Mini Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

  ‘Man!’ Minnie has grabbed a puppet in addition to the book. ‘Mine man! Miiiine!’

  ‘Er …’ I look doubtfully at the puppet. It is quite sweet, and we don’t have any puppets. ‘Well, OK. As long as you get it out of your pocket money. Do you understand, darling?’ I speak super-clearly. ‘It has to come out of your pocket money.’

  ‘Goodness!’ says Nanny Sue as we head to the till. ‘How much pocket money does Minnie get?’

  ‘Fifty pence a week,’ I reply, reaching for my purse. ‘But we have a system where she can have an advance and pay it back. It teaches her budgeting.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ persists Nanny Sue. ‘In what sense is she budgeting?’

  Honestly. She’s quite slow, for a so-called expert.

  ‘Because it all goes in the book.’ I scribble down the cost of the book and the puppet, slap the notebook shut and beam at Minnie. ‘Let’s find you some socks, darling.’

  God, I love Funky Kid. They change their décor each season, and today the whole place is done up like a barn, with wooden beams and bales of fake straw. It has fantastic clothes for kids, like quirky knitted cardigans with hoods, and padded coats with appliqué patches. I find some adorable socks with cherries and bananas round the hems, half price at £4.99, and put two pairs of each into my basket.

  ‘There,’ says Nanny Sue briskly. ‘Well done. Shall we go to the check-out?’

  I don’t reply. I’ve been distracted by a rail of little pinafores. I remember these from the catalogue. They’re mint-green needlecord, with a white cross-stitch border. They’re absolutely gorgeous, and they’re 70 per cent off! I quickly look through the rails – but there aren’t any in age 2–3. Of course there aren’t. They’ve been snapped up. Damn.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I ask a passing sales assistant. ‘Do you have any of these in size 2–3?’

  At once she makes a face. ‘Sorry. I don’t think we’ve got any in that size. It’s so popular.’

  ‘Does Minnie need a pinafore?’ enquires Nanny Sue, coming up behind me.

  I’m getting a bit sick of Nanny Sue and her pointless questions.

  ‘They’re tremendously good value,’ I say smoothly. ‘I always think as a responsible parent you should look for bargains, don’t you agree, Nanny Sue? In fact …’ A sudden inspiration has come to me. ‘I think I’ll stock up for next year.’

  I grab a pinafore in age 3-4. Perfect! Why didn’t I think of that before? I take a red pinafore too, and head towards a rack of pale-pink raincoats with flower hoods. They don’t have any small sizes at all – but I find a size 7–8. I mean, Minnie will need a coat when she’s seven, won’t she?

  And there’s a really lovely velvet jacket, age 12, only £20, down from £120! It would be a total mistake not to get it.

  I can’t believe how far-sighted I’m being as I fill my basket with more and more clothes. I’ve practically bought all Minnie’s key pieces for the next ten years, at rock-bottom prices! I won’t need to buy her anything else!

  As I pay for the lot I feel a glow of self-satisfaction. I must have saved hundreds.

  ‘Well!’ Nanny Sue seems a bit lost for words as the assistant hands me three huge bags. ‘You bought a lot more than a pair of socks!’

  ‘Just thinking ahead.’ I adopt a wise, motherly tone. ‘Children grow so quickly, you have to be prepared. Shall we go and get a coffee?’

  ‘Starbucks?’ chimes in Minnie at once. She’s been watching me attentively, and has insisted on wearing the age 7–8 pale-pink raincoat, even though it’s trailing on the floor. ‘Starbucks-muffin?’

  ‘We might just have to go to a chain coffee shop.’ I try to sound regretful. ‘They may not have an organic health-food cooperative.’

  I consult the map – and to get to the food court we’re going to have to walk past all the designer shops. Which is fine. I’ll be fine. I just won’t look in the windows.

  As the three of us start walking along, my eyes are focused straight ahead, on that pointy metal modern sculpture hanging down from the ceiling. It’s fine. It’s good. Actually, I’ve got used to not shopping. I barely miss it at all …

  Oh my God, it’s that Burberry coat with the frills that was on the catwalk. Right there in the window. I wonder how much …

  No. Keep walking, Becky. Don’t look. I close my eyes until they’re two squinty slits. Yes. This is good. If I can’t actually see the shops—

  ‘Are you all right?’ Nanny Sue suddenly notices me. ‘Rebecca, are you ill?’

