by Karen Clarke
‘Well you’re shut on Sundays, I could see if he can do it then. He can get the team in, work fast.’
‘That would be great.’
‘You sound chirpy.’ Beth’s voice was loaded with curiosity. ‘It’s going well with my replacement, I take it?’
‘He’s called Josh,’ I reminded her. ‘And he’s got nothing to do with how I’m feeling.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ I paused. ‘Alex has met someone.’
I heard Beth’s intake of breath. ‘Oh Marnie, I’m so sorry.’
Tears flew to my eyes. ‘I didn’t actually think he ever would,’ I admitted, lowering my voice in case Josh could overhear. ‘He’s bringing her over to his parents’ thirtieth anniversary.’
‘Meeting the parents,’ Beth said grimly. ‘Must be serious.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Sorry.’ She sighed. ‘So, will you go?’ Beth knew I’d been hoping to see Alex, and that maybe he would tell me he was moving back. ‘You could weigh up whether or not it’s really serious between them.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to see them together, ever.’ I sniffed, and dashed a hand over my face. ‘It’s time I moved on, anyway.’
‘Well now you’re an award-winning businesswoman you’ll be fighting them off.’ Her voice became brisk. ‘You need to get back in the saddle, start dating again.’
‘I never was any good at that,’ I said, but my tears had dried. I prodded around my feelings a bit more, and found myself wondering whether Josh needed me out front. ‘Listen, I’d better go,’ I added.
‘Great,’ said Beth. ‘I’ll just hang around here, feeling like I’m going to burst any minute, while my mother-in-law tries to force me to eat cake.’
‘So what’s new?’ I said.
‘I could come and hang out there.’
‘I thought you were studying.’
‘I am, but not all day.’
‘Well, what about baby stuff?’
‘Not much more we can do. Harry’s mum’s transformed the back bedroom into a nursery, and is knitting up a storm.’
‘Don’t you mind not being in your own place yet?’
‘Harry’s doing his best,’ she said, a little reproving. ‘It wasn’t his fault that planning permission took longer to come through than we thought.’
‘So, daytime telly it is then.’
‘Ooh, I could watch The Tudors on iPlayer.’
‘Or you could watch Jeremy Kyle.’
She gasped. ‘Not even if there was nothing else on television.’
I returned to the shop as two pimple-faced teenage boys entered, shouldering rucksacks, clearly late for school and not caring one bit. They were the same pair who’d annoyed Sandi Brent while she was interviewing me.
One of them already had the build and demeanour of a future cage-fighter, the other the skinny shoulders and arms of someone who hadn’t grown into himself.
‘Watch them,’ I murmured to Josh, joining him behind the counter. When he didn’t respond, I noticed a set of wires emerging from his ears. He caught my eye and did some body-popping, arms and legs contorting in a way destined to lead to arthritis.
‘Pharrell,’ he shouted, singing a bit of whatever he was listening to, badly out of tune.
Catching sight of him, the teenagers elbowed each other.
‘What a knob,’ said the big one, who had the most pimples. His whole face looked sore.
‘He’s pretty good, Biff,’ his mate said, radiating envy. ‘Wish I could do that.’
Biff snorted. ‘Looks like he needs a doctor.’
While the pair of them cracked up, I snapped on a latex glove and pretended to be busy with a bowl of dolly mixtures on the counter, dipping my hand in and swirling it around.
‘Not very hygienic, is it, miss?’ said Biff, pushing his knuckles into his trouser pockets. They were school uniform trousers, but worn low, and his shirt had come untucked. ‘I mean, wearing a glove’s the same as using your hand, when you think about it.’
‘She is using her hand,’ his mate said, looking delighted by his own brilliance. ‘I mean, she ain’t got the glove on her foot.’
‘Shut up, Daz, you retard.’ Biff glowered at him. ‘You know what I mean.’ Daz looked crushed. ‘I’m just saying, if she picks her nose, yeah, or, like, messes wiv ’er ’air, like, or scratches her arse wiv the glove on,’ he stuck his bottom out and raked at it with his fingers, ‘’ow’s that any different to using her bare ’and, like?’ His grammar worsened as he warmed to his theme. ‘I mean, what’s the point of it, yeah?’
