‘So, Becky!’ Mum looks up from her piping bag. ‘How was the house?’
‘Oh!’ I come to. ‘Great.’
Which is kind of true. It was great, apart from the fact that half of it is stolen.
‘And you’re still all set to move in?’
‘Well.’ I rub my nose, and sprinkles fall on the floor. ‘There might be a tiny delay …’
‘Delay?’ Mum sounds immediately tense. ‘What kind of delay?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ I backtrack hastily. ‘It may be nothing.’
I watch Mum warily. Her shoulders have stiffened. That’s not a good sign.
‘Well, of course, if there was a delay,’ she says at last, ‘you’d stay on here. We wouldn’t dream of anything else.’
Oh God. She sounds so noble and self-sacrificing. I can’t bear it.
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that!’ I say quickly. ‘Although if it did … we could always … rent?’ I hardly dare say the word –and sure enough, she snaps on it like a shark scenting blood.
‘Rent? You’re not renting, Becky. It’s just throwing money away!’
Mum’s pathologically opposed to renting. Every time I’ve tried to suggest that Luke and I rent, she’s behaved as though we’re deliberately paying money to a landlord to spite her. And when I say, ‘Loads of people in Europe rent,’ she just sniffs and says, ‘Europe!’
‘Becky, is there a problem?’ Mum stops icing and looks at me properly. ‘Are you moving out or not?’
I can’t tell her the truth. We’re just going to have to move out. Somehow.
‘Of course we’re moving out!’ I say brightly. ‘Of course we are! I just said there might be a delay. But there probably won’t. We’ll be gone in three weeks.’ And I hurry out of the kitchen before she can ask anything else.
OK. So I have three weeks to sort out the house situation. Or find another solution. Or buy a yurt.
God, yurts are expensive. I’ve just looked them up online. Thousands of pounds, just for a bit of tarpaulin. So I’m not sure we’ll be doing that. I’m not sure what we’ll be doing.
But I won’t think about it right now, because I’m about to do my first bit of bartering. Mum and Dad are out, and Luke’s got a business dinner, and Minnie’s in bed, so the way is clear. I’m quite excited! Here begins a whole new way of life. Zero-consumption, green, ethical bartering in the local community. The way life should be. I’ll probably never go shopping again. People will call me The Girl Who Never Goes Shopping.
My first barterer, called Nicole Taylor, is coming round at seven o’clock with a marquee, and I’m giving her two Marc Jacobs bags in return, which I think is a fair swap, especially as I never use them any more. I’ve wrapped them up in tissue paper and put them in the original packaging, and even thrown in a Marc Jacobs keyring to be generous. The only hitch I can foresee is that it might be hard getting the marquee into the garage if it’s really massive. But I’m sure I’ll manage somehow.
Then I’ve got a fire-eater called Daryl, who’s swapping his services for a Luella clutch (which seems a bit weird, but maybe he wants it for his girlfriend or something). And a juggler, who’s getting a pair of Gina sandals. And some woman who cooks canapés who’s going to swap them for a Missoni coat. (I’ll be quite sorry to see that go, but the Banana Republic one I put up originally didn’t get a single offer.)
The one I’m most excited about is the fire-eater. He said he’d do a demonstration and everything. I wonder if he’s going to come along in a spangly costume! The doorbell rings and I feel a flurry of excitement as I hurry to the front door. This must be the marquee!
‘Hello!’ I fling the door open, half-expecting to see a great big wedding-style marquee, fully erected on the front lawn and all lit up.
‘Hiya.’ A thin girl looks at me sidelong from the front step. She’s only about sixteen, with lank hair hanging either side of a pale face, and she doesn’t seem to have a marquee with her, unless it’s folded up very small.
‘Are you Nicole?’ I say uncertainly.
‘Yeah.’ She nods and I get a waft of spearmint gum.
‘Have you come to barter a marquee for two Marc Jacobs bags?’
There’s a long pause, as though she’s mulling this over.
‘Can I see the bags?’ she says.
This isn’t going quite as I expected.
‘Well, can I see the marquee?’ I counter. ‘How big is it? Could I get two hundred people in it? Is it stripy?’
There’s another long pause.
‘My dad owns a marquee company,’ she says at last. ‘I can get you one, I swear.’
She can get me one? What kind of rubbishy bartering is this?
‘You were supposed to be bringing it with you!’ I say indignantly.
‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t, could I?’ she says sulkily. ‘But I’ll get you one. When d’you need it? Are those the bags?’ Her eyes have fallen greedily on the Marc Jacobs carriers by my feet.
‘Yes,’ I say reluctantly.
‘Can I have a look?’
‘I suppose so.’
She unwraps the first – a grey tote – and gasps, her whole face lighting up. I can’t help feeling a pang of empathy. I can tell she’s a fellow handbag-lover.
‘God, I love this. I have to have it.’ She’s already got it on her shoulder and is twisting it this way and that. ‘Where’s the other one?’