  ‘I’m fine!’ My voice sounds a bit strangled. It’s been so long since I shopped. I can feel a kind of pressure building up inside me; a kind of bubbling desperation.

  But I have to ignore it. I promised Luke. I promised.

  Think about something else. Yes. Like when I did that labour class and they said you breathe to distract yourself from the pain. I’ll breathe to distract myself from the shopping.

  Breathe in … breathe out … breathe in … oh my God, it’s a Temperley dress.

  My legs have stopped dead. It’s a white and gold Temperley evening dress, in a shop called Fifty Percent Frocks. It has stunning embroidery around the neck and it sweeps to the floor and it looks like something straight off the red carpet. And it has a sign by it, saying ‘Extra 20% off today’.

  My fingers are gripped round my shopping bags as I stare through the window.

  I can’t buy this dress. I musn’t even look at it.

  But somehow … I can’t move, either. My feet are rooted to the polished marble floor.

  ‘Rebecca?’ Nanny Sue has come to a halt. She peers in at the dress and clicks her tongue disapprovingly. ‘These dresses are terribly expensive, aren’t they? Even on sale.’

  Is that all she can say? This is the most beautiful dress in the world, and it’s a fraction of its full price and if I hadn’t made that stupid promise to Luke …

  Oh my God. I have the answer. In fact, this could be the answer to a lot of things.

  ‘Minnie.’ Abruptly I turn to her. ‘My lovely, precious little girl.’ I bend down and cradle her face tenderly between my hands. ‘Darling … would you like a Temperley dress for your twenty-first birthday present?’

  Minnie doesn’t answer, which is only because she doesn’t understand what I’m offering her. Who wouldn’t want a Temperley dress for their twenty-first? And by the time she’s twenty-one it’ll be a rare vintage piece! All her friends will be really envious! They’ll all say, ‘God, Minnie, I wish my mother had bought me a dress when I was two.’ People will call her The Girl in the Vintage Temperley Dress.

  And I could borrow it for Luke’s party. Just to try it out for her.

  ‘Muffin?’ Minnie says hopefully.

  ‘Dress,’ I say firmly. ‘This is for you, Minnie! This is your birthday present!’ Firmly I lead her into the shop, ignoring Nanny Sue’s startled look. It takes me ten seconds to sweep the place and realize the Temperley dress is the best thing they’ve got. I knew it was a bargain.

  ‘Hi!’ I say breathlessly to the assistant. ‘I’d like the Temperley dress, please. At least … it’s for my daughter. I’m buying it in advance, obviously,’ I add, with a little laugh. ‘For her twenty-first.’

  The assistant stares at Minnie. She looks at me. Then she looks at her colleague as though for help.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be the same dress size as me when she grows up,’ I add. ‘So I’ll try it on for her. Do you like the lovely dress, Minnie?’

  ‘No dress.’ Her brows knit together in a frown.

  ‘Darling, it’s Temperley.’ I hold the fabric up to show her. ‘You’ll look gorgeous in it! One day.’

  ‘No dress!’ She runs to the other side of the shop and starts climbing into an open stock drawer.

  ‘Minnie!’ I exclaim. ‘Get out! So sorry …’ I add over my shoulder to the assistant.

  ‘Muffin!’ she yells as I try to manhandle her out. ‘Want muffin!’

  ‘We’ll have a muffin after we’v
e got the dress,’ I say soothingly. ‘It’ll take no time—’

  ‘No dress!’ Somehow she extricates herself from my grasp and scampers into the window display. ‘Dolly! Mine dolly!’

  Now she’s grabbing a naked mannequin.

  ‘Minnie, please stop that, darling.’ I try not to sound as rattled as I feel. ‘Come back here!’

  ‘Mine dolly!’ She drags the whole mannequin down off its podium on to the floor with a crash and starts hugging it. ‘Miiiine!’

  ‘Get off, Minnie!’ I say. ‘It’s not a dolly! She thinks it’s a doll,’ I add to the assistant, aiming for a light-hearted laugh. ‘Aren’t children funny?’

  The assistant doesn’t laugh back, or even smile.

  ‘Could you get her off, please?’ she says.

  ‘Of course! Sorry …’ Red-faced, I try to pull Minnie off as hard as I can. But she’s holding on like a limpet.

  ‘Come on, Minnie!’ I try to sound relaxed and cajoling. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Off you get.’

