by Karen Clarke
I couldn’t believe I’d given it back to him before he left, and told him to forget me.
Beth had suggested I smash the photo, symbolically, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
In it, he was wearing his old baseball hat, and I was grinning so hard my eyes had disappeared. A tourist had taken the photo the day he gave me the ring in Machu Picchu, and the Inca Trail we’d been trekking was visible in the background.
My memory flashed back further, to the day we’d first met; an unusually mild one for the time of year, when I’d nipped out to eat my lunch on the beach, leaving Gramps in charge of the shop.
A man had emerged from the sea in a pair of white swimming shorts, like Daniel Craig as James Bond. Seeing me watching he’d played up to the image, as though he’d read my mind, running a hand through his short brown hair, lip curled in a moody smile as he approached with an exaggerated swagger.
‘Can I breathe out now?’ he’d said when he was standing in front of me, broad shoulders eclipsing the sun. ‘I haven’t got the six-pack to carry off this look.’
‘I prefer a four-pack, anyway,’ I’d said, blood rushing to my face at the unexpectedness of the exchange.
‘I have to warn you, I don’t normally dress like this.’
He’d grabbed a towel from a rucksack nearby and rubbed his hair. ‘In fact, these aren’t even mine.’ He’d gestured to his snug-fitting swimwear with a hint of embarrassment, while I made a valiant effort to tear my gaze from his thighs. ‘They belong to a mate.’
‘That’s not weird at all,’ I’d said, brushing sand off my skirt, glad I’d finished eating my egg sandwich. Locking eyes with him, I’d felt a powerful attraction that took me by surprise.
‘Bond. James Bond,’ he’d said, sticking his hand out, burning right through the resistance I’d built up to good-looking men, after seeing so many of them pass through my mother’s life. ‘Actually, it’s Alex Steadman.’
‘Marnie Appleton,’ I’d said, allowing his hand to engulf mine.
‘I just fancied a swim.’ He cast his gaze to the stretch of postcard-blue sky, and by the time he’d pulled on a pair of battered jeans and a T-shirt, we’d fallen into easy conversation.
He lived in Wareham, about half an hour away, and was working as a sound engineer for News South-West. On his days off he loved swimming in the sea – even in winter. He normally carried his swimming shorts, but had come to Shipley without them.
‘Are you local?’ he’d asked, with what seemed like genuine interest, and I had ended up giving him the low-down on my life, encompassing grandparents, business degree, and sweet shop – which I was helping to run until I had enough money to leave – and bypassing all the messy bits involving my mother.
I’d told him I longed to travel, having never been further than France on a school trip. ‘I didn’t even leave home after school,’ I’d said, embarrassed. ‘I did business studies at Bournemouth University.’
‘Well I studied sound engineering at Plymouth.’ He’d grinned. ‘Not exactly a metropolis.’ He’d told me he fancied travelling too; that he regretted not taking a gap year like some of his friends had after university.
Like me, he’d been focused on work for the past few years, and had just bought a house in Wareham.
‘You know how some people inherit a reckless or daredevil streak?’ He’d given a small, enigmatic smile. ‘Well, I’ve inherited a sensible gene. Grandparents, parents, my sister – all teachers, all excellent with money.’
Crucially, he didn’t have a girlfriend, and despite my problem fringe and bony knees, and the fact that when he met my mother she stroked his cheek and declared him ‘edible’, he apparently found me as funny, fascinating, and loveable as I did him.
Before I knew it I was spending more nights at his than at Celia’s and within a year had sold my car, persuaded Gramps’s Saturday assistant to take on more hours at the shop, and Alex and I were in Peru.
We’d been making plans to extend our trip when I got a call to say my grandfather was dying, and two days later I was back in Shipley.
‘What’s taking you so long?’
I blinked back to the present. Celia’s head was poking round the door, eyebrows stretched at the sight of me in hoodie and knickers.
‘I’ve got a two-piece you can borrow,’ she said, hoicking the ripped jeans off the floor with her stick and flicking them onto the bed. ‘It’s come back into fashion.’
