by Jojo Moyes
Although she would have protested initially that she had nothing in common with those women, she could see herself in some: it was the way they shopped, wandering around the town's only department store with the measured gait of someone who had both money and time; it was the way it was impossible to get an appointment with either of the town's two beauty salons; it was the way that crystals and scented candles and food-allergy testing had become not so much an 'alternative' as a way of life.
Suzanna was not sure what category her shop would fall into. As she sat, surrounded by boxes of stock, conscious that not only was her till still not working but that the electrician had failed to tell her what lightbulbs she needed for the spotlights, she was not sure that it was going to be a shop at all. Neil had rung twice, wanting to know whether she was certain she needed to buy quite so much stock in advance, while the water board had sent several letters demanding money even before she had opened.
For someone so recently haunted by debt, Suzanna was unworried by any of this. For the weeks that she had held the keys, she had just enjoyed being there, slowly turning the image she had held for the past months into a reality. She had loved travelling around to investigate possible suppliers, at trade exhibitions or tiny backrooms behind London's Oxford Street, meeting young designers eager to showcase their works, or more established ones who could talk her through years of trade. She loved having a purpose, being able to talk about 'my shop', to make decisions based upon her own taste, choosing only what she thought beautiful and unusual.
And then there was the shop itself. The exterior had been given a fresh lick of white paint and the interior was slowly taking shape, nudged along by visits from local plumbers, carpenters and her own amateur ability with a paintbrush. She knew they thought her picky and over-deliberate, but the decisions as to where things should go were complicated because it was not going to be a conventional shop. It was, instead, a mixture of things: a coffee room, for which the back wall held an old church pew, several tables and chairs and a reconditioned Italian coffee machine. It was a second-hand shop, offering a few disparate items simply because she liked the look of them. It had some clothes, some jewellery, some pictures, some ornaments. It had some modern things. And that was about as specific as it got.
She had begun to place a variety of objects in the window. Initially, to make it look inhabited, she had put some of the more beautiful things she had bought during her 'shopping' phase and never been able to use: brightly beaded bags, oversized glass rings, an antique picture frame with a modern abstract print. When the stock came, she had felt unwilling to alter her arrangement so she had simply added to it: beautiful concentric circles of Indian bangles, old dresser drawers full of glowing metallic pens, spice bottles with silver lids in a variety of colours.
'It's like a sort of doll's house. Maybe an Aladdin's cave,' Neil had said, when he had dropped by at the weekend. 'It looks very - erm - pretty. But are you sure people are going to understand what it is you're about?'
'What does it have to be about?'
'Well, what kind of shop is it going to be?'
'My kind of shop,' she said, and enjoyed his look of confusion.
Because Suzanna was creating something beautiful, something that was entirely her vision, diluted by no husband or partner. Free to do whatever she wanted, she found herself stringing bargain fairy-lights around the shelves, putting up little painted signs in her own intricate handwriting, colouring the floorboards a pale violet because the colour had taken her fancy. She arranged the tables and chairs, bought cheap from a house-clearance shop and painted with tester pots, into the kind of arrangements she would have liked when she had had coffee with her girlfriends. It was the chairs that had made her see it: she was, she realised, looking at them, making herself a little corner of something magical, perhaps a little cosmopolitan, a place where she could once again feel at home, separate from the provincial eyes and attitudes that now surrounded her.
'So, what kind of shop are you?' one of the antiques dealers had said, after eyeing the frame in her window. His voice had held just the faintest note of derision.
'I'm . . . I'm an emporium,' she had said, and ignored his raised eyebrows as he left to return to his own shop. And that's what she had called it, The Peacock Emporium, the sign painted in chalk blue and white, a stencilled drawing of a peacock feather beside it. Neil had looked at it with a mixture of pride and fearfulness; he confessed later that he had wondered whether, with his name on the door, he might face bankruptcy again if it folded.
'It's not going to fold,' said Suzanna, firmly. 'Don't be so negative.'
'You're going to have to work bloody hard,' he said.
Even Neil's anxieties didn't bother her. She found it harder to argue with him at the moment. She slept well.
