The Beachside Sweetshop

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ I said, backing into the hall. ‘Night night.’

  I wasn’t used to a male presence in the house, since my grandfather’s death; even if it was only Paddy-next-door.

  ‘I’d love one,’ he was saying keenly, as I let the door swing shut and headed up to the bathroom.

  My headache had eased by the time I’d showered and blasted my hair dry. I slid beneath my duvet, certain I wouldn’t sleep, but the burr of conversation downstairs – interspersed with some aggrieved whining from Chester – was oddly comforting, and I drifted off straight away.

  * * *

  Paddy wasn’t at the breakfast table the following morning, as I’d feared, but Celia was non-committal about what time he left. ‘After the dogs had been out for a wee,’ was all she was prepared to say, busy with her first appointment of the day – a rescue dog, destroying its owner’s house one cushion at a time.

  Apparently Paddy was dropping Celia off there, before taking her to her hospital appointment.

  As I left for work, Isabel Sinclair emerged from her house, swinging baby Fitzgerald in a car-seat. She loaded it into a hulking SUV, of the sort I’d seen on Ice Road Truckers ploughing across deepest Alaska. Clearly downsizing didn’t extend to her mode of transport.

  She drew her head from the car and spotted me approaching.

  ‘Hello,’ she drawled, shielding her eyes from the sun with an angled arm. She looked dressed for the gym, her fuchsia sports bra visible beneath a couple of layered vest-tops. Her tousled hair was pinned back beneath a headband, and her trainers looked box-fresh. And very large. Doris was right, she had massive feet. ‘Got step ‘n’ pump this morning,’ she said in a sing-song voice – as if she hadn’t recently staged a protest and threatened to ruin my grandfather’s legacy.

  ‘You should see a doctor about that,’ I couldn’t resist saying, as I drew level.

  ‘You won’t be joking when you see the paper this morning.’

  I looked at her smug, beautiful face and wanted to slap it. ‘The Examiner doesn’t come out until tomorrow.’

  ‘Try The South-West Recorder,’ she said, plugging her baby’s mouth with a heart-shaped dummy. ‘You look desperate, I look classy, end of story.’

  Shit. That paper would reach a wider audience than The Examiner.

  Before I could react, she turned to wave at a thick-set man, standing on the doorstep behind her. With his close-cut hair and bullish features he looked like a nightclub bouncer, but was wearing a towelling robe with matching slippers, and cuddling a snow-white dog.

  ‘Gerry, don’t forget to feed Pollywollydoodle before you put the breadmaker on,’ Isabel called in a high-handed way.

  ‘It’s top of my list,’ said Gerry through a yawn – as if it was the most boring sentence he’d ever uttered. I imagined the transition from publishing magnate – or whatever he’d been – to dog-sitting house-husband was proving less than enthralling, and that being married to Isabel was something of a challenge.

  ‘Have a super day!’ I said, matching her tone, but as I marched away my heart was hopping about like a startled rabbit. Had she really seen the paper, or was she playing mind games?

  Doris was in her garden already, trimming her billowing lavender bush with a large pair of secateurs. ‘Celia says hi!’ I fibbed, scurrying by before she could accost me.

  The sun mysteriously vanished and a bank of grey clouds scudded across the sea, turning it a steely grey. I shivered, wishing I’d brought a jacket. As I approached the shop, something on the window caught my eye, and as I drew closer the black smudgy mess transformed into a spray-painted skull and crossbones. Beneath it, the word ‘POISON’ dripped with macabre menace.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘It was there when I got here,’ Josh said, coasting around the corner on his newly fixed skateboard, hair quivering in the breeze. ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ he said, rolling to a stop beside me. ‘I was going to ask the owner of the guesthouse if she had something I could clean it off with.’

  My eyes felt hot. ‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘The fewer people that see it the better.’

  ‘Who do you think did it?’ Josh scratched his stubble. ‘Local art students?’

  I attempted a laugh. ‘Probably Isabel Sinclair.’ I pulled my keys from my bag, averting my gaze from the window. My grandfather would be turning in his grave.

  ‘There’ll be something in the stockroom I can clean it off with,’ I said, unlocking the door. Inside, I switched off the alarm, and saw that my fingers were trembling.

