Mini Shopaholic
Authors: Sophie Kinsella
MINI SHOPAHOLIC
Sophie Kinsella
Contents
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First published in Great Britain
in 2010 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Sophie Kinsella 2010
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
For Allegra, mini-shopaholic-in-training
Also by Sophie Kinsella
THE SECRET DREAMWORLD OF A SHOPAHOLIC
SHOPAHOLIC ABROAD
SHOPAHOLIC TIES THE KNOT
SHOPAHOLIC & SISTER
SHOPAHOLIC & BABY
CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?
THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS
REMEMBER ME?
TWENTIES GIRL
For more information on Sophie Kinsella and her books,
see her website at
www.sophiekinsella.com
Tick Tock Playgroup
The Old Barn
4 Spence Hill
Oxshott
Surrey
Mrs Rebecca Brandon 1 September 2005
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
Dear Mrs Brandon
We were delighted to meet you and Minnie yesterday. We are sure she will be very happy at our fun, relaxed playgroup and look forward to seeing you next week.
With kind regards
Teri Ashley
Play Leader
P.S. Please don’t worry about the minor paint-squirting incident. We are used to children and we can always repaint that wall.
Tick Tock Playgroup
The Old Barn
4 Spence Hill
Oxshott
Surrey
Mrs Rebecca Brandon 4 October 2005
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
Dear Mrs Brandon
Just a few confidential concerns about Minnie. She’s a lovely child with real liveliness.
However, she has to learn that she can’t wear
all
the dressing-up clothes
every
day, and the ‘princess’ shoes are not suitable for outdoor play. Perhaps we can discuss this at our upcoming parents and children activity morning.
With kind regards
Teri Ashley
Play Leader
P.S. Please don’t worry about the minor glue-squirting incident. We are used to children and we can always revarnish that table.
Tick Tock Playgroup
The Old Barn
4 Spence Hill
Oxshott
Surrey
Mrs Rebecca Brandon 9 November 2005
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
Dear Mrs Brandon
Thank you for your letter. I’m glad you’re looking forward to the parents and children activity morning. Unfortunately there will be no dressing-up clothes for adults, nor will there be any facility for ‘swapping outfits with other parents’ as you suggest.
I’m glad to say that Minnie has broadened her activities in playgroup and is spending a lot of time in our new ‘Shop’ corner.
With kind regards
Teri Ashley
Play Leader
P.S. Please don’t worry about the minor ink-squirting incident. We are used to children and Mrs Soper can always re-dye her hair.
ONE
OK. Don’t panic. I’m in charge. I, Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood), am the adult.
Not
my two-year-old daughter.
Only I’m not sure she realizes this.
‘Minnie, darling, give me the pony.’ I try to sound calm and assured, like Nanny Sue off the telly.
‘Poneeee.’ Minnie grips the toy pony more tightly.
‘No pony.’
‘Mine!’ she cries hysterically.
‘Miiiine
poneee!’
Aargh. I’m holding about a million shopping bags, my face is sweating, and I could
really
do without this.
It was all going so well. I’ve been round the whole shopping mall and bought all the last little things on my Christmas list. Minnie and I were heading towards Santa’s Grotto, and I only stopped for a moment to look at a dolls’ house. Whereupon Minnie grabbed a toy pony off the display and refused to put it back. And now I’m in the middle of Pony-gate.
A mother in J Brand skinny jeans with an impeccably dressed daughter walks past, giving me the Mummy Once-over, and I flinch. Since I had Minnie, I’ve learned that the Mummy Once-over is even more savage than the Manhattan Once-over. In the Mummy Once-over, they don’t just assess and price your clothes to the nearest penny in one sweeping glance. Oh no. They also take in your child’s clothes, pram brand, nappy bag, snack choice and whether your child is smiling, snotty or screaming.
Which I know is a lot to take in, in a one-second glance, but believe me, mothers are multi-taskers.
Minnie definitely scores top marks for her outfit. (Dress: one-off Danny Kovitz; coat: Rachel Riley; shoes: Baby Dior.) And I’ve got her safely strapped into her toddler reins (Bill Amberg leather, really cool, they were in
Vogue)
. But instead of smiling angelically like the little girl in the photoshoot, she’s straining against them like a bull waiting to dash into the ring. Her eyebrows are knitted in fury, her cheeks are bright pink and she’s drawing breath to shriek again.
‘Minnie.’ I let go of the reins and put my arms round her so that she feels safe and secure, just like Nanny Sue recommends in her book,
Taming Your Tricky Toddler
. I bought it the other day, to have a flick through. Just out of idle interest. I mean, it’s not that I’m having
problems
with Minnie or anything. It’s not that she’s
difficult
. Or ‘out of control and wilful’, like that stupid teacher at the toddler music group said. (What does she know? She can’t even play the triangle properly.)
The thing about Minnie is, she’s … spirited. She has firm opinions about things. Like jeans (she won’t wear them), or carrots (she won’t eat them). And right now her firm opinion is that she should have a toy pony.
