So anyway, we’re both feeling rather pleased with ourselves, and decide to go for a cup of tea. Then, on the way out, we pass one of those really sad stalls which no one is going near; the kind people glance at once, then quickly walk past. The poor guy behind it looks really sorry for himself, so I pause to have a look. And no wonder no one’s stopping. He’s selling weird-shaped wooden bowls, and matching wooden cutlery. What on earth is the point of wooden cutlery?
“That’s nice!” I say brightly, and pick one of the bowls up.
“Hand-crafted applewood,” he says. “Took a week to make.”
Well, it was a waste of a week, if you ask me. It’s shapeless and the wood’s a nasty shade of brown. But as I go to put it back down again, he looks so doleful I feel sorry for him and turn it over to look at the price, thinking if it’s a fiver I’ll buy it. But it’s eighty quid! I show the price to Mum, and she pulls a little face.
“That particular piece was featured in Elle Decoration last month,” says the man mournfully, and produces a cutout page. And at his words, I freeze. Elle Decoration? Is he joking?
He’s not joking. There on the page, in full color, is a picture of a room, completely empty except for a suede beanbag, a low table, and a wooden bowl. I stare at it incredulously.
“Was it this exact one?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited. “This exact bowl?” As he nods, my grasp tightens round the bowl. I can’t believe it. I’m holding a piece of Elle Decoration. How cool is that? Now I feel incredibly stylish and trendy — and wish I were wearing white linen trousers and had my hair slicked back like Yasmin Le Bon to match.
It just shows I’ve got good taste. Didn’t I pick out this bowl — sorry, this piece — all by myself? Didn’t I spot its quality? Already I can see our sitting room redesigned entirely around it, all pale and minimalist. Eighty quid. That’s nothing for a timeless piece of style like this.
“I’ll have it,” I say determinedly, and reach inside my bag for my checkbook. The thing is, I remind myself, buying cheap is actually a false economy. It’s much better to spend a little more and make a serious purchase that’ll last for a lifetime. And this bowl is quite clearly a classic. Suze is going to be so impressed.
When we get back home, Mum goes straight inside, but I stay in the driveway, carefully transferring my purchases from her car to mine.
“Becky! What a surprise!”
Oh God. It’s Martin Webster from next door, leaning over the fence with a rake in his hand and a huge friendly smile on his face. Martin has this way of always making me feel guilty, I don’t know why.
Actually I do know why. It’s because I know he was always hoping I would grow up and marry Tom, his son. And I haven’t. The history of my relationship with Tom is: he asked me out once when we were both about sixteen and I said no, I was going out with Adam Moore. That was the end of it and thank God for that. To be perfectly honest, I would rather marry Martin himself than marry Tom.
“Hi!” I say overenthusiastically. “How are you?”
“Oh, we’re all doing well,” says Martin. “You heard Tom’s bought a house?”
“Yes,” I say. “In Reigate. Fantastic!”
“It’s got two bedrooms, shower room, reception room, and open-plan kitchen,” he recites. “Limed oak units in the kitchen.”
“Gosh,” I say. “How fab.”
“Tom’s thrilled with it,” says Martin. “Janice!” he adds in a yell. “Come and see who’s here!”
A moment later, Janice appears on the front doorstep, wearing her floral apron.
“Becky!” she says. “What a stranger you’ve become! How long is it?”
Now I feel guilty for not visiting my parents more often.
“Well,” I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. “You know. I’m quite busy with my job and everything.”
“Oh yes,” says Janice, giving an awestricken nod. “Your job.”
Somewhere along the line, Janice and Martin have got it into their heads that I’m this high-powered financial whiz kid. I’ve tried telling them that really, I’m not — but the more I deny it, the more high powered they think I am. It’s a catch-22. They now think I’m high powered and modest.
Still, who cares? It’s actually quite fun, playing a financial genius.
“Yes, actually we’ve been quite busy lately,” I say coolly. “What with the merger of SBG and Rutland.”
“Of course,” breathes Janice.
“You know, that reminds me,” says Martin suddenly. “Becky, wait there. Back in two ticks.” He disappears before I can say anything, and I’m left awkwardly with Janice.
“So,” I say inanely. “I hear Tom’s got limed oak units in his kitchen!”
This is literally the only thing I can think of to say. I smile at Janice, and wait for her to reply. But instead, she’s beaming at me delightedly. Her face is all lit up — and suddenly I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned Tom’s bloody starter home. I shouldn’t have mentioned the limed oak units. She’ll think I suddenly fancy Tom, now he’s got a starter home to his name.
“It’s limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,” she says proudly. “It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.”
For an instant I consider saying I would have chosen Farmhouse Quarry. But that seems a bit mean.