Shopaholic and Sister
Page 33
Some men in overalls start lifting things up and carrying them out. We stand aside to let them pass, but I’m still gazing around the inside of one of the lorries, lost in memories. I suddenly glimpse a bronze statue and turn round with a smile.
“The Buddha! Do you remember when we got that? Luke?”
Luke isn’t listening to a word. I follow his gaze, and feel a slight flip of apprehension. He’s staring in disbelief at a man carrying a huge paper-wrapped package out of the other lorry. A wooden giraffe’s leg is poking out of it.
Shit.
And now here comes another man in overalls with the matching one.
“Becky… what are these giraffes doing here?” Luke says evenly. “I thought we agreed not to buy them.”
“I know,” I say hurriedly. “I know we did. But we would have regretted it. So I made an executive decision. Honestly, Luke, they’ll look great! They’ll be a focal point of the whole apartment!”
“And where did those come from?” Now Luke’s looking at a pair of huge porcelain urns, which I got in Hong Kong.
“Oh, yes,” I say quickly. “I was going to tell you about those. Guess what? They’re copies of real Ming! The man said—”
“But what the fuck are they doing here?”
“I… bought them. They’ll be perfect in the hall. They’ll be a focal point! Everyone will admire them!”
“And that rug?” He points to a huge multicolored rolled-up sausage.
“It’s called a ‘dhurrie,’ actually… ” My voice trails away at his expression. “I got it in India,” I add feebly.
“Without consulting me.”
“Er…”
I’m not sure I like Luke’s expression.
“Ooh, look!” I exclaim, trying to distract him. “It’s the spice rack you bought at that Kenyan market.”
Luke totally ignores me. He’s goggling at a huge, unwieldy contraption being unloaded from the first lorry. It looks like a combination of a xylophone and a set of hanging copper saucepans all in one.
“What the hell is that? Is that some kind of musical instrument?”
The gongs all start clanging loudly as the men unload it, and a couple of passersby nudge each other and giggle.
Even I’m having second thoughts about this one.
“Er… yes.” I clear my throat. “Actually, that’s an Indonesian gamelan.”
There’s a short silence.
“An Indonesian gamelan?” echoes Luke, his voice caught a bit in his throat.
“It’s cultural!” I say defensively. “I thought we could learn to play it! And it’ll be a great focal point—”
“Exactly how many focal points are we planning to have?” Luke looks beside himself. “Becky, is all this stuff ours?”
“Dining table coming out!” calls a guy in overalls. “Mind yourselves.”
Thank goodness. OK, quick. Let’s redeem the situation.
“Look, darling,” I say hurriedly. “It’s our dining table from Sri Lanka. Remember? Our personalized table! Our symbol of married love.” I give him an affectionate smile, but he’s shaking his head.
“Becky—”
“Don’t spoil the moment!” I put an arm round him. “It’s our special honeymoon table! It’s our heirloom of the future! We have to watch it being delivered!”
“OK,” Luke says at last. “Whatever.”
The men are carefully carrying the table down the ramp, and I have to say, I’m impressed. Bearing in mind how heavy it is, they seem to be managing it quite easily.
“Isn’t it exciting?” I clutch Luke’s arm as it comes into sight. “Just think! There we were in Sri Lanka—”
I break off, a little confused.
This isn’t the wooden table after all. It’s a transparent glass table, with curved steel legs. And another guy behind is carrying a pair of trendy red felt-covered chairs.
I stare at it in horror. A cold feeling is creeping over me.
Shit. Shit.
The table I bought at the Copenhagen Design Fair. I had totally forgotten about that.
How could I forget I bought a whole dining table? How?
“Hold on,” Luke’s calling, his hand raised. “Guys, that’s the wrong table. Ours is wooden. A big carved-wood table from Sri Lanka.”
“There’s one of them an’ all,” says the delivery guy. “In the other lorry.”