He feigned bewilderment, looking from Daz, to me, to Josh, who’d clearly reached some sort of musical climax as his eyes were screwed shut, hands beating a frantic tattoo on the counter with imaginary drumsticks.
‘I think he’s just wet ’imself,’ said Daz, cracking a grateful grin when Biff roared with appreciative laughter.
‘Nice one, mate!’ he bellowed, slapping Daz’s puny back. Daz winced, and staggered forward.
‘Shouldn’t you two be at school?’ I asked, aiming for light and matey, and settling on frosty matron.
‘Ooh, get her!’ Biff clapped a grubby palm to his mouth, his sleep-encrusted eyes inviting Daz to join the joke. ‘Been on telly once, and thinks she’s that bird off The Apprentice,’ he said through his fingers.
‘But not as fit,’ said Daz, eyes darting nervously, as if scared he’d gone too far.
‘Oh, I don’t know. She’s got a nice pair of—’
‘What’s going on?’ Finally emerging from his music-induced trance, Josh yanked out his earphones. ‘Why are these two goons still here?’
‘Good question,’ I said, peeling off my glove. ‘I think they’re going to buy something on their way to school.’ I gave Biff a hard stare, emboldened by the sight of my award certificate in the window. And maybe by Josh’s presence. ‘What will you have, boys?’
‘It’s sixth-form, actually, not school,’ muttered Daz, seeming to shrink a little so his blazer looked too big. It occurred to me he might be a nice boy, away from the influence of Biff. ‘I’ll have some chocolate mice, please.’
‘Loser,’ said Biff into his fist, in the guise of a cough.
‘Do you want anything?’ Josh directed an icy gaze at Biff. His voice was calm, but I could easily imagine him vaulting over the counter and grabbing Biff in a headlock. Or maybe it was wishful thinking on my part.
‘No thanks.’ Biff’s voice dripped scorn. ‘My mum says sugar’s bad for me.’
‘It’s probably the least of your problems,’ Josh observed, placing a hand on his heart. ‘You’re in dire need of a personality implant.’
Biff’s acne flushed an ugly crimson. ‘You’re not supposed to talk to customers like that,’ he said. ‘I hope this place does close down.’ He backed away, almost toppling Daz in the process.
‘Ow, that was my foot,’ Daz protested, grabbing his bag of chocolate mice and throwing down a grubby two-pound coin, before stuffing the sweets in his rucksack.
Out on the pavement they flicked V-signs through the window, and as they drifted away the sound of their raucous laughter blended with the cry of a particularly cross-sounding seagull.
‘Pair of idiots.’ Josh shook his head. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Go on then.’ I kept my voice bright, but could feel my forehead sinking into a frown. Why had Biff left with that particular parting shot – as if he knew it would hurt? ‘I’ll have three sugars in mine, please.’
Eleven
‘What’s going on?’ Celia entered the kitchen, giving a series of explosive coughs. ‘Smells like the house is on fire.’
Smoke was seeping from the edges of the Aga. Eyes watering I opened the door, fumbling blindly inside.
‘OW!’ I spluttered, a string of expletives springing from my mouth as I flung the tray onto the worktop. I’d forgotten to put oven gloves on.
‘Language,’ said Celia, her cough miracul
ously easing.
I’d risen early to experiment with some sweet-making, and had nipped upstairs for a quick shower while the results were in the oven. I’d clearly overestimated the cooking time.
‘What is it supposed to be?’ said Celia, wiping her watering eyes with a sheet of kitchen roll.
‘It was my version of coconut ice,’ I said, thrusting my hand under the tap and jigging up and down on the spot. ‘God, that stings.’
Celia flung open the window and huddled deeper into her dressing gown. ‘The burnt version?’ she said, eyeing the mess of charred cubes spilling across the worktop.
‘I don’t know what went wrong.’ I couldn’t believe I was still living up to my terrible-cook reputation. ‘I had the right ingredients, and followed every step of the recipe.’
Celia fixed me with a stare. ‘You don’t cook coconut ice, Marnie,’ she said. ‘You do the opposite. You put it in the fridge.’
