by Karen Clarke
‘Memories can be made anywhere,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘There’s a big wide world out there.’
‘Why do you think Auntie Laura never took you with her on her jaunts?’ Phoebe loomed forward, wagging a bejewelled finger. ‘So she always had a reason to come home, that’s why.’ She slumped back. ‘She never really wanted to escape after she came back from India, but she’d said it so many times she started to believe her own bullshit.’
‘Pheebs!’ Shock pierced the wine-induced haze in my brain. ‘I’m sure that’s not true, or she’d have stayed around.’
‘Oh come on, Mar.’ Phoebe slid even down further down in her seat. ‘I mean, I love Auntie Laura but she’s hardly a feminist role-model, constantly waiting for some lover-boy to sweep her away.’ I tried to concentrate, certain what she was saying was of great importance, but her face was dipping in and out of focus. ‘I doubt even she knows what she wants, but you do, Marnie.’ She gave me a mock-menacing look, her chin almost level with the table. ‘You just don’t know it yet.’
‘How the FUCK did you get to be so wise, Pheebs?’ I shook my head in admiration. ‘What?’
Her shoulders were heaving. ‘I’d forgotten you swear and shout when you’re drunk,’ she managed, hoisting herself up. ‘It’s bloody hilarious.’
‘I’m not drunk, and I’m not fucking SWEARING,’ I said, separating my words very carefully. ‘I just think you’re so fucking CLEVER.’ Reaching out, I squidged her pink-apple cheeks with my fingers, enjoying hearing her giggle the way she used to.
Her gaze rolled past me. ‘Sweet baby jay, is that YOU?’
I swivelled round to see a familiar face on the television behind the bar. ‘Fuck!’ It was the late edition of the local news, and there I was in glorious HD, bloodless lips moving soundlessly. I looked like a flood victim with my rain-flattened hair and my shirt plastered to my breasts, while Sandi Brent resembled Sandra Bullock playing a news reporter.
In the next shot I was bending over, scrubbing furiously at the shop window, my denim-clad bottom displaying a spreading brown stain that only I knew was coffee.
‘Oh my GOD,’ cried Phoebe. ‘It’s like a scene from EastEnders.’
Suddenly we were choking with laughter, and Phoebe had slipped completely under the table. The birthday group looked on in tutting disapproval, which only made us laugh harder.
‘I’m fucking starving,’ I said, when we’d recovered. ‘Let’s go and get some fich and ships.’
Twenty
I shot out of bed the following morning, like a vampire released from its coffin.
‘Christ,’ I mumbled, catching my reflection. I had a pillow-creased face and blood-shot eyes, while my hair looked as if someone had backcombed it on one side. Bizarrely, I was wearing my denim jacket back to front.
A memory crashed in, of scoffing fish and chips with Phoebe on the beach, then paddling in the freezing sea, before weaving our way arm-in-arm back to Celia’s. I dimly recalled Phoebe crashing out at the foot of my bed, giggling when I asked if she remembered how, when we were young, I was convinced my dolls would spring to life while I was sleeping.
She’d already left, but had torn a page from a paperback and scrawled a message in eyeliner.
Had fun cuz gr8 to see you. Enjoy your party. Spk soon xx
She was clearly more used to writing texts. I’d forgotten she didn’t suffer hangovers; unlike me. My skull felt as fragile as an egg, while my stomach churned like a washing machine on a spin cycle.
Rummaging my phone from under my pillow, I noticed a message from Beth.
Harry and co will be at the shop 7.00 am Sunday. Ate nearly all the caramel cups, spent the night trying not to throw up!!! X PS does this mean Bunty will be addicted to healthy sweets??X PPS marzipan popular in Tudor times – worth a try??
A further text read
Look forward to seeing you later. Alex X
My heart gave a juddering wallop. In my sleep-addled state I’d forgotten he was back on British soil. For the first time in almost a year we were in the same country, and only one thought was flashing in neon lights.
What the hell should I wear?
I began rifling through my wardrobe like Gok Wan.
Definitely not the blue thing I wore on our first date, or the skirt I was wearing when we met – the hem was ripped anyway – and not the green top that Alex said brought out my eyes, or the jeans he thought made my bum look great, or the wraparound cardigan that emphasised my boobs.
The pounding in my head increased as I tossed things behind me, like Chester kicking up earth when he buried a bone in the garden.
I really needed a trip to the charity shop, and to buy some new clothes.
Eventually, I settled for a flowery, fitted dress I’d bought on a whim, that wouldn’t look out of place at a summer fete. It screamed fresh, wholesome and non-threatening. Or maybe I should go to the opposite extreme, and wear something to show Alex what he was missing.
I grabbed a white jumpsuit with a plunging back and neckline that Beth had passed on – an impulse purchase, too long in the leg for her, and not really her style. It wasn’t mine either. It was the sort of thing Katy Perry might wear to the MTV music awards.
