking a
two-year-old
what kind of tea she likes? Has she ever had any dealings with a two-year-old before?

Well. Actually, probably not.

‘Elinor …’ I put in gently. ‘She doesn’t drink tea. She doesn’t really know what tea is. Hot!’ I add sharply as Minnie makes a lunge for the teapot. ‘No, Minnie.’

‘Oh.’ Elinor seems put out.

‘She can have a biscuit, though,’ I add quickly.

I quite like the look of those biscuits myself. And the cakes.

With the very tips of her fingers, Elinor places a biscuit on a gold-embossed plate and hands it to Minnie. Is she crazy? A priceless porcelain plate from the Ritz … and a toddler? I almost want to cover my eyes as I imagine Minnie dropping the plate, hurling the plate, crushing the biscuit to crumbs, basically causing chaos …

But to my amazement, Minnie’s sitting bolt upright, her plate on her lap, the biscuit untouched, her gaze still fixed on Elinor. She seems mesmerized by her. And Elinor seems a bit mesmerized by Minnie, too.

‘I am your grandmother, Minnie,’ she says rigidly. ‘You may call me … Grandmother.’

‘Gran-muff,’ says Minnie hesitantly.

I feel a sudden bolt of panic in my heart. I can’t have Minnie going around saying ‘Gran-muff’. Luke will want to know what or who ‘Gran-muff’ is.

I can’t even pretend she’s talking about Mum, because Minnie calls her ‘Grana’, which is totally different.

‘No,’ I say hurriedly. ‘She can’t call you Grandmother or Gran-muff or anything like that. She’ll only say it at home and Luke will find out. He doesn’t know I’m here.’ I feel the tension creep into my voice. ‘And he
can’t
know. OK?’

Elinor is silent. She’s waiting for me to continue, I realize. I really am calling all the shots here.

‘She can call you …’ I search in my mind for something innocuous and impersonal. ‘Lady. Minnie, this is Lady. Can you say “Lady”?’

‘Lady.’ Minnie gazes at Elinor uncertainly.

‘I’m Lady,’ says Elinor after a pause, and I feel a sudden twinge of pity for her, which is ridiculous, because this is all her own fault for being such an ice-queen bitch. Still, it’s a bit tragic to be sitting in a hotel suite, being introduced to your own grandchild as ‘Lady’.

‘I bought an amusement.’ Elinor gets up abruptly and heads into the bedroom. I take the opportunity to brush down Minnie’s skirt and cram an éclair into my mouth.
God
, that’s delicious.

‘Here you are.’ Elinor stiffly proffers a box.

It’s a jigsaw of an Impressionist painting. Two hundred pieces.

For God’s sake. There is no way on earth Minnie can do a puzzle like this. She’s more likely to eat it.

‘Lovely!’ I say. ‘Maybe we could do it together!’

‘I’m fond of jigsaws,’ says Elinor, and my jaw nearly drops open. This is a first. I’ve never heard Elinor say she’s fond of
anything
before.

‘Well … er … let me open it …’

I open the box and shake the pieces on to the table, fully expecting Minnie to snatch them and post them into the teapot or something.

‘The only way to do a jigsaw is to be methodical,’ says Elinor to Minnie. ‘First we turn the pieces over.’

As she begins doing so, Minnie grabs a handful.

‘No,’ says Elinor, and shoots Minnie one of those chilly glances which used to make me want to shrivel. ‘Not like that.’

For a moment, Minnie is motionless, the pieces still clutched in her tiny hand, as though working out just how serious Elinor is. Their eyes are fixed on each other and they both look deadly determined. In fact …

Oh my God, they look like each other
.

I think I’m going to hyperventilate or pass out or something. I’ve never seen it before – but Minnie has the same eyes and tilt of her chin and the same imperious stare.

My worst fear has come true. I’ve given birth to a mini-Elinor. I grab a tiny meringue and munch it. I need the sugar, for the shock.

‘Give the pieces to me,’ says Elinor to Minnie – and after a pause, Minnie hands them over.

How come Minnie’s behaving so well? What is
up?

