‘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.
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 Mi
nnie 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.
Mini Shopaholic Page 17