I slung it back in the wardrobe. Better stick with the frock.
After a quick shower – though there wasn’t such a thing at Celia’s, with the terrible plumbing producing a trickle more suited to water torture – I got dressed, rolling on some old Spanx to ensure a smooth outline under the dress, and applied a light layer of make-up. I even attempted an eyeliner flick, á la Sandi Brent, that didn’t look too bad. I resisted the urge to trim my fringe, knowing it would result in a wonky line, reminiscent of the school photos Celia had scattered around. Instead, I swept it to one side and fixed it in place with a silver hair slide Mum had bought me for Christmas.
Not bad, I decided, scrutinising the result through half-shut eyes. Less like something from The Walking Dead, and not too matronly.
‘You look nice,’ Celia said, as I slunk into the kitchen to make tea, and to eat something to settle my stomach. She was coming through the back door with Chester on a lead, her stick in her other hand, wearing her favourite cowboy boots over geometrically patterned leggings.
‘Thanks,’ I said. My voice sounded croaky and dehydrated, as if I’d been shouting all night. That happened to me sometimes after drinking wine, it affected my vocal cords.
‘I’ve got a trilby hat in the closet that would go with your dress.’
‘How’s your leg?’ I said quickly, burying an image of the time she’d worn it to one of my school plays, prompting a teacher to ask – straight-faced – if Celia was a fashion designer.
‘The physio said I’m doing so well I don’t need this any more.’ She banged her stick on the flagstones. ‘I’ve got to keep doing my exercises,’ she added, sticking out her leg and dancing her foot in the air.
‘Just take it easy,’ I said, bending to give her a hug. ‘Maybe you should hang onto the stick, just in case.’
‘Paddy said we should have a ceremonial burning session in his back garden.’
‘Did he now?’ That sounded dangerous to me. And completely unnecessary. Not the sort of behaviour Celia would condone. But looking at her closely, I noticed a gleam in her eye. ‘What’s it got to do with him?’ I said, cutting an avocado in half and eating it with a spoon.
‘I thought it would mark the end of your gran’s recovery. Symbolic, like, you know,’ said Paddy, stepping into the kitchen behind Celia and stamping his feet on the mat.
‘Morning,’ I said with a guilty smile, while Muttley shot past to snuffle around Chester’s bottom.
‘I bumped into him in the lane,’ said Celia, her gaze dropping to the dogs who were circling each other warily. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember whether she’d been awake when I got in. I dimly recalled yelling good night, but she hadn’t responded. Assuming she was asleep I’d crept upstairs, which seemed to take
an age as they kept moving like an escalator.
A thought too horrible to contemplate crept in: had she spent the night at Paddy’s? But my grandmother wouldn’t do that. Would she?
Her cheeks were cherry red, as if she knew exactly what was running through my mind. I put down my spoon, stomach curdling.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said, at the exact moment I said, ‘Well, I’d better get to the shop.’
Paddy remarked, ‘You do look very nice, Marnie. Much better than you did on the news.’
Oh god. ‘You saw that then?’
He exchanged a look with Celia, giving the impression they’d watched it together; in bed.
‘You came across very well,’ she said loyally, slotting some bread into the toaster. ‘I can’t stand that Brent woman, always trying to catch people out.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Well, you couldn’t really get a word in edgeways, because that woman kept going on about duty, and women having to fight to succeed in business and—’
‘Sounds like she’s on my side then,’ I said optimistically, taking a slurp of scalding tea.
Another meaningful glance in Paddy’s direction.
‘Not exactly,’ he murmured, bending to grab Muttley’s collar as he attempted to mount Chester by the Aga. ‘She started waffling about the cut-throat world of the food industry, and the nanny state, and that with a local blogger raising public awareness about healthy eating, you’d be lucky to survive.’
My mouth fell open. ‘She said that?’
‘More or less,’ he said, looking as guilty as if he’d voiced the opinion himself.
‘Take no notice,’ said Celia. ‘Whoever that blogger is, they’re not going to reach too many people around here. There’s barely a broadband signal in some parts.’
‘And in a way, they’re doing you a favour,’ said Paddy. ‘It’s more publicity for the sweet shop.’
Bad publicity.
‘Who is this blogger anyway?’ Celia snapped to attention. If she’d had antennae they would have been twitching. ‘Anyone we know?’
‘Yes, who is it?’ Paddy echoed.
‘She was probably talking generally, not specifically,’ I said. I didn’t want Celia to know it was Isabel Sinclair. She would probably give her a rollicking, and give her something else to blog about. ‘Anyway, I’d better go,’ I said, relieved when Chester turned on Muttley and made a grab for his tail. ‘I don’t want to be late!’
I left them trying to calm the dogs with the aid of a rubber bone and hurried down the hill.
Isabel was unloading a box of misshapen vegetables from her boot as I passed. I was going to ignore her, but she gave me a lofty smile, and said, ‘Making some smoothies to put on my blog.’
