Mini Shopaholic

Elinor shakes her head with the barest of movements. This is officially the most bizarre appointment I’ve ever known. Most people, if they were going to spend eight grand on clothes, would at least come out and do a twirl and say, ‘What do you think?’

Jasmine passes by with a rack of clothes and I see her eyeing Elinor incredulously. She is quite a sight, Elinor, with her pale, tight, over-made-up face, and veiny hands laden with rocks, and her steely, imperious gaze. She’s looking older too, I abruptly realize. Her skin is looking thin and papery, and I can see a couple of grey wisps at her temple which the hairdresser obviously missed. (I expect he’ll be shot at dawn.)

‘So, is there anything else I can help you with? Evening wear? Accessories?’

Elinor opens her mouth. Then she closes it, then opens it again. She looks as though she’s really struggling to utter something, and I watch in apprehension. Is she going to mention Luke? Does she have some piece of bad news? There has to be a reason she’s come here.

‘Evening wear,’ she murmurs at last.

Yeah, right. That’s really what you were about to say.

I fetch her six evening dresses and she chooses three. And then two bags. And a stole. The whole thing is becoming farcical. She’s spent about twenty grand and she still won’t look me in the eye and she still won’t say whatever she’s come here to say.

‘Would you like any … refreshments?’ I say at last, trying to sound normal and pleasant. ‘Can I get you a cappuccino? A cup of tea? A glass of champagne?’

We’ve run out of categories of clothes. She can’t buy anything else. She can’t stave it off any longer. Whatever it is.

Elinor’s just standing there, her head bowed slightly, her hands clutched around the handle of her bag. I’ve never known her this subdued. It’s almost scary. And she hasn’t insulted me once, I realize in sudden astonishment. She hasn’t said my shoes are shoddy or my nail polish is vulgar. What’s up with her? Is she ill?

At last, as though with a huge effort, she raises her head.

‘Rebecca.’

‘Yes?’ I say nervously. ‘What is it?’

When she speaks again, it’s so quietly I can barely hear her.

‘I wish to see my grandchild.’

Oh God, oh God, oh God. What do I do?

All the way home my head is spinning. Never in a million years did I think this would happen. I didn’t think Elinor was even interested in Minnie.

When Minnie was first born she didn’t bother visiting us for about three months. Then she just pitched up one day with her driver waiting outside, glanced into the crib, said ‘Is she normal?’ and when we’d said yes, left. And whereas most people give you gorgeous things like teddies or cute booties, Elinor sent the most hideous antique doll with ringlets and scary eyes like in a horror film. It was so creepy, Mum wouldn’t have it in the house, and in the end I sold it on eBay. (So Elinor had better not ask to see it or anything.)

And all this was before the big row between her and Luke, since when we’ve barely mentioned her name. About two months before Christmas I tried to ask if we’d be giving her a present, and Luke nearly bit my head off. I haven’t dared mention her since.

Of course there’s one easy option ahead of me. I could just throw her card in the bin and pretend I never saw her. Blank the whole thing from my mind. I mean, what could she do about it?

But somehow … I can’t bring myself to. I’ve never seen Elinor look vulnerable before; not like she did today. During those tense moments when she was waiting for me to answer, I couldn’t see Elinor the ice-queen, I just saw Elinor the lonely old woman with papery hands.

Then, as soon as I said ‘OK, I’ll ask Luke,’ she immediately reverted to her normal sub-zero manner and started telling me how inferior The Look was to shops in Manhattan and how the English didn’t understand service culture and how there were specks on the carpet in the dressing room.

But somehow she’d got under my skin. I can’t ignore her. I can’t throw her card away. She may be a total bitch ice-queen but she is Minnie’s grandmother. They are flesh and blood. You know. If Elinor had any of either.

And after all, it’s possible Luke might have mellowed. What I need to do is raise the subject very carefully. Very, very gently, like waving an olive branch in the air. And I’ll see what happens.

So that night I wait up till Luke gets back, has kissed Minnie goodnight, had a whisky and is getting undressed, before I broach anything.

‘Luke … about your mother,’ I begin tentatively.

‘I was thinking about Annabel today too.’ Luke turns, his face softened. ‘Dad emailed me some old pictures of her today. I’ll show you.’ ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">