  ‘I’ll do it while you open up,’ Josh said, hot on my heels. ‘By the time any customers turn up, they won’t know it was there.’

  ‘I’ll know it was,’ I said, heading to the stockroom to find the white spirit I’d bought along with several tins of emulsion, as part of a New Year’s resolution to repaint the shop. ‘How can people be so mean?’

  Any remaining pleasure I’d felt at winning my award slipped away. If anything, it had brought nothing but trouble.

  ‘Hey, don’t cry,’ Josh said, stilling my hand as I fumbled about for a cloth.

  I hadn’t realised I was crying, but as I passed my other hand over my face it came away damp. ‘This wouldn’t have happened if my grandfather was alive,’ I mumbled. Somehow, my face was pressed against Josh’s chest, and his arms were tight around me. I could feel his heart pumping against my cheek, and smell his musky scent.

  A flare of attraction shot up my spine and I nuzzled closer as his lips pressed the top of my head. I hadn’t realised he was so much taller than me. Or that his chest was quite so firm.

  ‘It’ll pass,’ he murmured, his breath warm on my scalp. ‘Don’t let her spoil what you’ve achieved.’

  ‘But I haven’t achieved anything,’ I said, and then I was sobbing in earnest, bubbling snot all over his Superman T-shirt. ‘This is my grandfather’s shop and it always will be. All I’ve really done is keep it open.’

  Pulling back, he lifted my chin with his finger.

  ‘But that’s everything,’ he said, his voice tight with emotion. ‘You could have sold the place when the old man popped it, or got someone else in to run it,’ I remembered that was my plan and felt a flicker of guilt. ‘But you didn’t and you’re doing great.’ His eyes glowed with sincerity, while mine were puffing up. ‘You’re finding your own way of doing things,’ he said. ‘This is just a blip, believe me.’

  I badly wanted to. But I kept seeing Isabel’s self-satisfied, asymmetrical face in my mind – as if she knew something I didn’t.

  I wriggled reluctantly out of Josh’s arms, and could have sworn he looked disappointed. After smoothing my hands down my cheeks, I wiped my face on the first cloth that came to hand. Luckily, it was clean.

  ‘Can you go and get a copy of The South-West Recorder while I clean the window?’ I said, attempting to claw back some semblance of professionalism. ‘I think I’m in it, and not in a good way.’

  Eighteen

  As Josh jogged up to the high street to fetch a newspaper from Mr Flannery’s, I sloshed white spirit onto my cloth and stepped out to tackle the window.

  A passing car slowed, and the driver – who looked old enough to know better – lowered his window to take a picture on his phone.

  ‘Nice artwork!’ he shouted, before roaring away in his sports car, the sound of his exhaust attracting attention from some teenage boys, perched on the railings opposite like giant seagulls.

  ‘Smile, miss,’ one shouted, aiming his phone at me before I could turn away.

  Great. I would probably be on YouTube now. Hopefully, no one would be interested in a red-faced woman, dangling a cloth beside some graffiti outside a Dorset sweet shop. Although it did have a certain pathos when I thought of it like that.

  Ignoring the soft drizzle that had started falling, I began to scrub at the skull and crossbones, smearing black paint across the glass so it was impossible to see the display of sweets inside.

  Wipin
g rain off my cheek with the back of my hand, I was vaguely aware of a van door sliding open, followed by a clack of heels on the pavement.

  ‘Miss Appleton!’

  I spun around as Sandi Brent pounced. ‘What do you want?’ I squinted as my eyes were speared by a blinding light, positioned above a camera resting on the shoulder of the cameraman.

  ‘Switch that off, Kyle!’ Sandi hissed from under her golf umbrella. ‘The existing light suits the tone much better.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ I said, though it was obvious she’d been tipped off. I made an effort to conceal the graffiti with my body. ‘Please don’t film this.’

  ‘Why do you think it’s happening, Miss Appleton?’ The exclamation marks were gone. Sandi Brent was in full investigative reporter mode, head tilted, eyes hungry for drama. She was even dressed soberly, in pin-striped trousers, trench coat, and low-heeled shoes, and her hair had been twisted into a chignon. I doubted the lenses in her tortoiseshell glasses were anything but plain glass.