Elinor has already begun arranging the pieces on the table, her gaze focused. Blimey. She’s serious about liking jigsaw puzzles, isn’t she?

‘How is Luke?’ she says, without looking up, and I stiffen.

‘He’s … he’s … fine.’ I take a sip of tea, suddenly wishing it was laced with brandy. Just the mention of Luke has made me jumpy. I shouldn’t be here; Minnie shouldn’t be here; if Luke ever found out … ‘We’ll have to go soon,’ I say abruptly. ‘Minnie, five more minutes.’

I can’t believe I’m acting with such confidence. In the past it was always Elinor sweeping in and out on her own terms, and the rest of us dancing attendance around her.

‘Luke and I had a … disagreement.’ Elinor’s head is resolutely bowed over the pieces.

I’m a bit thrown. Elinor doesn’t usually bring up tricksy family subjects.

‘I know,’ I say shortly.

‘There are elements of Luke’s character I find …’ She pauses again. ‘Hard to comprehend.’

‘Elinor, I really can’t get into this,’ I say uncomfortably. ‘I can’t talk about it. It was between you and Luke. I don’t even know what happened, except that you said something about Annabel—’

Is it my imagination, or does Elinor twitch slightly? Her hands are still shuffling jigsaw pieces but her eyes are distant. ‘Luke was devoted to … that woman,’ she says.

That woman
again. Yes, and that’s exactly what he calls you, I feel like saying.

But of course I don’t. I just sip my tea, watching her with more and more curiosity. Who knows what’s going on underneath that lacquered hair. Has she been thinking about her row with Luke all this time? Has she finally realized how she’s wrong-footed herself? Has
she finally
realized what she’s been missing out on?

I’ve never known such a mystery as Elinor. I’d so love to climb inside her head, just once, and see what makes her tick.

‘I only met her once.’ Elinor raises her head with a questioning expression. ‘She did not seem particularly refined. Or elegant.’

‘Is that what you said to Luke?’ I can’t help exclaiming furiously. ‘That Annabel wasn’t refined or elegant? No wonder he walked out on you. She’s
died
, Elinor! He’s
devastated.’

‘No,’ says Elinor, and now there’s a definite little spasm under her eye. It must be the only square millimetre which isn’t Botoxed. ‘That is not what I said. I am merely trying to understand his overreaction.’

‘Luke never overreacts!’ I retort angrily.

OK, this isn’t quite true. I have to admit Luke has been known to overreact to things on occasion. But
honestly
. I feel like hitting Elinor over the head with her silver teapot.

‘He loved her,’ she says now – and I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question.

‘Yes! He loved her!’ I glare at Elinor. ‘Of course he did!’

‘Why?’

I stare at her suspiciously, wondering if she’s trying to score some kind of point – but then I realize she’s serious. She’s actually asking me why.

‘What do you mean,
why?’
I snap in frustration. ‘How can you ask
why?
She was his
mother
!’

There’s a sharp silence. My words seem to be sitting in the still air. I can feel a prickly, awkward feeling creeping over me.

Because, of course, Annabel wasn’t Luke’s mother. Strictly speaking, Elinor’s his mother. The difference is, Annabel knew how to
be
a mother.

Elinor has no idea what being a mother is about. If she did, she wouldn’t have abandoned Luke and his father in the first place, when Luke was still tiny. If she did, she wouldn’t have turned away that day he came to New York aged fourteen. I’ll never forget him telling me about the way he waited outside her apartment building, desperate to meet the mythical, glamorous mother he never saw. The way she came out at last, immaculate and beautiful like a queen. He told me that she saw him across the street, that she
must
have known exactly who he was … but pretended she didn’t. She just got in a taxi and disappeared. And they never saw each other again till he was an adult.

So of course he got a bit obsessed with Elinor. And of course she let him down, again and again. Annabel totally understood it and was endlessly patient and supportive – even when Luke grew up and became in thrall to Elinor. She knew he was dazzled by his natural mother; she knew he’d get hurt by her. All she wanted to do was protect him as much as she could, just like any mother would.