Mini Shopaholic (Shopaholic #6)

‘Annabel would have done anything for Luke.’ I’m staring determinedly down at my napkin. ‘And she would never have expected any reward or result. She was proud of his success, of course she was, but she would have loved him whatever he’d done. Whatever he’d achieved. He was just her boy and she loved him. And she never switched that love off. I don’t think she could.’

I’m feeling a bit tight around the throat. Even though we hardly ever saw her, Annabel’s death hit me, too. Sometimes I can’t quite believe she isn’t here any more.

‘And by the way, just so you know, she was elegant and refined,’ I can’t help adding, a little savagely. ‘Because when Luke started spending more time in New York, and getting to know you, she never said anything but positive things about you. She loved Luke so much, she’d rather do that and have him happy than ever let him know she was hurt. That’s a pretty elegant and refined way to behave, if you ask me.’

To my horror my eyes are damp. I shouldn’t have got into this. I wipe them furiously and take Minnie’s hand.

‘We’ve got to go, Min. Thanks for the tea, Elinor.’

I’m scrabbling for my bag. I have to get out of here. I don’t bother putting Minnie’s coat on but just grab it, and we’re nearly at the door when Elinor’s voice hits the back of my head.

‘I would like to see Minnie again.’

In spite of myself, I turn to look at her. She’s sitting bolt upright in the chair, her face as pale and expressionless as ever. I can’t tell if she even heard anything I just said, let alone whether it went in.

‘I would …’ She seems to be speaking with a struggle. ‘I would appreciate your kindness if you were to arrange another meeting between me and Minnie.’

She would ‘appreciate my kindness’. God, how the tables have turned.

‘I don’t know,’ I say after a pause. ‘Maybe.’

Thoughts are jumbling round my head. This wasn’t supposed to be the beginning of some regular arrangement. It was supposed to be a one-off. I already feel like I’ve betrayed Luke. And Annabel. And everyone. What am I even doing here?

But at the same time I can’t rid myself of that image: Minnie and Elinor staring silently at each other with the same mesmerized gaze.

If I don’t ever let them see each other, am I just repeating what happened with Luke? Will Minnie get a complex and blame me for not ever letting her see her grandmother?

Oh God, it’s all too complicated. I can’t cope. I want a normal, straightforward family where grannies are kindly creatures who sit by the fire and do knitting.

‘I just don’t know,’ I say again. ‘We have to go.’

‘Goodbye, Minnie.’ Elinor stiffly lifts a hand like the Queen.

‘Bye-bye, Lady,’ says Minnie brightly.

The little pocket of Minnie’s dress is stuffed with jigsaw pieces, I suddenly notice. I should take them out and give them back to Elinor, because otherwise she might spend ages trying to do a jigsaw that’s incomplete. And that would be really annoying and frustrating for her, wouldn’t it?

So as a mature, adult person, I really should give them back.

‘Bye, then,’ I say, then head out of the door and pull it shut.

All the way home I’m swamped with guilt and paranoia. I cannot tell a soul where I was today. No one would understand and Luke would be devastated. Or furious. Or both.

As I head into the kitchen, I’m braced for an instant quiz on where Minnie and I have been all afternoon, but Mum just looks up from her seat at the table and says, ‘Hello, love.’ There’s something about her high-pitched, edgy tone which makes me give her a second glance. Her cheeks are a suspect pink colour, too.

‘Hi, Mum. Everything OK?’ My eyes drop to the navy-blue sock in her hand. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Well!’ Clearly she’s just been waiting for me to ask. ‘I would have thought it was obvious! I’m darning your father’s socks, since we’re too impecunious to afford any new clothes …’

‘I didn’t say that!’ Dad strides into the kitchen behind me.

‘… but now he says they’re unwearable!’ Mum finishes. ‘Does that look unwearable to you, Becky?’

‘Er …’

I examine the sock she thrusts at me. Not to be rude about Mum’s darning, but it does look a bit lumpy, with great big stitches in bright-blue wool. I wouldn’t fancy putting it on.

‘Couldn’t you get some new socks at the pound shop?’ I suggest.

‘New socks? And who’s supposed to pay for those, may I ask?’ demands Mum shrilly, as though I’ve suggested Dad gets the finest bespoke monogrammed socks from Jermyn Street.