Ice Creams at Carrington’s

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘But she’s here now.’

  ‘Yes. And plans on staying. She’s making a real effort. It’s made me realise that not everyone is perfect but, as long as we try, then that’s all right!’

  I nod. I couldn’t agree more …

  23

  The following morning, I wake up to the sound of my mobile vibrating across the nightstand, but before I can answer, it rings off. And it wasn’t Tom calling me last night – it was a number I didn’t recognise and there was no message. Then, when Sam and I had finished talking, we went for a walk along the beach, so it was after midnight when I fell into bed – too late to try calling Tom again.

  My mobile rings again. Ah, maybe it’s him. My heart lifts. Oh. My heart sinks. It’s another number I don’t recognise. I quickly answer, guessing it must be something to do with the regatta that starts in … I glance at the clock, about two hours. OK, at least I won’t have to run into town today. Phew.

  ‘Georgie! My dear, how are you?’ Gulp. It’s Isabella. I fling myself into a sitting position. I’d recognise her breathy Italian voice anywhere. But why is she calling me? On my mobile! I didn’t even know she had my number. Oh God, here we go, I bet she’s calling to have a word about the disaster that is the Carrington’s sponsored regatta. Eeeep!

  ‘Um, err, yes, I’m fine thank you.’ Silence follows. ‘And I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for any of it to happ—’ I start blabbering like an idiot, quickly figuring it best to get in there first before she berates me for ‘somehow managing to ruin it all’.

  ‘Let’s do lunch. Today!’ she cuts in, leaving me to wonder if she even heard what I said.

  ‘Oh, um, sure … That would be lovely,’ I fib, crossing my fingers and praying that by lunch she actually means at lunchtime – the music festival kicks off at 3 p.m. and I must be there to make sure everything runs smoothly for Dan. I can’t afford another disaster, certainly not with someone as high profile as him; that would be insane and bound to push Mr Dunwoody over the edge. But then I really don’t think Isabella is going to take no for an answer.

  ‘Good. We’ll dine on board. Do you remember where our berth is from the soirée?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Wonderful, see you at one.’ And she hangs up. Eeek, two hours, blimey – should be OK. I hope. At least the festival is right next to the marina, so not too far to run, again, if I have to. And then I realise … I forgot to ask if Tom was coming for lunch too. He’s bound to be, surely, isn’t he? And he must have calmed down by now as I can’t imagine he’d be OK with Isabella inviting me to lunch otherwise. Brilliant. Today is going to be so much better than yesterday. And I can’t wait to see him – to get everything sorted out. Sam and I are back on track now. I just need to talk to Tom and then things between us will be like they were before I went away too. Happy and totally loved up. I send him a text.

  Looking forward to lunch later, can’t wait to see you xxx

  *

  The second day of the regatta gets off to a great start. I’ve just popped into Max’s gourmet food marquee and been shown how to roll a temaki by Mr Nakamura.

  ‘Mm-mmm. This is delicious,’ I say to Sam. She’s taking a break from selling cakes, while Stacey and the rest of the waitresses from the Cupcakes At Carrington’s café hold the fort. Nathan and Ben have taken the twins over to the face-painting tent and Christy has gone to view an apartment just along the coast in Brighton – seems she really is planning on sticking around this time.

  ‘Try this. It’s incredible.’ Sam pushes a California roll into my mouth. ‘Good, eh?’ I nod in between chewing and swallowing, feeling pleased that she seems to be back to her usual cheery self.

  ‘Oh God, that’s so good. What shall we go for next?’ I say, eyeing up the giant wok where Mr Nakamura’s assistant is tossing succulent garlic-coated king prawns into coriander-infused noodles. ‘On second thoughts, I probably shouldn’t eat any more; I don’t want to spoil lunch.’

  ‘No, you don’t!’ Sam pulls a face. ‘Georgie, do you really have to go?’

  ‘Well, I can’t really back out now. As much as I’d love to spend the day with you …’ I grin. ‘Plus, it’ll be really nice to actually see Tom and start sorting things out.’ Last night on the beach, I told Sam all about Vegas and Andorra and … well, the whole blooming lot.

  ‘Hmmm, well, rather you than me. Not that it really matters what she thinks … What I don’t understand is why you are so bothered?’