  ‘No!’ she shrieks. ‘Mine dolleee!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ snaps someone behind me. ‘What’s that child doing? Can’t someone control her?’

  My stomach curdles. I know that whiny, toxic voice. I whip round – and sure enough, it’s the elf who banned us from Santa’s Grotto. She’s still got purple nails and a ridiculous permatanned cleavage, but now she’s dressed in a black suit with a badge reading ‘Assistant Manager’.

  ‘You!’ Her eyes narrow.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say nervously. ‘Nice to see you again. How’s Father Christmas?’

  ‘Could you please remove your child?’ she says in pointed tones.

  ‘Er … OK. No problem.’

  I look at Minnie, still clinging on to the mannequin for dear life. The only way I’m going to get her away is by peeling each finger off individually. I’m going to need ten hands.

  ‘Could we possibly … buy the mannequin?’

  From Permatanned Elf’s expression, I wish I hadn’t asked that question.

  ‘Come on, Minnie. Off you get.’ I try to sound brisk and jolly, like a mother in a soap-powder commercial. ‘Bye-bye, dolly!’

  ‘Noooooooooo!’ She clasps it harder.

  ‘Get off!’ With all my effort I manage to prise one hand off, but she immediately clamps it back down.

  ‘Miiiiine!’

  ‘Get your daughter off that mannequin!’ snaps the elf. ‘Customers are coming in! Get her off!’

  ‘I’m trying!’ I say desperately. ‘Minnie, I’ll buy you a dolly. I’ll buy you two dollies!’

  A group of girls holding shopping bags have stopped to watch us, and one starts giggling.

  ‘Minnie, you will have a Naughty Ribbon!’ I’m totally hot and flustered. ‘And you’ll go on the Naughty Step! And you won’t have any treats ever! And Father Christmas will move to Mars and so will the Tooth Fairy …’ I grab her feet but she kicks me in the shin. ‘Ow! Minnie!’

  ‘Dolleee!’ she wails.

  ‘You know what?’ The elf suddenly savagely erupts. ‘Take the mannequin! Just have the bloody mannequin!’

  ‘Have it?’ I stare at her, bewildered.

  ‘Yes! Anything! Just go! GO! OUT!’

  Minnie is still lying full-length on the mannequin, gripping on to it for dear life. Awkwardly I pick it up with both hands, dragging it along between my legs as if it’s a dead body. Somehow, panting with effort, I manage to lug it outside – then drop it and look up.

  Nanny Sue has followed us out with my three shopping bags. Now she’s just watching me and Minnie silently, her face unreadable.

  And suddenly it’s as if I come out of a trance. Suddenly I see everything that has just happened through Nanny Sue’s eyes. I swallow several times, trying to think of some light-hearted comment about ‘Kids, eh?’ But I can’t think of one, and anyway, my mouth is too dry with nerves. How could I have let this happen? No one on the TV series ever got chucked out of a shop. I’m worse than all the families with fridges in the garden.

  What’s she going to say in her assessment? What will she tell Luke? What will she recommend?

  ‘Have you finished shopping now?’ she says in normal, pleasant tones, as if we aren’t being stared at by every passer-by.

  I nod silently, my face burning.

  ‘Minnie,’ says Nanny Sue. ‘I think you’re hurting the poor dolly. Shall we get off her now and buy you a nice snack? We can buy one for dolly too.’

  Minnie swivels her head and looks mistrustfully at Nanny Sue for a few moments – then clambers off the mannequin.

  ‘Good girl,’ says Nanny Sue. ‘We’ll leave the dolly here at her own home.’ She hefts the mannequin up and props it against the door. ‘Now, let’s find you a drink. Say “Yes, Nanny Sue.” ‘

  ‘Ess Nanny Sue,’ parrots Minnie obediently.

  Huh? How did she do that?

  ‘Rebecca, are you coming?’

  Somehow I manage to get my legs in gear and start walking along with them. Nanny Sue starts talking but I can’t hear a word. I’m too sick with dread. She’s going to file her report and say Minnie needs special treatment at a boot camp. I know she is. And Luke will listen to her. What am I going to do?

  By nine o’clock that night I’m in a total state, pacing around the house, waiting for Luke to get back.

  This is the worst moment in our marriage. Ever. By a million miles. Because if it comes to it, I will be forced to take Minnie away to a safe refuge and never see Luke again and change our names by deed poll and try to forget through alcohol and drugs.

  You know. Worst-case scenario.