‘What?’ I grabbed a tea-towel and roughly bandaged my hand. ‘But I did what the recipe said.’
Celia’s face, puffy with sleep, was a picture of fond despair. ‘Where is it?’
‘Where’s what?’
‘The recipe.’
I nodded miserably at the table. ‘On my laptop.’
Bending down, she read the screen. ‘There are two recipes here,’ she pointed out. ‘One for coconut ice, and one for chocolate brownies. You must have got them confused.’
I let out a groan. ‘I should have remembered,’ I said. ‘Mum never used to put it in the oven.’
Celia folded her arms. ‘I thought you were going to use my mother’s recipe book.’
‘I wanted to update things,’ I said, a sulky note creeping in. It was as if I was a teenager again, experimenting with my appearance and getting it wrong.
Celia turned back to the recipes. ‘Organic?’ She sounded vaguely disappointed, as if I’d been looking at porn. ‘Why?’
‘It’s healthier,’ I said, quickly tacking on, ‘and probably better for the environment,’ in an attempt to distract her.
She was reading the recipe out loud in a posh voice. ‘Himalayan sea salt? Bee nectar? Beetroot, or raspberries, for colouring?’
‘I thought you believed in natural ingredients,’ I said, leaning over and slamming my laptop shut. ‘Better than artificial food colouring.’
‘Insects are natural,’ she said, giving me a no-nonsense look. ‘Ground-up bugs, that’s all. Never did us any harm.’
‘Actually, it explains a lot.’
‘Cheeky.’ She unwound the tea-towel and studied the pink patches of skin on the tips of my fingers. ‘You’ll live,’ she said, giving my hand a squeeze. I tried not to scream.
‘I haven’t got time to make another batch,’ I said.
Her eyes thinned. ‘How much do these fancy ingredients cost?’
‘Not much,’ I said quickly. ‘The big Tesco’s has them all.’ I’d caught the bus there after work the evening before, more certain than ever after Biff and Daz’s departure that I wanted to try something different, despite Josh’s reservations.
‘Have you got enough to make some more?’
I looked at the packets and containers scattered around the kitchen. ‘Probably,’ I said, wondering how much profit I was going to make when the bee nectar alone had set me back almost eight pounds for a miniscule pouch.
‘I could make it for you,’ Celia offered, glancing at her elaborate wall planner, where the days were shaded in with different coloured pens. She’d never had any trouble filling her time before she’d broken her leg, and it looked like her schedule was piling up again. ‘I’m seeing a Cavapoo at eleven, but otherwise I’m free.’
‘What the heck is a Cavapoo?’
‘A cross between a poodle and a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel,’ she said, as though it was blindingly obvious.
‘Does it belong to the woman who moved into Seaview Cottage recently?’ I affected a casual tone as I scooped the burnt coconut and bee nectar (or honey, to us mortals) in the bin.
‘That’s her.’
Chester scratched the back door open, and Celia decanted some brisket into his bowl and anointed it with jus left over from last night’s dinner. ‘Her Cavapoo – Pollywollydoodle, would you believe? – isn’t settling in, apparently.’ She looked at me over her shoulder. ‘Have you met her?’
‘Not really,’ I said, quickly. I didn’t want to prejudice her against a potential client.
‘She popped round after you’d gone to work.’
‘Did she seem nice?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ Her gaze swung to the ceiling, thinking. ‘Actually, she was a bit snooty,’ she said. ‘Acted like she knew more than me, which begged the question, why did she want my help?’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘And?’
‘She apologised and said I’d been highly recommended.’ She handed me a mug of tea, and I almost screamed again as my injured fingers closed around the scalding china. ‘Why are you so interested in her, anyway?’
Transferring the mug to my other hand, I took a quick gulp. ‘No reason,’ I said, one eye on the clock.
‘Doesn’t look like she’s done a day’s work in her life.’ Celia sniffed. ‘She said she feeds the dog at the dining table.’ Her eyes grew big. ‘Is there any wonder they’re having problems?’
‘I heard she used to be a model.’ I’d looked her up, but hadn’t found any information online about her.