  ‘Well, she is Tom’s mother, and they’re really close,’ I say, feeling a bit feeble because, actually, Sam has a very good point.

  ‘But he’s a grown man – you don’t need her approval. Tom loves you, that’s all that matters. And it’s not as if he’s a mummy’s boy; he doesn’t live with her, or let her rule his life. OK, they may be close as in they chat on the phone, but that’s probably because she’s travelling all the time. That’ll be why she calls him every day – guilt! And trust me, I know all about that.’

  ‘True, but if we’re to have a future together, then it’ll be so much easier if we get on. I just want her to like me, I guess.’

  ‘Fair enough. And she did seem a bit frosty towards you that time at the soirée … Luckily, Nathan’s mum Gloria and I get on really well. I can’t imagine how strained it might be if we didn’t, even if she did tell me I should give up work and make it easy for myself by being a stay-at-home mum.’

  ‘She said that?’ I pull a face. ‘Oh dear. But you love your café.’

  ‘I do, and it’s a part of me. You know how special it is. It’s like a legacy from Dad; he helped me get it in the first place, remember, and I’d quite like to pass it onto the twins one day, that’s if they’re interested in baking and keeping the good people of Mulberry in cakes. They may want to join a circus, for all I know, and that’s fine as long as they’re happy.’ Sam shrugs. ‘But, still, Gloria meant well. I just don’t think she realised that going to work is my way of having a break. Toddlers are a lot of work, it’s a marathon sometimes. I take my hat off to stay-at-home mums; it’s a full-time job in itself. Exhausting, and the last thing you want is a difficult mother-in-law – not that she is that yet, but maybe, perhaps one day. Oh, you know what I mean. So I guess I can see your point. But can I give you a tip?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve really missed your advice, Sam,’ I grin, and she grins back.

  ‘Just don’t try too hard. You’re brilliant as you are, good enough, and Tom is lucky to have you. His mother, too. She may be Queen Isabella, but that doesn’t make her the boss of you, superior somehow … Remember that!’ Sam says firmly, shaking her head and making her blonde corkscrew curls bounce around furiously.

  ‘I’ll try. It’s just that it’s hard sometimes. You know, Tom and I come from such different worlds. He grew up in a castle set high up on an Italian hillside overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Bit of a contrast to the cramped maisonette that was my foster carer’s home.’

  ‘So! It’s not where you come from. It’s who you are inside.’ Sam folds her arms as if to underline the point.

  ‘But what about the carousel and the ice-cream van turf war? Isabella might blame me.’

  ‘Ah, don’t be daft – it’s not your fault the carousel guy got into a fight, or any of the other stuff you told me about. You did your best. Honestly, Georgie, stop blaming yourself for everything.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Err, you’re a fine one to talk.’ I grin and nudge her gently with my elbow.

  ‘Hmm.’ She pauses, seemingly deep in thought. ‘God, I’ve been a nightmare, haven’t I?’ Sam rolls her eyes.

  ‘No you haven’t. Besides, didn’t you know? It’s all my fault. Everything that goes wrong in the world is always all my fault.’ And we both laugh.

  ‘Come on you, let’s get you to Her Majesty’s luncheon,’ Sam says, calming down. ‘You mustn’t be late or we’ll never hear the end of it – how you “somehow managed to ruin” that too! Honestly, if she starts going on, then jus
t tell her to shove it, and then come and find me. I’ll feed you cake, lots of it, just like I always have …’ Sam loops her arm through mine and we practically skip off towards the entrance to the marina. And I can’t stop grinning; I’m so glad to have her back. My best friend, Sam, she really is incredible. And after everything she’s been through, it sure does put things into perspective.

  *

  It’s exactly 1 p.m. when I arrive at the yacht, and a guy wearing a navy blue polo shirt with matching shorts is waiting to greet me.

  ‘If you’d like to come this way,’ he smiles, and leads me onto the main deck where Isabella is ensconced in amongst a mountain of cushions, next to a table laden with every kind of delectable food imaginable – there’s even a centrepiece silver platter piled high with oysters packed in ice. I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief at having managed to resist Mr Nakamura’s prawn noodles. And I’m guessing there must be other guests coming, as there’s enough food here to feed a trillion people several times over. With a bit of luck, Tom will be here very soon.

