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Taylor opens the small brown parcel that came in the post yesterday morning.
It's a box -- a jewellery box -- decorated with twinkling sequined stars. For a moment Taylor feels a wave of panic. She's sure it has been sent by someone who wants to upset her -- someone who's guessed the truth. And then she sees Grandad's signature scrawled on the bottom in swirly blue ink and the panic slips back between the rocks again. Instead she makes herself think about Grandad carving the star box, glueing on the sequins, putting everything together and making it special.
Taylor opens the star box. It is full of money -- notes and pound coins that, against the sea-green lining, look like treasure. She counts it carefully. Thirty quid. Taylor thinks that thirty quid is loads more than Grandad can really afford. She puts the money into the fluffy tiger-striped purse she's already unwrapped from Sam. Sam is one of Taylor's best mates -- she's equal with Sophie. The three of them have all been friends forever -- right since playschool days.
Taylor presses the purse against her cheek, and thinks about Sam and Sophie. Lots of things in her life are all screwed up at the moment, but at least she's got them. At least they're sticking with her.
She puts the purse on the coffee table, next to a pad of "Disco Queen" notepaper that came from Sophie. Then she opens a packet of "Fizzy Fun Bath Crystals," a bag of toffee fudge, and a pair of reindeer ankle socks. One of the reindeer ankle socks plays a tune. It jingles out "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" in thin tinny notes.
Taylor puts the star box in the centre of all the presents, fussing with the position until she gets it right. The wintry sun spills in through the window. It lights up the star box and the sequins glow like something magical. Taylor thinks that she'll use Grandad's money to buy herself the "Magic Pens" set that she saw in the art shop window. She wants to choose something that he would like.
It is still early.
Taylor wants to ring Sam or Sophie, but she gets a picture of them both, sitting round Christmas trees. They have presents flying between them and their families in a wild, jazzed-up version of pass-the-parcel. She'll have to wait.
She doesn't race upstairs to tell Mum about Grandad's money.
Mum didn't give Taylor anything. She didn't mention Christmas when Taylor took her a cup of tea in bed. And she isn't up yet.
Taylor turns the telly on. It'sCinderella on Ice.Taylor thinks she's a bit past fairy tales, but it's better than nothing. As Cinderella swirls about in her dress of rags, Taylor doodles on the back of Grandad's brown wrapping paper. She sketches a carriage pulled by six white horses. It looks okay until she tries to add the Cinderella. The eyes are huge. Haunted. More like someone on their way to a funeral than a ball. She prints a title underneath the sketch, "Dancing with Darkness," folds the paper into small neat squares, and drops it in the bin.
Then she lets herself ring Sam. "I got thirty quid," she says.
In the background Taylor hears the snap of a cracker. Somebody is laughing.
"That's wild." Sam's voice is bubbly. "I got dosh too. And Sophie did. We're going shopping the day after tomorrow. We're hitting the sales -- we want stuff for the next school disco. Are you coming?"
Taylor feels a stab in her stomach. She wonders if Sam phoned Sophie. Or did Sophie phone Sam? Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. The thought that flashes across her head like demented Christmas tree lights is that neither of them phoned her. She wishes she could tell Sam she's busy. Her long-lost cousin who's really a famous pop star has invited her to the studio where he's making his next video. But she knows she'll be sorry two seconds after she's said it. She winds the phone wire tight round her finger. The Magic Pens set is already doing a disappearing trick. "I'll try," she says.
Sam is still fizzy bright. "We're meeting outside Supa Shoppa at ten thirty. We'll walk to Tillingham Shopping Precinct from there. Do you..." There's an explosion of noise and Sam gives a sudden squeal. "Hang on. My pig-faced brother's just exploded a party popper next to my ear." She giggles.
Taylor thinks of Sam draped with coloured streamers. In the background she hears Sam's dad singing "I saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus." Her mum is laughing. Sam's voice comes sparkling back again. "Sorry about that. You still there?"
"Yes." Taylor winds the phone wire tighter. She notices that it only takes a moment for the tip of her finger to turn blue. "Shall I call you tomorrow?"
"We're out tomorrow. A party at my cousin's. Just turn up if you're coming. I've got to run now. I'm about to be force-fed Christmas nosh."
"Okay then." Taylor makes her voice sound as if it's dancing. "Happy Christmas."
"And you."
Taylor stands for a moment, untangling her finger while the line drones its dead flat tone.
Taylor wishes Grandad was here. He almost came. They'd planned it. But he rang in the week to say that Betsy -- his ancient heap of a car -- was playing up. He couldn't get it fixed because all the garages were closed for the holiday.
She stares down at a stash of papers that have been piling up beside the telephone. It's mainly Christmas cards, a few leaflets and brochures, and a "Spend Spend Spend" plastic credit card that Mum sent off for months ago. Taylor will sort through it all later, keeping the bits that have good colours and interesting textures. She has a box of stuff like this under her bed, but she can't face going through it now.
She wanders into the kitchen.
She's cooking a chicken for her and Mum. She has to get started on it.
She picks out six potatoes from the vegetable basket, and runs them under the tap. The water dances out, all silvery and tinsel bright. Taylor keeps it running for a long time, staring out of the window. It's a nice day for December. Blue sky. Yellow sun. Like a kid's painting.
Taylor gets a sudden picture in her head. It's a little girl with blonde curly hair sitting on the beach. She's got her back to Taylor. She's built a sandcastle and is busy digging out the moat. Beside her is a blue blow-up boat printed with prancing white sea horses. A rainbow-striped rabbit lies nearby, half buried in the sand. The whole scene has a haze round it, ice-cream pink. All sugar-sweet and happy and once-upon-a-time.
"Taylor?"
Taylor turns round.
Mum is standing in the doorway, her shoulders hunched, her dressing gown pulled tight round her as if she's battling against an icy wind.
Taylor nods at Mum. "You okay?"
"I had a terrible dream." Mum sighs and yawns. "Have you been all right this morning? I can't get my head round it being Christmas. We...we agreed not to bother with it, didn't we?"
"Yep." Taylor hesitates. It's hard not to bother with Christmas. It's been in her face for weeks. It's easier for Mum not to bother, because she never goes anywhere. But Taylor thinks that's how it should be. She wants to keep things easy for Mum. "I might go out on Tuesday. Shopping. We're going to the sales."
"That sounds nice." Mum passes her hand across her forehead. "I'm exhausted. I have to go and sit down. I just can't seem to shake this off."
Taylor watches Mum drift away into the next room. Mum has a greyness that hovers round her. It hasn't always been there. It wasn't there when Laura was alive. But now Laura is gone, and the greyness never goes away. Taylor sees the greyness as a kind of smudge. It's as if Mum is drawn in charcoal, and someone has blurred the edges.
Taylor turns back towards the window.
She wants to pull the little girl with the sandcastle back into her head. She wants the ice-cream-pink world again. But when she tries to make the picture it won't come.
A new one builds instead, all creased and muddled, like old summer postcards that have been torn up and scattered. There are ragged corners of sand and sea. There are scraps of castle. Close to the water's edge lies a rainbow-striped rabbit. The tide is coming in.
Copyright © 2003 by Judy Waite
Excerpted from Shopaholic by Judy Waite
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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