‘Well, she’s skinny enough,’ said Celia. ‘How’s your hand?’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’d better get to work. Sure you’ll be …?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said crisply, knowing what I was going to ask. ‘My stick’s in the hall, just in case.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll make some coconut ice then, shall I?’
‘Actually, forget it.’ I didn’t want her doing too much too soon. ‘I’ll do it another time.’
* * *
Josh wasn’t at the shop when I opened up but arrived ten minutes later, pink-faced and panting.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, leaning over to rest his hands on his knees, hair flopping forward. ‘A wheel fell off my skateboard so I had to run here.’
‘That’s a first,’ I said, buoyed up by the sight of him. It occurred to me I hadn’t told him what hours he should work. The truth was, I’d got used to opening the shop on my own and often working alone. Sometimes, Beth had turned up early, but mostly fitted work around her studying, which suited us both. Agnieszka often asked for more hours, so she could give up her other jobs, but I didn’t feel there was enough to do to warrant taking on someone full-time.
But I already liked Josh being around. He brought something vital with him to the shop; a shot of energy I hadn’t realised was missing. With our long-established friendship, Beth and I had been set in our ways and routines, and spent a lot of time chatting and drinking tea and coffee. Once, we had a Pilates session behind the counter while it was quiet.
‘Hey, I was thinking we could wear these,’ he said, pulling me out of my reverie. He was standing behind the counter, pulling on an apron. ‘What do you think?’
‘Where did you find that?’ I said, staring. It looked identical to the one Gramps used to wear; yellow and white striped, like the awning we pulled down outside the shop, when the sun was so bright it hurt our eyes.
‘It was in the stockroom, in one of the boxes,’ he said, smoothing his hands down the front. ‘I thought it might be a nice touch if we both wore them.’
Gramps had suggested the same thing, once. He’d had some made especially but I’d refused to wear mine. I couldn’t tell him, but had felt that by putting it on I was accepting I was going to be at the sweet shop forever, part of the fixtures and fittings, and I couldn’t bear it – not when I’d already told Mum I was planning to follow in her footsteps, and visit all the countries she’d been to when she was younger.
Gramps had hid his disappointment well, but thinking about it now, tears prickled my eyes. Why couldn’t I have worn the damn thing?
‘Have I said something wrong?’ Josh’s hands paused in the act of stroking his chest.
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ I blinked to clear my vision. ‘It’s a good idea, actually,’ I said, making a split-second decision to wear the apron in memory of my grandfather. ‘I think there’s more out the back.’
‘It also means we can wear what we like underneath,’ Josh said, looking at my cornflower blue top and white skinny jeans. ‘It’ll save thinking what to put on in the mornings.’
‘Is that something you struggle with then?’ I said, moving away from the twin beams of his eyes. ‘You don’t strike me as having an extensive wardrobe.’
‘That’s the point,’ he said, unruffled. ‘I can wear the same thing every day, if I’m putting an apron on top.’
‘That’s fine, as long as you remember to shower.’ My cheeks pulsed with colour. Why was I talking about him showering?
‘I could even be naked underneath.’ He unleashed a grin. ‘The naked sweet shop assistant,’ he said. ‘Has quite a ring to it, don’t you think?’
‘Only the ring of someone calling the police, which is what will happen if Doris clocks your bare backside.’ No! Why had I mentioned his bare backside?
As if wondering if he’d overstepped a line Josh held up his palms. ‘How about I get the float, while you put the kettle on?’ he suggested.
I smoothed my fringe and took a few steadying breaths, before switching my mind into business-mode.
The shop was unusually quiet all morning, so I busied myself looking over my website with a view to updating it, wincing every time my sore fingertips came into contact with the keyboard.
It would make sense to pay for it to be redesigned, as befitted an award-winning sweet shop, and could perhaps include a section for customers to leave feedback. Although, thinking of Isabel Sinclair, that might not be such a good idea.
Everything seemed to come back to either Chris Weatherby and his horrible article, or Isabel bloody Sinclair. I was starting to despise the pair of them, and was overcome with a fierce determination not to let them win.