‘Minnie darling, I love you very much,’ I say in a gentle, crooning voice, ‘and it would make me very happy if you gave me the pony. That’s right, give it to Mummy …’ I’ve nearly done it. My fingers are closing around the pony’s head …
Ha. Skills. I’ve got it. I can’t help looking around to see if anyone’s observed my expert parenting.
‘Miiiine!’ Minnie wrenches the pony out of my arms and makes a run for it across the shop floor. Shit.
‘Minnie! MINNIE!’ I yell.
I grab my carrier bags and leg it furiously after Minnie, who has already disappeared into the Action Man section. God, I don’t know why we bother training up all these athletes for the Olympics. We should just field a team of toddlers.
As I catch up with her, I’m panting. I really have to start my post-natal exercises sometime.
‘Give me the pony!’ I try to take it, but she’s gripping it like a limpet.
‘Mine
poneee!’ Her dark eyes flash at me with a resolute glint. Sometimes I look at Minnie and she’s so like her father it gives me a jolt.
Speaking of which, where is Luke? We were supposed to be doing Christmas shopping
together
. As a
family
. But he disappeared an hour ago, muttering something about a call he had to make, and I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably sitting somewhere having a civilized cappuccino over the newspaper. Typical.
‘Minnie, we’re not buying it,’ I say in my best firm manner. ‘You’ve got lots of toys already and you don’t need a pony.’
A woman with straggly dark hair, grey eyes and toddlers in a twin-buggy shoots me an approving nod. I can’t help giving her the Mummy Once-over myself, and she’s one of those mothers who wears Crocs over nubbly home-made socks. (Why would you do that? Why?)
‘It’s monstrous, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Those ponies are forty pounds! My kids know better than to even ask,’ she adds, shooting a glance at her two boys, who are slumped silently, thumbs in mouths. ‘Once you give in to them, that’s the beginning of the end. I’ve got mine well trained.’
Show off.
‘Absolutely,’ I say in dignified tones. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Some parents would just buy their kid that pony for a quiet life. No discipline. It’s disgusting.’
‘Terrible,’ I agree, and make a surreptitious swipe for the pony, which Minnie adeptly dodges. Damn.
‘The biggest mistake is giving in to them.’ The woman is regarding Minnie with a pebble-like gaze. ‘That’s what starts the rot.’
‘Well, I never give in to my daughter,’ I say briskly. ‘You’re not getting the pony, Minnie, and that’s final.’
‘Poneeee!’ Minnie’s wails turn to heart-rending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)
‘Good luck, then.’ The woman moves off. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Minnie, stop it!’ I hiss furiously as soon as she’s disappeared. ‘You’re embarrassing both of us! What do you want a stupid pony for, anyway?’
‘Poneeee!’ She’s cuddling the pony to her as though it’s her long-lost faithful pet that was sold at market five hundred miles away and has just stumbled back to the farm, footsore and whickering for her.
‘It’s just a silly toy,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s so special about it, anyway?’
And for the first time I look properly at the pony.
Wow. Actually … it
is
pretty fab. It’s made of painted white wood with little glittery stars all over, and has the sweetest hand-painted face. And it has little red trundly wheels.
‘You really don’t need a pony, Minnie,’ I say – but with slightly less conviction than before. I’ve just noticed the saddle. Is that genuine leather? And it has a proper bridle with buckles and the mane is made of real horse hair.
And
it comes with a grooming set!
For forty quid this isn’t bad value at all. I push one of the little red wheels, and it spins round perfectly. And now I think about it, Minnie doesn’t actually have a toy pony. It’s quite an obvious gap in her toy cupboard.
I mean, not that I’m going to
give in
.
‘It winds up, too,’ comes a voice behind me, and I turn to see an elderly sales assistant approaching us. ‘There’s a key in the base. Look!’
She winds the key, and both Minnie and I watch, mesmerized, as the pony starts rising and falling in a carousel motion, while tinkly music plays.
Oh my God, I
love
this pony.
‘It’s on special Christmas offer at forty pounds,’ the assistant adds. ‘Normally, this would retail for seventy. They’re handmade in Sweden.’
Nearly 50 per cent off. I
knew
it was good value. Didn’t I say it was good value?
‘You like it, don’t you, dear?’ The assistant smiles at Minnie, who beams back, her stroppiness vanished. In fact, I don’t want to boast, but she looks pretty adorable with her red coat and dark pigtails and dimpled cheeks. ‘So, would you like to buy one?’
‘I … um …’ I clear my throat.
Come on, Becky. Say no. Be a good parent. Walk away.
My hand steals out and strokes the mane again.
But it’s so
gorgeous
. Look at its dear little face. And a pony isn’t like some stupid craze, is it? You’d never get tired of a pony. It’s a classic. It’s, like, the Chanel jacket of toys.
