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Martin felt totally, utterly lost.
He had always been renowned for his sense of direction – whether it was when he was a teenager on exercises with the Air Cadets, or now in his career as a professional pilot. His colleagues always looked to him first to provide a sense of direction on the legs he flew, and it was no small point of pride for him that he could navigate almost without charts with an unerring degree of accuracy.
Without charts… Surveying his gaudy surroundings, Martin gulped. He was definitely in uncharted skies now.
He almost regretted shooing Douglas away, but if Douglas had been with him today, then his daughter would just suspect that her dad had chosen Martin’s gift to her for him, and… well, he and Douglas might have been together for seven months now, but Martin definitely wasn’t past the 'needing to impress her' stage. Every time Emily came to stay, Martin could feel her sizing him up; he supposed that was what her father’s three past divorces had caused. Whilst Martin flattered himself that he was able to make Douglas happy in a way none of his wives ever had – even without taking his gender into the equation – he knew Emily required convincing of his suitability as a ‘friend’ for her beloved dad. She might only be eight years old, but she shared her father’s astuteness and ability to see straight to the core of people, and Martin quailed at times before her perceptive comments, not knowing how to respond when she probed him on why he’d said certain things or made decisions as he had.
Martin took a tentative step into the toy department. He’d already had to ascend up through three floors of the unfamiliar – designer handbags, a positive ocean of shoes, fancy coats and scarves he’d never in a million years afford (or at least not until he was a senior captain at some long-established airline). Now he’d reached the top floor, and far from being a calm respite from the Christmas shopping madness that reigned elsewhere, the entire surface was lights and colours and noise. Martin gulped.
The trouble was that he’d never had sisters, he thought to himself. If only his Mum had granted him the younger sibling he’d begged her for - or if his parents hadn’t sent him to a boys-only school – then, maybe, he’d have a clue what to buy for an eight year old. Even his cousins were all male. Martin hadn’t ever had cause to consider what made small girls gasp in delight, and now, faced with a sea of choice, he felt a catastrophic failure.
“What if she hates what I buy her?” he muttered, fretfully, picking his way gingerly around two boys excitedly examining a toy space shuttle. “What if Douglas hates what I buy her?” He stared helplessly at a positive wall of Playmobil, looming before him like a monolith. No – Emily wouldn’t want Playmobil; she wasn’t interested in building things, and anyway, wasn’t Playmobil for younger children? He didn’t know...
Martin moved on, casting a wistful eye over enormous cars that children could climb into and drive, the like of which he’d have been giddy for aged eight. But not only did Emily not care a jot for cars, he knew without even looking that they’d be priced out of his range by a factor of at least a hundred. Glimpsing a price tag as he hurried on, he winced. Make that a factor of five hundred.
Turning a corner, he halted so suddenly that the person behind him collided with his bag. “Sorry,” Martin gasped, the wind knocked from his sails. He’d never, never seen so much… pink. Dolls. Everywhere. And women. Also everywhere. Browsing through dolls, dolls’ accessories, ponies, small dogs to go with dolls… Now Martin really did feel lost.
“Deep breath, Martin,” he whispered to himself. “This can’t possibly be as tricky as landing at La Guardia in a crosswind.” His brain was desperately muttering otherwise, though. How could he possibly know what Emily would want? And worse – he glanced nervously around him – what if his fellow shoppers thought he was here for… nefarious purposes? Oh God. Was he the only person – no, the only man – up here without a child in tow?
Just as Martin felt a cold sweat break out on his brow, a voice at his elbow jolted him from his incipient panic. “Sir – can I help you?”
It was a shop assistant – a pleasant-looking lady in her forties. Martin blinked, his ludicrous guilt still at the front of his mind. “I’m supposed to be here!” he blurted, then kicked himself mentally. Fortunately the lady simply looked a little baffled, rather than outright laughing at his discomfiture.
“I’m sure you are,” she replied. “Are you shopping for someone?”
“Yes!” Martin seized gratefully on her words. “Not a doll for me, not today, haha – er – oh God.” He sighed. She still didn’t seem to be laughing at him. “I’m looking for a gift for my partner’s daughter,” he managed, and thanked the heavens that he’d finally been able to get a normal sentence out.
“Of course!” The assistant beamed. “How old is she?”
“Eight,” Martin supplied, “and she’s not a – well, not a girly girl, if you know what I mean.” He frowned at all the pink packaging surrounding them. “But I know she likes dolls.”
“Let’s see what we can find… follow me.” The sales assistant led him along a row. “Is it the first time you’ve ever bought her something?”
“Yes,” Martin sighed, “and I want it to be perfect. I just don’t quite know…” He trailed off as they came to a stop in front of a stand. “Oh,” he said, taking in the sleek, dark boxes of dolls the assistant had brought him to see. “Oh, I hadn’t seen these.”
“They’re produced by a Spanish company,” his new best friend said, smiling at his wondering expression. “All handmade, and my niece loves them.”
“They look like… real girls.” Martin picked up a box, taking in the sight of the attractive doll looking up at him from behind her plastic window. He didn’t say that one of the things he’d always found most unnerving as a child was the fake-looking smiles, the enormous eyes and frilly dresses of the dolls he’d seen in shops. “She looks like she could be one of Emily’s classmates, even.”
“I think that’s one of the nicest things about this range,” the woman agreed. “They’re not flashy – not all laces and curls, like some of the other brands we stock. If your girl isn’t into all things pink and twee, then perhaps –“
“She’ll love it.” Martin was surprised to hear himself saying it with such confidence, but somehow between the design of the doll and the kindness of the assistant, he’d found certainty. “I’ll take it. Um - I just want to pick up one more thing…”
It wasn’t until Douglas and Martin were washing up the last pans left from Christmas dinner, late in the evening, that Douglas mentioned the doll, or Martin’s mysterious trip to London. “How on earth did you find something so… perfect?” Douglas asked. Emily had gone to bed clutching her new friend only half an hour before, Martin trying not to take too much silent pleasure in the fact that she’d left all of her other presents behind downstairs.
“Didn’t you think I would? I’m shattered by your lack of faith.” Martin grinned as he set a dry wine glass aside.
“Idiot.” Douglas flicked washing-up-foam at him. “I’m very glad you found it for her – it looks as if she’ll treasure it for a long time.” He eyed Martin with an almost speculative gaze. “But I am… surprised. And delighted, naturally.”
Martin pondered how much to admit. “I had a little help,” he confessed. “But as soon as I saw the box – really, Douglas, it just said ‘Emily’ to me.”
Douglas smiled, drying his sudsy hands. “Well, thank you for putting so much effort in,” he said, coming to hug Martin from behind, and dropping a kiss on his ear. “You made Emily’s Christmas.”
Martin felt happy satisfaction shimmering somewhere around his midriff. “I’m glad.”
Douglas hugged him a little tighter, and chuckled. “And do I take it that the toy plane that you also came back with and have done such a poor job of hiding said ‘Martin’ to you?”
Martin blushed. “Well… Selfridges is supposed to have something for everyone.”