She ducked out, returning moments later with a custard-yellow jacket I was certain had never been in fashion, and a pair of black pleather trousers. Celia’s lack of dress sense had been a constant source of embarrassment to my mother.
‘She once turned up to a parents’ evening in a cowboy hat,’ she’d told me once, with an exaggerated shudder of horror at the memory.
‘I’m not sure they’ll fit,’ I said diplomatically. It was obvious to anyone with eyes we were totally different heights and body shapes.
‘Just try,’ she urged, in the quiet but no-nonsense tone that brought even the most disobedient dog to heel.
I did as I was told, though I knew it was hopeless. The trousers were far too short and squeaked and strained over my hips, while the yellow jacket wouldn’t do up properly, leaving glimpses of bra through the zip. An image of a banana poking out of a bin liner sprang to mind.
‘It’s not too bad from a distance.’ Celia’s head was cocked, like a fashion reporter at a red-carpet event.
‘Actually, I think I’ll just wear these,’ I said, grabbing a pair of navy jeans, and a floaty top I’d discarded as mumsy.
I peeled off the trousers, which had made my thighs look flushed. ‘Are you sure you want to come?’
Celia had brushed her cap of white hair until it shone, and was wearing the blue cashmere jumper she brought out for special occasions, overlaid with a string of pearls.
‘Of course I’m coming,’ she bristled. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘We’ll have to get a taxi,’ I said, knowing the short walk would be too much in her current condition – knowing too she’d hate being reminded.
‘I’ll go and ask Paddy,’ she said. ‘He owes me a lift for sorting out Muttley.’
I deciphered Muttley must be Paddy’s new dog – the one with the out-of-control libido. ‘Great,’ I said, starting to shiver with nerves.
My teeth were still chattering with fright when we alighted on the pavement twenty minutes later. I’d stayed late the night before to clean the shop inside and out, and although it was too late to do anything about the shabby exterior, it looked presentable.
I’d even dragged the stepladder out of the stockroom and spray-painted a rather wonky ‘e’ back into Beachside.
Inside, soft sunshine picked out sherbet colours in the jars, and glinted off some gold-foil-wrapped chocolates I’d placed in bowls on the deep window ledges. Lollipops and striped candy canes were strategically positioned for effect, and a jar of gobstoppers on the counter added a pop of brightness.
‘I hadn’t realised it was so drab,’ Celia concluded, looking round with an air of surprise. She hadn’t set foot in the place since my grandfather died, and not very often before. The sweet shop had been his pride and joy, and although she supported him fully she’d shown no more inclination to work there than he had to help her train dogs.
‘Ooh, I used to love these,’ she said, drawn to a jar of pear drops, as I’d known she would be. It was my theory that all people over the age of sixty-five were hardwired to eat pear drops; it was probably in their DNA.
‘You can have one, if you like,’ I said, through clattering teeth. I couldn’t stop fiddling with my fringe, and glancing at my watch.
‘No thanks.’ Celia moved behind the counter and eased herself onto the stool I kept there for quiet moments.
‘What time are they coming?’ she asked, even though I’d already told her.
‘In about half an hour.’ I couldn’t move. It felt like my feet were welded t
o the floorboards, and I wondered why I was so scared. At university I’d been so confident – driven even. I’d soaked up ideas, and contributed to discussions with the fervour of a presidential hopeful.
It was as if my brain had calcified since then, and winning the award was reminding me just how much.
Beth bowled in, looking majestic in an olive, scoop-necked dress that complemented her mass of curls and skimmed her baby bump.
‘There’s a television van pulling up,’ she said, dumping her bag and grazing the side of Celia’s mouth with her lips. She loved my grandmother almost as much as I did. ‘I suppose they’ve come early to set up.’
‘Oh god,’ I said, heart leaping like a cannon-ball. ‘I need a wee.’
‘You’ll be fine.’ She came over to hug me as best she could. ‘The shop looks great, and so do you.’
She gave my newly washed and straightened hair an approving look.
‘Glad you got rid of the poncho.’