  At the sound of his key in the door I stiffen.

  ‘Becky?’ He appears at the kitchen door. ‘I was expecting you to phone! How did it go?’

  ‘Fine! We went shopping and we … er … had coffee.’ I sound totally false and stiff, but Luke doesn’t seem to notice, which just shows how observant he is.

  ‘So, what did she say about Minnie?’

  ‘Not a lot. You know. I expect she’ll report back later. When she’s come to her conclusions.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Luke nods, loosening his tie. He heads to the fridge, then pauses by the table. ‘Your BlackBerry’s flashing.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ I say with stagey surprise. ‘Gosh. I must have a message! Could you listen to it? I’m sooo tired.’

  ‘If you like.’ Luke shoots me an odd look, picks it up and dials voicemail while taking a bottle of beer out of the fridge.

  ‘It’s her.’ He looks up, suddenly alert. ‘It’s Nanny Sue.’

  ‘Really?’ I try to sound astounded. ‘Well … put her on speaker phone!’

  As the familiar West Country vowels fill the kitchen we both listen, motionless.

  ‘… full report to come. But I just had to say, Minnie is an enchanting child. It was a pleasure to spend time with her and your wife. Becky’s parenting skills are second to none and I can diagnose no problems in your family whatsoever. Well done! Goodbye now.’

  ‘Wow!’ I exclaim as the phone goes dead. ‘Isn’t that amazing! Now we can put this whole episode behind us and get on with our lives.’

  Luke hasn’t yet moved a muscle. Now he just turns and gives me a long, hard look.

  ‘Becky.’

  ‘Yes?’ I flash him a nervous smile.

  ‘Was that by any chance Janice, putting on a West Country accent?’

  What? How can he even say that?

  I mean, OK, it was Janice, but she disguised her voice perfectly. I was really impressed.

  ‘No!’ I bluster. ‘It was Nanny Sue, and I’m really offended you should have to ask.’

  ‘Great. Well, I’ll give her a ring to chat about it.’ He pulls out his own BlackBerry

  ‘No, don’t!’ I yelp.

  Why is he so mistrustful? It’s a massive character flaw. I’ll tell him so, one of these days.

  ‘You’ll disturb her,’ I improvise. ‘It’s really antisocial to ring so late.’

 
‘That’s your sole concern, is it?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Being antisocial?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say defiantly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, then I’ll email her.’

  Oh God. This isn’t going the way I planned. I thought I’d buy myself some time, at least.

  ‘OK, OK! It was Janice,’ I say desperately as he starts tapping. ‘But I didn’t have any choice! Luke, it was terrible. It was a disaster. Minnie got banned from a shop and she stole a mannequin and Nanny Sue didn’t say anything, just gave us that look, and I know what she’s going to recommend, but I can’t send Minnie away to some boot camp in Utah, I just can’t do it. And if you make me then I’ll have to take out an injunction and we’ll go to court and it’ll be like Kramer vs. Kramer and she’ll be scarred for life and it’ll be all your fault!’

  Out of nowhere, tears have begun pouring down my cheeks.

  ‘What?’ Luke stares at me incredulously. ‘Utah?’

  ‘Or Arizona. Or wherever it is. I can’t do it, Luke.’ I scrub at my eyes, feeling exactly like Meryl Streep. ‘Don’t ask it of me.’

  ‘I’m not asking it of you! Jesus!’ He seems absolutely stunned. ‘Who mentioned Utah, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘I … er …’ I’m not quite sure now. I know someone did.

  ‘I hired this woman because I thought she could give us some childcare advice. If she’s useful we’ll use her. If not, we won’t.’

  Luke sounds so matter-of-fact, I blink at him in surprise.

  He’s never seen the TV programme, I suddenly remember. He doesn’t know about how Nanny Sue comes into your life and changes everything and you end up sobbing on her shoulder.

  ‘I believe in listening to professionals,’ Luke is saying calmly. ‘Now she’s seen Minnie, we should hear her recommendations. But that’s as far as it goes. Agreed?’

  How can he take a situation that seems like a great big tangled spider’s web and reduce it to a single thread? How does he do that?

  ‘I can’t send Minnie away.’ My voice is still shaky. ‘You’ll have to prise us apart.’

  ‘Becky, there’ll be no prising,’ says Luke patiently. ‘We’ll ask Nanny Sue what we can do that doesn’t involve sending her away. OK? Drama over?’