by Rosie Blake
‘I know that,’ Clara hissed from the corner of her mouth, smiling as a freckled boy reached up and deposited an alien soft toy on the counter, his mother, one hand on his ginger hair, reaching for her purse.
‘It would be completely reckless. Then you really would get a break-in.’ Joe continued to lecture her, looking preposterous in his smart suit surrounded by Barbie boxes and bright yellow trucks.
Clive had taken that moment to sneak away. Roz, seeing him leaving, scurried after him, hissing at him in a low voice. Poor Clive, Clara thought, he looked like he was paying for his visit to the shop. She would be sure to say hello to him more.
Joe had just approached when Sam reappeared with his camera. As the flash went off to her left, Clara took a breath before skirting round the counter to link arms with Joe. She must try to win him over, let him see all the wonderful things she wanted to do for the place.
‘This is the son of the owner,’ she announced to Sam with a smile. ‘Smile, Joe, it’s great press for the shop.’
Joe lifted one hand to shield his face as if he were an A-list celebrity trying to avoid the paparazzi. Something about the action made her want to tease him; he looked so serious, as if he couldn’t remember how to relax. She thought of the photo upstairs, a younger version, a carefree stance, an untroubled look. Where had that man gone?
‘Oh come on, Joe, you want the readers to see that strong jaw, that steely gaze,’ she said, preening and smiling as the camera went off. ‘And we want them all in here for the big event.’
‘What big event?’ Joe asked her. ‘News to me.’
‘Our new venture,’ Clara said, looking solemnly at him then turning to Sam. ‘It’s going to be huge. A real departure for us. I’ll give you an exclusive. Do put it in your piece, we want everyone to know about it, and do come along. It’s in four days’ time.’
‘But… what the…’ Joe’s mouth was opening and shutting as Clara continued to smile for the camera.
Sam looked up at them both. ‘Now just Clara on her own, please,’ he said, his eyes burning into her.
‘Would you like me in the back or out here?’ Clara asked sweetly as Joe stalked off. She watched him go, a bubble of laughter rising up in her. She wasn’t normally so provocative, but there was something about Joe that made her want to annoy him. His desire to take life way too seriously reminded her of someone, and the thought made her uncomfortable. She knew exactly what it was like to be that person and she knew how amazing it was to let go.
Chapter 15
He’d return when the shop was closing; he couldn’t believe she’d suggest keeping the shutters open. What next? Leave the till open and watch as the entire neighbourhood walked off with his mother’s money? She really was a completely reckless hippy. Fine, the shop had been full, but Roz was probably right: it was no doubt a flash in the pan, a curiosity, and the novelty would soon wear off.
He was right to stick around; she would be far too busy draping herself over that photographer to run the shop. He bristled as he thought back to the way she’d looked at him. Why was she having her photograph taken anyway? And she’d tried to drag him into a picture. What would his bosses say if they saw? His diary said he’d spent the morning in a client meeting in Norwich; he didn’t want some local news article to bust him in a lie.
He spent the day on his phone, a constant yo-yoing of emails and calls with his team in London as they sorted through the final details of this latest merger. One of the associates had gone AWOL the day before, not answering his phone. Tom wanted him fired. Joe spent twenty minutes saving the guy, who’d been practically living in the office, sending emailed replies at dawn.
The headache was back, at the front of his head behind his eyes, and he massaged his temples. He’d forgotten the lack of a café in the village – not that he’d frequented the restaurant, Bertie’s, which had always been heaving and the service way too slow, the owner constantly stopping to ask about everyone’s day. He got in his car, continuing to make calls, and headed to the nearest town and the nearest Starbucks. Semi-civilisation, he thought, as he paid for the public car park and walked past a woman reading a newspaper and a couple snogging on a bench.
God, he had to get in touch with Gemma. He’d met her last week after they’d messaged each other on Tinder. She’d been all right, good-looking, and they’d made plans to see each other for drinks after work tonight. He tapped out a message and sent it, knowing he wouldn’t be seeing her again. He checked his profile: six new matches, briefly passing over their faces. As he swiped along, they all seemed to merge into one professionally dressed, clear-skinned thirty-something woman. There were so many women in London, so many dates to go on. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for any more; when did you stop, decide I’ll see how this one works out? He swiped again.
He got back to the pub, showered, neck craned at an uncomfortable angle as he shampooed his hair, and pulled on a fresh shirt and trousers. He left off the suit jacket and tie, selecting a Ralph Lauren cashmere jumper and Grenson suede brogues. Feeling marginally better, and popping the second pill that day into his mouth, he headed out, pulling his scarf around him, surprised at the chill in the air.
