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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 round to see if anyone’s observed my expert parenting.
“Miiiine!” Minnie wrenches the pony out of my hand 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 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 postnatal 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, gray 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 homemade 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 pebblelike 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 heartrending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)
“Good luck, then.” The woman moves off. “Happy Christmas.”
“Minnie, stop!” 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 only 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 glittery stars all over and 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 horsehair. 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. Now that I think about it, Minnie doesn’t 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 fifty percent 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 at age 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 tan?trum; 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 I 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...
Sophie Kinsella has dazzled readers with her irresistible Shopaholic novels—sensational international bestsellers that have garnered millions of devoted fans and catapulted her into the first rank of contemporary storytellers. Now her beloved heroine Becky Brandon (née Bloomwood) returns in a hilarious tale of married life, toddlerhood, and the perils of trying to give a fabulous surprise party—on a budget!
Becky Brandon thought motherhood would be a breeze and that having a daughter was a dream come true: a shopping friend for life! But it’s trickier than she thought. Two-year-old Minnie has a quite different approach to shopping.
Minnie creates havoc everywhere she goes, from Harrods to her own christening. Her favorite word is “Mine!” and she’s even trying to get into eBay! On top of everything else, Becky and Luke are still living with her parents (the deal on house #4 has fallen through), when suddenly there’s a huge financial crisis.
With people having to “cut back,” Becky decides to throw a surprise party for Luke to cheer everyone up. But when costs start to spiral out of control, she must decide whether to accept help from an unexpected source—and therefore run the risk of hurting the person she loves.
Will Becky be able to pull off the celebration of the year? Will she and Luke ever find a home of their own? Will Minnie ever learn to behave? And . . . most important . . . will Becky’s secret wishes ever come true?
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