“But we didn’t buy this!” says Luke.
He gives me a questioning look and I quickly rearrange my features as though to say “I’m as baffled as you are!”
“The Buddha! Do you remember when we got that? Luke?”
Luke isn’t listening to a word. I follow his gaze, and feel a slight flip of apprehension. He’s staring in disbelief at a man carrying a huge paper-wrapped package out of the other lorry. A wooden giraffe’s leg is poking out of it.
Shit.
And now here comes another man in overalls with the matching one.
“Becky… what are these giraffes doing here?” Luke says evenly. “I thought we agreed not to buy them.”
“I know,” I say hurriedly. “I know we did. But we would have regretted it. So I made an executive decision. Honestly, Luke, they’ll look great! They’ll be a focal point of the whole apartment!”
“And where did those come from?” Now Luke’s looking at a pair of huge porcelain urns, which I got in Hong Kong.
“Oh, yes,” I say quickly. “I was going to tell you about those. Guess what? They’re copies of real Ming! The man said—”
“But what the fuck are they doing here?”
“I… bought them. They’ll be perfect in the hall. They’ll be a focal point! Everyone will admire them!”
“And that rug?” He points to a huge multicolored rolled-up sausage.
“It’s called a ‘dhurrie,’ actually… ” My voice trails away at his expression. “I got it in India,” I add feebly.
“Without consulting me.”
“Er…”
I’m not sure I like Luke’s expression.
“Ooh, look!” I exclaim, trying to distract him. “It’s the spice rack you bought at that Kenyan market.”
Luke totally ignores me. He’s goggling at a huge, unwieldy contraption being unloaded from the first lorry. It looks like a combination of a xylophone and a set of hanging copper saucepans all in one.
“What the hell is that? Is that some kind of musical instrument?”
The gongs all start clanging loudly as the men unload it, and a couple of passersby nudge each other and giggle.
Even I’m having second thoughts about this one.
“Er… yes.” I clear my throat. “Actually, that’s an Indonesian gamelan.”
There’s a short silence.
“An Indonesian gamelan?” echoes Luke, his voice caught a bit in his throat.
“It’s cultural!” I say defensively. “I thought we could learn to play it! And it’ll be a great focal point—”
“Exactly how many focal points are we planning to have?” Luke looks beside himself. “Becky, is all this stuff ours?”
“Dining table coming out!” calls a guy in overalls. “Mind yourselves.”
Thank goodness. OK, quick. Let’s redeem the situation.
“Look, darling,” I say hurriedly. “It’s our dining table from Sri Lanka. Remember? Our personalized table! Our symbol of married love.” I give him an affectionate smile, but he’s shaking his head.
“Becky—”
“Don’t spoil the moment!” I put an arm round him. “It’s our special honeymoon table! It’s our heirloom of the future! We have to watch it being delivered!”
“OK,” Luke says at last. “Whatever.”
The men are carefully carrying the table down the ramp, and I have to say, I’m impressed. Bearing in mind how heavy it is, they seem to be managing it quite easily.
“Isn’t it exciting?” I clutch Luke’s arm as it comes into sight. “Just think! There we were in Sri Lanka—”
I break off, a little confused.
This isn’t the wooden table after all. It’s a transparent glass table, with curved steel legs. And another guy behind is carrying a pair of trendy red felt-covered chairs.
I stare at it in horror. A cold feeling is creeping over me.
Shit. Shit.
The table I bought at the Copenhagen Design Fair. I had totally forgotten about that.
How could I forget I bought a whole dining table? How?
“Hold on,” Luke’s calling, his hand raised. “Guys, that’s the wrong table. Ours is wooden. A big carved-wood table from Sri Lanka.”
“There’s one of them an’ all,” says the delivery guy. “In the other lorry.”
“But we didn’t buy this!” says Luke.
He gives me a questioning look and I quickly rearrange my features as though to say “I’m as baffled as you are!”