  ‘Just vandals, messing about, that’s all,’ I said. I felt my hair expanding in the rain, adding to my peasant-woman look. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Really?’ She exchanged a disbelieving look with the cameraman, who had the grace to look slightly ashamed.

  ‘Do you want to borrow an umbrella?’ He lowered the camera. ‘I’ve got a spare in the van.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Sandi snapped, Stormtrooper style. ‘We’re trying to tell a story here.’ She turned to me again, her face softening into the sort of expression a counsellor might wear. ‘A story of one woman’s fight to keep her business afloat amid stiff opposition, and dirty dealings,’ she added, as Kyle raised the camera with an apologetic shrug.

  ‘I’m not Erin bloody Brockovich,’ I said, recalling how much I’d loved her when I was fifteen; wished I was her.

  ‘We’d like to hear your side of the story,’ said Sandi, as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘About how you’re planning to respond to your detractors.’

  ‘My detractors are a handful of people, one of whom has her own agenda, and I’m planning to carry on as I’ve always done, just as my grandfather did.’ Turning my back, I frenziedly scrubbed at the window with a cloth more sodden with rain than white spirit, my hair flopping wetly forward.

  ‘But what about the sugar issue?’ Sandi’s voice was a hushed whisper of sympathy as she ducked her head to meet my gaze, her subtly made-up eyes – still with perfect eyeliner flicks – awash with understanding.

  ‘I’ve addressed that already,’ I said, stubbornly smearing paint around the window in graceful swirls. My hand was completely black.

  ‘So you’re going to come back fighting?’ Sandi seemed intent on urging me towards the ending she had in mind.

  Seized by an urge to be decisive, I faced her fully. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

  ‘How?’ she persisted, reminding me of Chester with a particularly juicy bone.

  ‘I’m introducing a line of homemade sweets with less sugar.’ I sounded like the Queen addressing the nation. ‘You should come along on Monday, and judge for yourself.’

  I shook out my cloth, spattering her cream coat with black blobs. She looked down, her mouth a perfect circle of drop-dead horror. ‘Oops, sorry.’

  ‘You … you …’ For once, words seemed to desert her. She rubbed her coat with the palm of her hand, spreading the dark stains. ‘Look what you’ve done,’ she wailed.

  Kyle smothered a grin.

  ‘Let me help,’ I said, and began dabbing at her with the filthy cloth, which stank to high heaven.

  ‘Get off me!’ she shrieked, reeling away, catching Kyle with her umbrella. As he stumbled back, the camera began to topple.

  ‘Don’t drop it, you fucker,’ she spat. ‘We don’t want to lose the footage.’

  Fortunately – for him – Kyle managed to catch it before it hit the pavement, its waterproof casing dripping water over his shoes.

  Releasing air through her teeth, Sandi gathered herself and arranged her face into something resembling compassion. ‘Well, we wish you the best of luck with everything, Mandy,’ she said, mustering a terse smile. I couldn’t be bothered to correct her. ‘We are on your side, you know.’

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ I muttered as Kyle helped her into the van before driving away, offering me a sympathetic smile while Sandi checked her make-up in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘What was all that about?’ said Josh, turning up as the van disappeared round the corner. Rain glistened in his hair, and his damp clothes hugged the contours of his body.

  ‘Sandi Brent somehow got wind of this,’ I said, indicating the horrible mess I’d made on the window. At least it no longer resembled a skull and crossbones – more a deformed butterfly, with the letter P underneath. ‘I reckon whoever did it must have called her.’ Suddenly shaky, I didn’t object when he placed a hand at my elbow and ushered me back inside. ‘Did you get a paper?’

  He nodded, lifting his top and tugging it from the waistband of his faded jeans. ‘It’s not too bad, actually.’

  ‘You must be kidding.’ In the photo on the front page, I was gazing at Josh with a rapturous expression, as though I’d encountered a Greek god – or Tom Hiddleston in his pants. My fringe had turned outwards at the sides, giving the impression I had horns. ‘It’s a disaster.’

  ‘You look cute,’ he said, examining the picture closely with a smile.