‘What if I throw up, or say something random?’
‘You won’t,’ said Beth.
‘And if you do, it’s not the end of the world,’ Celia chipped in. ‘Even dogs get giddy when they’re stressed.’
Brilliant.
Before I could escape to the loo, there was a commotion at the door and the camera crew descended.
After a flurry of introductions, air-kissing, and effusive congratulations, it transpired that Celia once helped the cameraman’s mother with a rescue dog that kept snapping at visitors, which was a good ice-breaker.
By the time Beth had made some coffee for everyone, and face powder was dabbed on my cheeks and forehead – ‘It’s to cut the shine,’ explained a bubbly make-up girl – and the lighting was deemed suitable, my nerves had subsided a little.
As I was handed my certificate of excellence, and a comedy-sized cheque for £10,000, I couldn’t help wishing Alex was there to see it. He’d have been thrilled.
When we first talked about going away, he’d asked if I really wanted to give up my job. He was touchingly proud of what I did, and loved telling people his girlfriend ran a sweet shop.
‘Sooooo! Congratulations!’ cried Sandi Brent, with a dazzling smile, interrupting my thoughts. She was probably my age, with dark, almond-shaped eyes, and caramel hair that swished when she moved her head. Her pale skirt-suit and candy-striped shirt were simple but stylish, and I felt lumpen in comparison.
‘Thank you!’ I said, creatively.
‘So, how does it feel to win?’
Unbelievable, considering I’ve been coasting along, and didn’t expect to still be working in a sweet shop at the age of almost thirty.
‘Wonderful!’ I said, copying her tendency to speak in exclamation marks, wondering how she maintained her perfect eyeliner flick. Whenever I tried, it looked like a child had attacked my face with a marker pen.
‘I still can’t believe it!’ I added, thinking I ought to elaborate. Knowing there was a lens trained on me made my face want to twitch. ‘I’m so pleased that people voted for me!’ Sandi kept nodding encouragingly. She had a tiny lipstick smear on one of her pearly white teeth. ‘My grandfather would have been proud!’
Unexpectedly, a lump swelled in my throat. He would have been very proud. He was the one who should have won an award, not me.
I glanced at Celia, and saw her passing a tissue over her nose. I sometimes forgot how much she must still miss him.
‘You should be proud too!’ Sandi said, her hair swishing in earnest. ‘You were up against some stiff competition from Brian’s Pet Emporium among others, but The Beachside Sweet Shop was by far the most popular choice!’
I suddenly wished she’d tone it down. I didn’t want rival business owners taking umbrage, and setting the shop on fire in the dead of night.
‘Well, we’re situated right by the beach which probably helps, especially on a day like this!’ I gestured outside. The tide was in, and the sea was a perfect swirl of turquoise beneath a duck-egg sky. ‘Location, location, location!’
‘Kirstie Allsopp eat your heart out!’ Sandi gave a throat-splitting cackle. ‘You do have a glorious outlook!’
Filming had drawn quite a crowd, and the shop was swarming with people – most of whom I’d never seen – pretending to browse the sweets while covertly asking what was happening. At the edge of my vision, I could see a pair of teenage boys making rabbit ears over my head.
Spotting them, Sandi’s neat eyebrows puckered. ‘Can you two piss off?’ she hissed, shattering her girl-next-door illusion.
‘Why should we?’ One of the boys gave her the finger.
‘Because time is money, you little shits.’
I turned and met Beth’s eye, and could tell she was as overwhelmed with a choking urge to giggle as I was.
‘So, Marnie – gorgeous name, by the way …’ subduing her inner bitch, Sandi pasted her smile back on, ‘where do you see yourself five years from now?’
In the foothills of the Himalayas, I was tempted to say, but with so many ears listening avidly, including Celia’s, I couldn’t.
‘Hopefully, still here!’ I trilled, brandishing an arm to encompass the entire shop. ‘Selling our wonderful sweets to tourists and locals …’
‘Rotting the nation’s teeth,’ someone piped up.
A ripple of laughter went round.
I opened my mouth, hoping for a witty riposte, but nothing came out.