Apart from the stock, she had bought nothing for weeks.
'Are you open?'
Suzanna glanced up from her spot on the floor. The religious-icon candles had seemed like a good idea at the London wholesaler's, but now, as she watched green padded waistcoat after green padded waistcoat pass the window, either oblivious or squinting through the glass in a vaguely disparaging manner, she wondered whether she had been too cosmopolitan in her tastes. They looked beautiful next to the beaded bags but, as Neil kept saying, there was no point in her buying beautiful things if no one around here would be prepared to buy them.
'Not quite. Probably on Monday.'
The woman walked in anyway, closed the door behind her and gazed around with a rapt expression. She wasn't wearing a green waistcoat but a maroon anorak, and a hand-knitted multicoloured woollen hat from which her grey hair stuck out at right angles. At first glance Suzanna might have written her off as a trainee bag-lady, but on looking closer, she noted that her shoes were of good quality, as was her handbag.
'Doesn't it look lovely in here? Very different from how it was before.'
Suzanna struggled to her feet.
'Yes. This shop was a grocer's, you know, when I was a girl. There was your fruit over this side . . .' she gestured to where Suzanna's tables and chairs now stood '. . . and on this side the vegetables. Oh, and they used to do fresh eggs. They kept their own chickens out the back, you know. I don't suppose you'll be doing that.' She laughed, as if she had said something amusing.
'Right. Well, I'd better be--'
'What are the tables for? Are you going to serve food?'
'No.'
'People like a bit of food.'
'You need a licence for that. I'm going to serve coffee. Like espresso.'
'Espresso?'
It was moments like this that made Suzanna's renewed optimism falter. How could she sell coffee in a town whose inhabitants didn't even know what espresso was? 'It's a type of coffee. Quite strong. Served in small cups.'
'Well, I suppose that's a good way to keep your profits up. The tea house on Long Lane serves their tea in very small cups, I always say. I suppose it keeps their profits up too.'
'It's meant to be in small cups.'
'I'm sure they'd say the same, dear.' She moved over to the window display, muttering to herself as she fingered the objects on display. 'What's this meant to be, then?' She held up the abstract painting.
'I don't believe it's meant to be anything.' Suzanna heard the first hint of steel in her voice.
The woman peered closely at it. 'Is it modern art?' She said the words as if she were speaking a foreign language.
'Yes.' Please don't let her say 'A child could do that,' Suzanna thought.
'I could do that. If I did one like it, would you sell it for me?'
'I'm not really a gallery. You need to talk to a gallery.'
'But you're selling that one.'
'It's a one-off.'
'But if you sell it, there's no reason why you shouldn't be able to sell another. I mean, it proves there's a demand.'
Suzanna could feel herself losing patience. She had a short fuse at the best of times. These were not th
e best of times.
'It's been lovely talking to you, but I'm afraid I really must get on.' Suzanna held out an arm, as if to steer the woman towards the door.
But she had rooted herself to the centre of the floor. She crossed her arms. 'Grew up in this town, I did. I'm a seamstress by trade, but I moved away when I married. Lots of us did, then.'
Oh, God. She was going to want to talk history. Suzanna looked around desperately, trying to find some practical task she could use as an excuse to get rid of her.
'My husband died three years after we married. Tuberculosis. Spent almost six months in a Swiss clinic, he did, and then he died anyway.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I'm not. He was rather a stupid man. I only realised it after I'd married him. We didn't have children, you know. He preferred his mouth-organ.'
Suzanna let out a snort. 'What?'
The woman brushed vaguely at her hair. 'He didn't know what to do, dear. I did, because my mother had told me. I told him on our wedding night, and he was so horrified that he said no, thank you, he'd rather play his mouth-organ. So that's what we did every night, for two years. I read my book in bed, and he played his mouth-organ.'
Despite herself, Suzanna found herself laughing. 'I'm sorry. Did you - did you find anyone else?'