  ‘I look like a brainwashed cult member,’ I said, snatching the paper out of his hands and reading Chris Weatherby’s article.

  The Sour Taste of Success …

  Award-winning Marnie Appleton (39) of The Beachside Sweet Shop, was targeted by protestors this week, led by prolific blogger – hardly prolific – Isabel Sinclair (29), – had he switched our ages deliberately? – wife of Gerry Sinclair, publishing CEO, – former publishing CEO. – When asked how she planned to tackle the issue of sugar addiction in this country,

  ‘In this country?’ I said. ‘I’m not the bloody health minister,’

  Miss Appleton announced that on Bank Holiday Monday she’ll be inviting customers to sample her handmade low-sugar sweets. Whether the public will swallow this

  ‘ha!’

  blatant business ploy, or vote with their feet and stay away, remains to be seen. Readers can search for Ms Sinclair’s blog Izzy Wizzy Mummy’s Busy.

  I shoved the paper at Josh and stood shivering in my damp shirt.

  ‘Do you have a staff-training notice?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ I shook my head. ‘Never needed one,’ I said.

  ‘Wait there.’ He moved to the counter, found a sheet of paper, a pen, and some Sellotape. ‘There,’ he said, when he’d finished writing, sticking the makeshift notice to the door and locking it. ‘Now you have.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘Come out the back and have some coffee.’

  ‘I saw you last night,’ I said, letting him lead me to the kitchen, the touch of his hand radiating warmth through my veins. ‘Near Wareham.’

  He let go of my hand, to fill the kettle with water. ‘Where were you?’ he said, taking a fresh jar of coffee from the cupboard above the sink, not disputing it was him.

  ‘On a bus,’ I said. ‘I went to see Beth.’ Was it my imagination, or had his shoulders stiffened? ‘I didn’t know you had a campervan.’

  ‘It’s a friend’s,’ he said, spooning coffee into mugs. ‘We were supposed to be going for a drink out that way, but the stupid thing broke down.’

  ‘I thought it must have,’ I said. ‘You looked quite angry on the phone.’

  He glanced at me and away again, before I could see his expression.

  ‘No breakdown cover?’ I guessed.

  He nodded, adding milk to the mugs and handing me one. ‘Shall we drink in the stockroom?’ He flourished an arm.

  ‘Why not?’ I said. I glanced into the shop, but couldn’t see any customers waiting to come in. The sky outside was gunmetal grey, and r
ain threw itself against the window, washing away the remains of the paint.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d closed the shop on a weekday, and was filled with a naughty-schoolgirl feeling as we perched on one of the wooden pallets in the stockroom that Gramps had planned to ‘do something with’, though he’d never made clear what.

  It was cosy, the only light coming from the rays filtering through from the shop. The air was filled with the sugary smell of sweets, and the sound of the rain cascading down the guttering outside added an air of intimacy. I began to feel a bit better. ‘I think we’ll weather the storm, if you’ll pardon the pun,’ I said to Josh.

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a minute,’ he said. He scooched back on the pallet until he was leaning against the wall. Bringing his knees up to act as a shelf, he rested his mug on one of them. In the half-light, his face looked serious. ‘I really am sorry about yesterday,’ he began.

  I waved my hand. ‘You’ve already apologised,’ I told him. ‘It’s in the past.’

  For a second he looked stricken, and seemed about to say something else.

  He loudly cleared his throat. ‘Did you always want to join the family business?’

  I half-turned so I was facing him properly, drawing my legs underneath me. ‘I didn’t really think about it, to be honest. I used to help out when I was little, then worked here as a teenager, for pocket money. After I studied business at uni, it made sense to be here full-time, I suppose.’

  His brow wrinkled. ‘So it wasn’t a career plan as such?’

  I puffed air into my drying fringe, guessing it looked horrendous. ‘Well, I didn’t not want to work here,’ I protested. ‘I mean, it suited me over the years, but I always thought of it as convenient, and a stop-gap before …’ before what? ‘I was saving up to go travelling.’

  He gave me a considering look. ‘And yet, here you are.’

  I took a gulp of coffee and rubbed at a spot of paint on my sneaker. ‘After my grandfather died, it seemed like the right thing to stay.’