She had shut the shop but the shutters were still up and the space-themed display could be seen flashing a mile away. Like a big neon arrow for potential burglars. He noticed a girl with a long plait holding her father’s hand as she gazed at the backdrop of stars. He tried to look at it as if he were that small child; he had to admit the effect was quite something. But irresponsible… He shook his head, ready to talk to Clara about the shutters again when suddenly they were whirring shut.
He let himself into the corridor as she was locking the door from the shop. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, hand on her chest.
‘Should I be relieved you’re not holding a horse’s head?’ he said, surprising himself as the words spilled out.
She only showed a tiny flicker of surprise before smiling at him, and he felt something in him thaw. She sat on the bottom step and started pulling on walking boots.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he said.
She looked up and said, a defensive edge to her voice, ‘Look, I’ve closed the shutters. It was only for a bit, just so the children could see the effect on their way back from school.’
‘It’s not about the shutters – I’m sorry, you were right, it looked good. It’s about —’
‘It’s been a long day,’ Clara stood up and shrugged on her coat, ‘and I need a walk before it gets really dark, and cold. So if you want to talk, that’s where I’ll be.’
He wasn’t used to being cut off in the middle of a sentence; he wasn’t used to walking. ‘Can’t you…’ but she was already clicking her tongue with impatience so he relented. ‘Fine.’
He went to the cupboard underneath the stairs, pulling out a winter coat. ‘I keep a few things here for when I’m back. Old clothes.’ The coat was last season’s Canada Goose parka. He took his phone and keys out of his pocket, resting them on a stair to transfer them to the coat.
‘Are you coming then?’ She was wearing a purple knitted hat, her long blonde hair falling down her back beneath it. She walked out, leaving him in the semi-darkness of the corridor.
He followed, pushing one arm through a sleeve. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, watching her turn down a side street. What was she in such a hurry to see? He set off after her.
She was standing, her back to him, leaning against a wooden five-bar gate, looking out over a churned-up field, the furrows straight, pools of murky rainwater collected in between the lines of soil.
‘So the shop,’ he began, about to launch into a speech he had prepared, and practised, on the way up from London.
‘Isn’t it amazing, you forget there are any houses at all,’ she said, gazing out at the unbroken view, the countryside stretching for miles.
He joined her at the gate, stamping his feet to warm up, the wind lifting his hair. He’d forgotten how quickl
y the village became fields, with the woods beyond. He had spent hours exploring the area as a boy, playing in the woods with school friends, building wigwams, damming rivers, cycling down leafy slopes making skids in the mud with his BMX. Then it had all stopped. As a teenager he’d been busy working on his exams or seeing his father in London at the weekends. He’d often resented returning to the back of beyond, had been far too busy then for the bracing walks his mother always gushed about. You’d think she’d discovered the eighth wonder of the world the way she spoke about the woods.
‘Yes, you do,’ he agreed, wanting to get her back on track. ‘So, the shop. It’s all very well you walking in and taking over like this, but… Are you listening?’
‘Sorry.’ Clara turned, the fading sun turning her skin a shade of pink. ‘It’s just a perfect evening to be out. I am listening,’ she added in the most vague voice, which suggested she really wasn’t. ‘Shall we walk?’ She set off down a track that skirted the field.
Joe felt his confidence leaking away as he continued to walk alongside her, dodging a puddle, his suede brogues nearly getting covered. ‘I’ll be needing to come in and start taking stock of things, you see.’
He wiped at a mark on his sleeve as Clara stopped again to look at another view. What was this woman doing? How could anyone amble in this way? Who had time to faff about, smell flowers and sigh as they stepped over stiles?
‘I’m going to be staying on, get the accounts in order, see what the situation is in terms of income and outgoings.’ He stared at her then, wanting to see her reaction. Had that foiled her plans? ‘Then find a buyer.’
He left a momentary pause; when she didn’t respond, he opened his mouth to continue.
‘Is that what your mum would want? To sell?’ Her voice was low and quiet.
He bristled. Something about the way she said it felt as if she was telling him he didn’t know his own mother. ‘Well, she left, wanted to close it. I’d say she’d be pretty grateful if I could salvage some money from it all.’ He stepped in a puddle, cold water shooting over his foot, dampening his socks, splattering mud all over his brogues and the bottom of his trousers.
‘All OK?’ Clara said in the same irritatingly dreamy voice, as if she couldn’t see what he’d just done.
‘Fine,’ he snapped.
Clara shrugged. ‘Your mum didn’t seem that preoccupied with the money side of things, more the fact that no one came in any more, and that’s changed,’ she said.
He knew it. She was trying to put him off finding a buyer; she had her own plans for the shop.
‘And if they keep coming in, she will make money again.’
He scoffed. ‘What, as judged by your profit from all of about a week being there?’
Clara lifted her shoulders again and dropped them. What was she playing at? Was this nonchalant approach some kind of tactic?