My arm dropped to my side.
I could feel a spot trying to break the barrier of my make-up, and in the sudden silence, I gulped.
‘What do you say to that?’ Sandi’s voice was soft, but her posture had altered. Her shoulders were pulled back and her eyes had sharpened. She reminded me of Chester when he caught a whiff of fox poo.
Doris arrived, parting the crowd. ‘Well, I was brought up on dolly mixtures and I’ve still got my own teeth,’ she said, stepping into the breach; which was just as well as every sensible thought had fled my brain.
She bared her molars as proof. ‘And I couldn’t get by without my pineapple cubes,’ she added. She was sporting two stripes of electric blue eyeshadow, in honour of the TV cameras, and positioned herself at Sandi’s elbow. ‘Sweets are part of our heritage,’ she went on. ‘My cubes were the only thing I could stomach when Roger died.’
The silence had an air of respect for her dead husband.
‘I think that says it all!’ I said, bright and breezy, and murmurs of agreement grew to a swell of competing voices, culminating in a spontaneous round of applause.
‘Hurray, for The Beachside Sweet Shop!’
‘Long may she live!’
‘God bless all who sail in her!’
As the mood turned hysterical, Sandi’s smile wavered.
‘Let’s wrap things up!’ she said, with a bounce on her spiky-heeled shoes. ‘Do you see what I did there?’ she chirped. ‘Wrap things up? Sweets? Wrapping up sweets …?’ Silence descended. Two mottled patches of red appeared on her cheekbones.
‘Chris!’ Turning, she gestured with a click of her fingers, and a reporter sporting a wispy brown goatee and a top-knot stepped forward.
He introduced himself as Chris Weatherby a reporter for The Shipley Examiner, and sister newspaper The South-West Recorder. He clumsily assembled Celia, Beth and me in front of the counter, each of us holding a confectionery product, and by the time he’d fired off several shots, I was almost starting to enjoy myself. Shame I could feel my fringe frizzing up.
‘One more for luck,’ Chris said, dropping into a serious-photographer crouch. ‘Say chocolate éclair!’
As we mouthed the words self-consciously, a question zipped into my head.
How could I possibly leave Shipley, when I’d just become an award-winning businesswoman?
Five
‘Have you seen this?’ Beth slammed a newspaper on the counter the following Monday.
It was The Shipley Examiner and the sweet shop, along with our faces, had made the front page.
> Beth looked luminous, Celia was unusually coy as she fingered her pearls, and I was cradling a jar of bonbons like a lion cub. My fringe didn’t look too bad all things considered. Shame my eyes were shut.
‘Hang on.’ I quickly served a middle-aged woman who’d been trying to describe a sweet from her childhood she couldn’t remember the name of, settling for a quarter of mint humbugs instead.
Business had picked up since I’d appeared on the news, though the piece had been edited down to just me receiving my cheque and thanking the public for voting, in between lingering close-ups of Sandi’s face. The cameraman was obviously in love with her.
‘Ooh, is that you?’ said the customer, peering at the upside-down newspaper. ‘I voted for the sweet shop, because I remember your granddad,’ she added with a treacly smile. ‘He was lovely to me and my friends when we were little, and would give us a bag of free sweets if we were his last customers of the day.’
‘Typical Gramps,’ I said, a swelling feeling in my chest. Most of my regulars had similar happy memories of my grandfather.
She looked at me a second longer than was comfortable.
‘That’ll be two ninety-nine, please.’
‘Fine,’ she said, handing over the money in a way that suggested she now regretted voting. You’re clearly not your grandfather, her back seemed to say, as she flounced out of the shop.
‘She can afford to pay for her sweets,’ I said to Beth, as the door smacked shut. ‘She had a wad of notes in her purse.’
‘Well you might be giving them away after this,’ she said, bringing my attention back to the newspaper.
I scanned the headline.
Rotting the Nation’s Teeth! Has the Humble Sweet Shop Had its Day?
‘What?’ I returned Beth’s horrified gaze, then read the paragraph beneath.