'Oh, no. No one I wanted to marry. I had rather a lot of affairs, which were nice, but I didn't want someone in my bed every night. They might have wanted to play some musical instrument too. Goodness knows what I might have ended up with.' The woman, apparently briefly haunted by visions of bass drums and tubas, gave a tiny shake of her head. 'Yes, it's all changed. I've only been back here six months, and it's all changed . . . Are you local?'
'I was born here, but we lived in London until last year.' She wasn't sure why she had told the truth: she had a feeling that the less she told this woman the better.
'So you're a returnee too! How exciting. Well, we've each found a kindred spirit. I'm Mrs Creek. Johanna Creek. You can call me Mrs Creek. What's your name?'
'Peacock. Suzanna Peacock.'
'We had peacocks in the house where I grew up. It's just outside the town, on the Ipswich road. Dreadful birds they are, make the most hideous noise. They used to do their business all over our window-sills.'
She turned and put a hand up to her hat, as if to check it was still there. 'Well, Suzanna Peacock, I can't stand around here chatting all day. I'm afraid I'll have to get on. I've got to get a shepherd's pie from the Women's Institute market. I'm going to make them some aprons and peg-bags. Hardly the stuff I'm used to, but it keeps the fingers working. I'll come back when you open and have one of your small cups of coffee.'
'Oh, good,' said Suzanna, drily.
Before she left, Mrs Creek stared again at the abstract painting, as if memorising it in preparation for her own version.
She arrived home at almost half past nine. Neil was sitting with his feet on the coffee table, an empty bowl and a plate littered with a few crumbs next to them. 'I was about to send out a search party,' he said, turning his head away from the television.
'I was trying to get the stock looking right.'
'Told you you needed more shelves in the front.'
'What's for dinner?'
He looked mildly surprised. 'I haven't made anything. I thought you might be back in time to cook.'
She removed her coat, feeling suddenly cross and tired. 'I'm opening in three days' time, Neil. I'm run off my feet. I thought just this once you might cook for me.'
'You might have eaten already. Besides, I didn't know what time you'd be back.'
'You could have rung.'
'You could have rung me.'
Suzanna threw her coat on to the back of a chair, and stomped into the little kitchen. The sink was still full of the morning's breakfast things. 'Well, as long as you're all right, Neil, don't worry about me, will you?'
His voice, through the serving hatch, lifted in protest: 'I only had bloody bread and cheese. I've hardly been cooking myself up a banquet.'
She began slamming cupboard doors, searching for something easy to prepare. She hadn't had time to go to the supermarket for a couple of weeks, and the shelves contained little more than the odd spilt lentil or opened stock cube. 'You could have washed up.'
'Oh, for crying out loud! I leave the house at a quarter to six in the morning. Do you want me to wait here until you've had your breakfast?'
'Just forget it, Neil. You look after yourself, and I'll look after myself, and then at least we both know where we stand.'
There was a brief silence, and he appeared in the kitchen doorway. There was little space for them both, and he moved as if to steer her out into the living room. 'Don't be so melodramatic, Suze. Look, you sit down and I'll cook you something.'
'You haven't left me any bread.' She peered into the plastic packet.
'There were only two slices.'
'Oh, just go away, Neil. Go and lie on the sofa.'
He threw up his arms in exasperation. It was only then that she noticed how tired he looked, that his face was shadowed with grey. 'Oh, go away yourself,' he retorted. 'And don't be such a bloody martyr. If this shop is going to make you so bloody grumpy I'm already wishing you hadn't taken it on.'
He launched himself back into the sofa, which was too big for the room, picked up the remote control and began to flick through the television channels.
She stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, then came and sat on the chair opposite him, clutching a bowl of cereal. She would not look at him. It was the least arduous way of showing him how fed up she was.
Abruptly, Neil turned off the television. 'I'm sorry,' he said, into the silence. 'I should have thought about the bread. It's just that by the time I get off the train in the evening, all I can think about is getting home.'
He had disarmed her. 'No, I'm the one who should be sorry. It's just tiredness. It'll be better when the shop opens.'
'I am pleased you've got the shop. I shouldn't have said that. It's been nice seeing you so . . . so--'
'Busy?'