‘So I’ll come in, start going over things. I’ll base myself in the flat in the day, I need somewhere where’s there’s Wi-Fi anyway so…’
Clara had stopped again, arms folded on top of a fence. She looked around at him and he trailed away. ‘I know you want to talk, but can you be quiet for a few moments? Just unwind, take it all in,’ she said, moving her arm across in front of her in an arc.
He nodded, wondering quite what she was up to. Was this a power play? Was she really just interested in the view or was she buying time? He watched her through narrowed eyes as she returned to resting on the fence, chin on top of her folded arms, eyes shut as the sun sank beneath the line of trees beyond. She had the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen, like a porcelain doll’s, and luminous skin, the evening light softening her features. He almost forgot who she was, why he was right to keep up his guard.
‘If we’re not going to talk about it, shall we head back?’ he said. ‘Now that it’s getting dark.’
She let out a small sigh, as if he had somehow broken her mood. He didn’t care, wanted to have things wrapped up. The woman walked at about half his pace; Jesus, by the time they’d navigated their way back, it would be nightfall. He had things to do. He didn’t want to just leave her here, though.
‘What an amazing sunset,’ she said, indicating the fields stretching into the horizon.
It was his turn to sigh, and he did it loudly. She was treating him as if he’d had his eyes shut the entire walk. ‘Yep. Great,’ he said. He stared where her finger was pointing, realising for a moment that she was right: it was quite beautiful. The churned-up mud in sentry lines reaching for miles, a patchwork of fields beyond and then the enormous dusty-pink sky, leaking into blues. He didn’t see sunsets like this in London, the houses and apartments often blocking out the horizon, and anyway he was always in the office when the sun set, just a reminder of the work left to do that day.
Thoughts of the office increased his heart rate, and his mind instantly turned to the things he’d left in motion that day. He wondered if the company they were negotiating with had got back to his team. Their last offer hadn’t been high enough; they wanted three bar at least. He knew he might have to step in and put the pressure on at some point. His hand reached automatically for his jacket pocket. He would get an update from Pam. He wanted to know if Tom had noticed his absence; he didn’t want him stirring things up. The last thing he needed was anyone in the team running to Karen.
He patted at the pocket: empty.
Clara had turned away from the fence and walked past him as he was pulling the pockets inside out, as if his phone would materialise in the lining. He stepped backwards, not looking, a cowpat squelching over the brogue that wasn’t wet. He was too distracted by the loss of his phone to even notice the marks on the suede.
‘Where the…’ he was muttering. The headache that he hadn’t noticed on the walk had returned now, his temples throbbing. He patted pointlessly at the pockets again.
Clara was a few feet away, the village a backdrop behind her as she called to him, ‘Looking for something?’ Her expression was strange, a small smile on her face as she tucked her hands into the pockets of her own coat and waited for him to reply.
‘My phone, I thought I’d put it in this coat, but…’ He was patting at his trouser pockets now, his heart racing faster with each failed attempt. God, if he couldn’t find it, he’d have to head back to the office. His whole life was on that phone. He needed to be on a conference call in a couple of hours and he had all the contacts in the handset. Why hadn’t he written them down?
‘It’s back in the shop corridor,’ she said cheerfully. ‘On the stairs. You left it there with your keys.’
‘What?’ He looked up, Clara’s words only just reaching him through the fog of his thoughts. He clenched his jaw. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I thought it might be nice for you not to have it on you. You seem to be quite attached to it.’ She turned back towards the village, her stupid swishy blonde hair flicking behind her.
He followed her, stumbling a little on the uneven ground, his feet now sodden, his trousers probably ruined. ‘You have no idea what you might have done. I need to be contactable at all times. We’ve got billions riding on this deal, billions.’
She had stopped walking, but didn’t turn round.
‘Of course it’s fine for you with your frolicking about the countryside looking at sunsets and animals. “Ooh, it’s a deer, it’s a flower, it’s a sunset”,’ he called out in an attempt at a high girl’s voice, the accent decidedly German. ‘When some of us have jobs to go to, work to do. And it’s probably just an act anyway; I know it’s all part of some kind of long game you’re playing.’
She turned to face him, her nose wrinkling at the phrase. ‘Long game?’ she repeated. ‘We’re not in Canary Wharf now, Joe.’
‘Yes, a long game,’ he said, stepping towards her. ‘You’ve somehow decided that my mother is vulnerable. She takes off for Spain, leaving her shop and flat conveniently empty, just as you appear, voilà, out of the blue, with your good intentions’ – he made
speech marks in the air – ‘and your oh-let-me-just-stick-a-glow-star-on-it attitude, as if somehow it’s all one big, happy coincidence…’ He knew he was sounding paranoid, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself, his heart still racing, palms sweating.