And it’s Christmas. And it’s on special offer. And who knows, Minnie might turn out to have a gift for riding, it suddenly occurs to me. A toy pony might be just the spur she needs. I have a sudden vision of her aged twenty, wearing a red jacket, standing by a gorgeous horse at the Olympics, saying to the TV cameras, ‘It all began one Christmas, when I received the gift that changed my life …’
My mind is going round and round like a computer processing DNA results, trying to find a match. There has to be a way in which I can simultaneously: 1. Not give in to Minnie’s tantrum, 2. Be a good parent and 3. Buy the pony. I need some clever blue-sky solution like Luke is always paying business consultants scads of money to come up with …
And then the answer comes to me. A totally genius idea which I can’t
believe
I’ve never had before. I haul out my phone and text Luke:
Luke! Have just had a really good thought. I think Minnie should get pocket money.
Immediately a reply pings back:
Wtf? Why?
So she can buy things, of course!
I start to type – then think again. I delete the text and carefully type instead:
Children need to learn about finance from early age. Read it in article. Empowers them and gives responsibility.
A moment later Luke texts:
Can’t we just buy her the FT?
Shut up
, I type.
We’ll say two pounds a week shall we?
R u mad?
comes zipping back.
10p a week is plenty.
I stare at the phone indignantly.
10p?
He’s such an old skinflint. What’s she supposed to buy with that?
And we’ll never afford the pony on 10p a week.
50p a week
, I type firmly,
is national average.
(He’ll never check.)
Where r u anyway? Nearly time for Father Christmas!!
OK, whatever. I’ll be there,
comes the reply.
Result! As I put away my phone, I’m doing a quick mental calculation. 50p a week for two years makes £52. Easily enough. God, why on earth have I never thought of pocket money before? It’s perfect! It’s going to add a whole new dimension to our shopping trips.
I turn to Minnie, feeling rather proud of myself.
‘Now listen, darling,’ I announce. ‘I’m not going to buy this pony for you, because I’ve already said no. But as a special treat, you can buy it for yourself out of your
own pocket money
. Isn’t that exciting?’
Minnie eyes me uncertainly. I’ll take that as a yes.
‘As you’ve never spent any of your pocket money, you’ve got two years’ worth, which is plenty. You see how great saving is?’ I add brightly. ‘You see how fun it is?’
As we walk to the check-out I feel totally smug. Talk about responsible parenting. I’m introducing my child to the principles of financial planning at an early age. I could be a guru on TV myself!
Super Becky’s Guide to Fiscally Responsible Parenting
. I could wear different boots in each episode—
‘Wagon.’
I’m jolted out of my daydream to see that Minnie has dropped the pony and is now clutching a pink plastic monstrosity. Where did she get that? It’s Winnie’s Wagon, from that cartoon show.
‘Wagon?’ She raises her eyes hopefully.
What?
‘We’re not getting the wagon, darling,’ I say patiently. ‘You wanted the pony. The lovely
pony
, remember?’
Minnie surveys the pony with total indifference. ‘Wagon.’
‘Pony!’ I grab the pony off the floor.
This is so frustrating. How can she be so fickle? She definitely gets that trait from Mum.
‘Wagon!’
‘Pony!’ I cry, more loudly than I meant to, and brandish the pony at her. ‘I want the
poneee
—’
Suddenly I get a prickly-neck feeling. I look round to see the woman with toddler boys, standing a few yards away, staring at me with her pebble-like eyes.
‘I mean …’ I hastily lower the pony, my cheeks burning. ‘Yes, you
may
buy the pony out of your pocket money. Basic financial planning,’ I add briskly to the pebble-eyed woman. ‘What we learned today is that you have to
save up
before you can buy things, didn’t we, darling? Minnie’s spent all her pocket money on the pony, and it was a very good choice …’
‘I’ve found the other pony!’ The assistant suddenly appears again, breathless and carrying a dusty box. ‘I knew we had one left in the stock room. They were originally a pair, you see …’
There’s
another
pony?
I can’t help gasping as she draws it out. It’s midnight blue with a raven mane, speckled with stars, and with golden wheels. It’s absolutely stunning. It complements the other one perfectly. Oh God, we have to have them both. We
have
to.
Rather annoyingly, the pebble-eyed woman is still standing there with her buggy, watching us.
‘Shame you’ve spent all your pocket money, isn’t it?’ she says to Minnie with one of those tight, unfriendly smiles which proves she never has any fun or sex. You can always tell that about people, I find.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I say politely. ‘That’s a problem. So we’ll just have to think of a solution.’ I think hard for a moment, then turn to Minnie.
‘Darling, here’s your second important lesson in financial planning. Sometimes, when we see an amazing, one-off bargain, we can make an
exception
to the saving-up rule. It’s called “Seizing the Opportunity”.’
‘You’re just going to
buy
it?’ says the woman in tones of disbelief.
What business is it of hers? God, I hate other mothers. They always have to butt in. The minute you have a child it’s as if you’ve turned into a box on an internet site, saying ‘Please add all your rude and offensive comments here.’
‘Of course I’m not going to
buy
it,’ I say, a little stonily. ‘She’ll have to get it out of her own pocket money. Darling,’ I crouch down to get Minnie’s attention, ‘if you pay for the other pony out of your pocket money at 50p a week, it’ll take about … sixty weeks. You’ll have to have an advance. Like an “overdraft”.’ I enunciate clearly. ‘So you’ll basically have spent all your pocket money till you’re three and a half. All right?’