  The guy disappears. Isabella has her head bowed in a book. She doesn’t seem to be hurrying herself to acknowledge me, so I seize the moment to glance at my mobile (Tom hasn’t replied to my text) before stowing it in my tote. I wonder if I should sit down. Seems a bit rude to assume, so I hover. And hover some more, before Isabella eventually snaps the book shut and beckons for me to sit opposite her.

  We sit in silence before she finally lifts her shades and says, ‘You know how it is when you’re nearing the end of a book? I find I can’t possibly put it down until the last word has been read.’ I nod by way of agreement, although I’m not sure I would ignore the arrival of a guest in favour of finishing a book – no, I’d much rather savour the last chapters to enjoy alone. But, each to their own, and all that. ‘So, how are things, my dear?’

  ‘Um, yes, good thank you. The regatta seems to be going very well today, so far …’ I start, feeling uneasy. I wish Tom would hurry up and get here, this is really awkward – I feel as if I’m in an interview or something for an important job, which I guess I am in a way – girlfriend to her son! But surely it’s up to Tom and me to decide on our own personal business, not her. I always feel as if she’s scrutinising me, seeing if I measure up. And then, as if she can see inside my head, she says,

  ‘Splendid. And do try to relax, please! You look nervous, and there really is no need to be – I’m so happy that we’re having this time together, just the two of us.’

  ‘Oh, are Tom and Vaughan not joining us then?’ I reply, trying to keep my voice breezy and even.

  ‘Vaughan has gone to watch the yacht races on the other side of the marina. And I didn’t invite Tom. I thought it would be nice for us to have some girl time together.’ And she actually grins. Oh God. I swallow hard and try to relax as she suggests. But it’s not easy; she’s not like anyone else I’ve ever had lunch with. She’s so – I ponder momentarily – regal, is the best way to describe her, and it makes me feel inadequate, despite what Sam says. I know it’s all about who we are as people and not the material stuff but, truth be told, she scares the life out of me.

  ‘So, I understand that you met Marco yesterday.’ Uh-oh, too soon … She knows about the turf war! She must do.

  ‘Um, yes, that’s right,’ I say, helping myself to some water and wishing my hand would stop flaming shaking as I lift the bottle. And then, as if by magic, the servant, or whatever he is, appears to relieve me of the tedious task of having to open the bottle all by myself.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, after he fills a glass and slides it towards me. Isabella shoos him away when he offers the bottle to her.

  ‘Oh, Marco is such a character! But you mustn’t be put off by that ghastly tattoo.’ She shakes her head. ‘He was very impressed with your organising of the regatta.’ He was? Blimey! And after I forgot to visit him in his factory and all. But how nice of him not to land me in it with Isabella. I make a mental note to swing by his van later to thank him. ‘Yes, he said that you and your team were very “on the ball”, I think was the phrase he coined. That you “stepped up and could definitely be counted on in a crisis”. So that’s nice.’ She flicks her hair back before popping a big black grape into her mouth.

  ‘Wonderful, he’s very kind,’ I say, thinking: if only she knew.

  ‘Yes.’ She pauses and pulls a curious face, as if the notion had never occurred to her before. ‘I suppose he is.’ She nods by way of clarification. ‘So, dear, tell me, did you enjoy your trip to New York?’

  ‘I did, thank you. Although, with hindsight, the timing could have been better.’ I take a sip of water.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that! It was a little naughty of me.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I splutter and inadvertently knock over the glass. Water cascades onto the table and over the side. ‘What do you mean?’ I grab a napkin and dab at the crisp white linen tablecloth. The servant reappears, but Isabella shoos him away and carries on talking as if nothing has happened. Cringe.

  ‘Oh, Kelly and I go way back, that’s how I organised the trip for you,’ she says, nonchalantly, before helping herself to an oyster, tossing her head back and devouring it in one.

  ‘Organised it? But I don’t understand, I thought Kelly had spoken to Gaspard as he wanted some help, to, um, design a collection for … the ordinary woman,’ I say, suddenly feeling very conscious of how small-town I sound. Oh God. I ponder on an oyster, not having tried one before, but quickly change my mind – what if I don’t like it? I can hardly spit it out now.

  ‘Well, yes, he did. And it was such fun organising it all. But don’t you see?’