'Animated. I like seeing you animated. You seem less bothered by . . . stuff than you have been.'
The cereal felt like an effort. She felt too tired. She put it on the table in front of her. 'Less time to think, I suppose.'
'Yup. Too much time to think - always a recipe for disaster. Try not to do it myself.' He smiled wanly. 'Want me to see if I can get the day off for your opening?'
She sighed, acknowledging his smile. 'No . . . don't worry. I don't think I'll do a grand opening. I don't even know if it's going to be Monday, the way things are going. And you'd better not upset the boss. Not this soon into the job.'
'If you're sure.' He gave her another tentative smile, then settled back into the sofa, picked up his newspaper and flicked through the pages.
Suzanna sat opposite, wondering why she had instinctively not wanted him there. It sounded daft, even to her. Ungenerous, even. But she just wanted something that was hers, pure and pleasurable, untainted by her and Neil's history. Uncomplicated by people.
Eight
The old lady stood in the doorway wearing her good tweed coat, a straw hat with cherries, set at a rakish angle, and her patent-leather handbag clutched before her in gnarled fingers. 'I would like,' she announced, 'to go into Dere.'
Vivi turned, the roasting dish spitting lethally in her gloved hands, and searched frantically for a spare section of the stove on which to rest it. She took in the hat and bag, and her heart sank. 'What?'
'Don't say "what". It's rude. I am ready to go to town. If you wouldn't mind fetching the car.'
'We can't go to town, Rosemary. The children are coming for lunch.'
A flicker of confusion passed across Rosemary's features. 'Which children?'
'All of them. They're all coming. For Lucy's birthday lunch, you remember?'
Rosemary's cat, which was so bony and decrepit that, when lying outside, it had several times been mistaken for ro
adkill, scrabbled its way on to the kitchen worksurface and made its way shakily towards the roast beef. Vivi removed an oven glove and gently placed the mutely protesting animal back on the floor, then promptly burnt herself on the roasting tin.
'In that case I'll just get a quick trip in before they come.'
Vivi sighed inwardly. She fixed a smile on her face and turned back to her mother-in-law. 'I'm awfully sorry, Rosemary, but I've got to get lunch ready and lay the table yet. And I haven't dusted the front room. Perhaps you could ask--'
'Oh, he's far too busy to be running me around. You don't want to go bothering him.' The old lady lifted her head imperiously, and glanced at the window. 'Just run me to the Tall Trees then. I'll walk the rest of the way.' She waited, then added, pointedly, 'With my stick.'
Vivi checked the beef, and slid the roasting tray back into the lower oven. She walked over to the sink and ran cold water over her throbbing fingers. 'Is it urgent?' she said, her voice carefully light. 'Could it wait until after tea, perhaps?'
Her mother-in-law stiffened. 'Oh, don't mind me. My trips are never urgent, are they, dear? No, I'm far too ancient to have anything important to do.' She peered dismissively at the other tray on the worktop. 'Nothing as important as the needs of a few potatoes.'
'Now, come on, Rosemary, you know I--'
But with an emphatic slam of the door, the volume of which belied her apparent frailty, Rosemary had vanished back into the granny annexe.
Vivi closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She would pay for that later. But, then, most days she ended up paying for something.
Normally she would have capitulated, would have dropped whatever she was engaged in to do the old lady's bidding, just to avoid any unpleasantness, keep things ticking over happily. But today was different: she had not had the three children together in the house for several years and, having got this far, she was not going to jeopardise Lucy's birthday lunch by running Rosemary around when she should be ladling beef fat over the potatoes. Because with her mother-in-law it was never just a matter of running her into town - Rosemary would suggest a diversion, perhaps to the new shopping centre several miles away, or that Vivi parked somewhere and accompanied her to pick up some dry-cleaning (and Vivi could carry it). Or announce that what she really needed, after all, was to get her hair done, and would Vivi mind waiting? She had become particularly demanding since they had persuaded her she was no longer capable of driving herself. They were still wrestling with the insurance over the ruined fence at Paget's farm.