  ‘See what?’ See that you deliberately engineered things so I’d be three thousand miles away, and right before the regatta, such an important event for Tom, not to mention Carrington’s. Why would you do that? Why would you go out of your way to make things difficult for me? And potentially ruin things for Tom and Carrington’s after you specifically warned me not to?

  ‘That I had to be sure,’ Isabella says, wiping her fingers on a linen napkin.

  ‘Sure of what?’

  ‘That you weren’t like the other one …’

  ‘Other one?’

  ‘My dear, you’re not the first woman my son has been in love with.’ She has the grace to avert her eyes while I inhale sharply through my nostrils before surreptitiously letting out a long breath. I don’t want her thinking I’m getting huffy. I can handle this. I hope. I’m a grown woman, even if I do feel like a ridiculous jellyfish right now. I’m literally trembling all over. This is hideous. I wonder if she’s barking, you know, as in proper bonkers, because I have no idea what’s going on here.

  ‘Um, sure … of course, I know that,’ I fib, but what else can I say? When the truth is that Tom has never really talked about his previous relationships. I know he’s had girlfriends, but I’ve always got the impression that it was casual, that he was more focused on his career; he’s certainly never mentioned actually being in love with anyone before. Not to mention that this is as awkward as hell. I really don’t want to be chatting about my boyfriend’s relationship history with his mother.

  ‘Then you’ll know how she broke his heart. How devastated he was, how it ruined everything. He lost his focus – his mojo, if you like – and he very nearly lost everything he had worked for. It wasn’t long before he got involved in Carrington’s – Camille, his aunt, had sold him her shares, hoping it would help to refocus him, and it did, although somewhere a little more,’ she pauses to pick her words carefully, ‘exclusive, would have been preferable …’ Ah, I see, so that’s why she went with the Mulberry Grand Hotel for her catering at the soirée – Carrington’s is too provincial for her. ‘Anyway, I was wrong,’ she carries on. Oh! Maybe I judged too soon. ‘I allowed myself to be swayed by my husband’s lack of interest in Carrington’s but, after seeing it for myself, I popped instore while you were in New York, and it’s actually really rather splendid. I was very impressed with yo
ur personal shopping suite, and the girl that you had left in charge is so sweet. Nothing was too much trouble; you’ve trained her very well, my dear. In fact, everyone was full of praise for you.’ I do a half-smile, thinking, that’s nice, but I do wish she would get to the point. ‘But you see, I didn’t know very much about you before then, and I wasn’t going to stand by and let the same thing happen to Tom again.’ I drop my eyes to my lap and study the pattern on my dress, wishing I were anywhere but here. Surely this is Tom’s business, not hers. Isn’t it up to him who he goes out with?

  ‘What I do know is, that if Tom had wanted me to know about his past relationships, then he would have told me himself.’ I lift my head to look her straight in the eye.

  Silence follows while she stares right back. And there’s no way I’m breaking the eye contact. Sam’s right, I am good enough. More than good enough.

  And then she laughs.

  Throws her head back and does a proper big belly laugh.

  Oh my God. What the hell is going on?

  ‘Perfect!’ she says, leaning across the table towards me. ‘My dear, why don’t we eat and really get to know each other and I’ll explain why I thought you needed the trip to New York.’ Hmmm, curious! She gestures grandly over the food mountain in front of us, before lifting a pair of silver tongs and selecting a seeded bread roll which she places on the side plate to my left. ‘Tuck in!’ And the way she says it, adopting a plummy Home Counties accent, makes me want to laugh – though I don’t, of course.

  ‘Oh, um, sure … OK,’ I say, figuring it best to go along with her because, to be honest, what else can I do? This whole scenario feels a bit surreal, a bit parallel universe. She’s definitely a control freak. She might even be a bit cuckoo. I break off a piece of the roll and push it into my mouth.

  ‘Here’s to us. And Georgie, don’t look so petrified, I don’t bite.’ She laughs, but I’m not so sure. Eek! I manage a feeble grin, and she smiles, a proper smile, before pressing a button on the panelled wall beside us. A few seconds later, the guy in the navy polo shirt and shorts combo appears. ‘Let’s have fun. A bottle of champagne.’ And the guy is duly dispatched to the temperature-controlled cellar, or wherever it is the good stuff is kept on board a yacht. ‘So, was the trip truly amazing?’ she asks, eagerly.