‘Won’t that be a bit messy?’
‘Funny.’ She swished her hair. ‘I’ve a lot more followers since the piece in the paper came out.’
It was true. They’d flooded in after the newspaper article linked to her latest blog post, which was entitled Making a Stir, for a Good Cause! It was illustrated with a picture of her running along the beach, pouting into the camera with the caption, ‘Sugar free and lovin’ it!’ Alongside the gushing comments from The Perfect Mums, some old friends had popped up asking, When are we going to see you again, sweets? And Loving your top in that picture babe, where’s it from? Another wondered if baby Fitzgerald was out of nappies yet, and there was a rather heart-breaking appeal from her mother: How’s darling Fitzy? Please get in touch sweetheart, Daddy and I are missing our only grandchild. Another commenter called HealthyMum had written, You go, Izzy. Sweets should be banned, I nearly choked on a barley sugar once.
‘You might as well give up,’ Isabel sniped. ‘My book deal’s imminent, and soon I’ll be on all the news shows spreading the word, and no one will want your nasty little sweets.’
‘Talk about delusions of grandeur,’ I growled. ‘We’ll see about that.’
I made myself breathe deeply, and drink in the view to calm myself down. There was a water-skier cutting through the clear blue sea, and the benches along the old stone pier were dotted with spectators.
I’d tried water-skiing once, with Alex, but spray had whooshed up my nose and nearly choked me, and I’d tumbled into the water.
Agnieszka and Josh were waiting outside when I arrived at the shop and as I watched him lean towards her, an odd sensation washed through me. Jealousy? Ridiculous. Just because we’d had a clinch didn’t mean he was falling in love with me. More’s the pity. STOPPIT! I ordered the voice in my head. I was too old for him anyway, whereas Agnieszka was a tall, sun-kissed twenty-two-year-old, with a sheet of white-blonde hair, and lively brown eyes.
Spotting me, she gave a little wave. ‘’Allo, Marnie!’ She grinned at Josh. ‘He’s magic man,’ she said, and I realised he was showing her a card trick.
‘He certainly is.’ I flushed as he caught my eye. He looked particularly handsome, in a green-and-white checked shirt.
‘I like the dress,’ he said to me, putting the cards away and tucking his skateboard under his arm. ‘Very Downton Abbey.’
‘Hardly,’ I said, unlocking the shop. ‘Have you ever watched it?’
‘Er, no,’ he admitted. ‘My mum did, though.’
Agnieszka led the way inside, shedding her white furry gilet on the way. She wore it whatever the weather, just as she wore the same buttock-moulding jeans, so tight it was obvious she wasn’t wearing any underwear. I wondered if Josh had noticed, though doubted he worried like I did that she might get thrush.
‘I’ve got an … event later on, so I’ll be leaving early,’ I told them, trying to ignore my pulsing headache. For a crazy second, I contemplated inviting Josh. But I couldn’t leave Agnieszka, however capable she was, and it would look too much like tit-for-tat in front of Alex if I turned up with a good-looking – younger – man.
Agnieszka positioned herself behind the counter, and Josh began juggling some lollipops, attracting passers-by. A couple came in to watch, and he charmed them into trying some different sweets with their eyes closed, challenging them to guess what they were.
‘You’re a natural at this too,’ I said, as they left, smiling. ‘You should be running the shop.’
‘No way,’ he said, vehemently. ‘This is your baby.’
His words sent a ripple of pleasure through me, even though it wasn’t strictly true.
‘It could be yours one day,’ Gramps had said to Mum, years ago.
‘I’m not interested in business,’ she said. ‘I can’t be pinned down to one thing.’
‘The business bought your home, paid for your upbringing and your travelling, and has made your father, and a lot of other people, very happy.’ That was Celia, furious with Mum.
She was right, I thought. It wasn’t fair of Mum to have dismissed it like that. Seeing the smiling faces of the customers just leaving was proof that we’d brightened their morning – or at least Josh had.
The rest of the day passed with agonising slowness. I busied myself with paperwork and tried not to think about Alex and what to say when I saw him.
Josh brought me coffee and gave me a speculative look.
‘What’s this event then?’
‘Oh, just an anniversary party,’ I said. Even the words made my palms tingle with nerves. ‘Do you have your bank details, so I can pay you at the end of the month?’
‘Listen, about yesterday …’
‘It’s fine,’ I broke in. ‘I’m sure Doris won’t say anything.’ I wasn’t sure at all. Probably the whole of Shipley knew I’d been cavorting with my new assistant.
‘I wasn’t worried about that.’ He leaned against the doorframe. ‘I wondered if you wanted to …’
‘Bank details, Josh?’ I looked away, my head still full of Alex. ‘You do have an account?’
‘Not really.’
I shot him a look. ‘You don’t?’
‘Well, yes, it’s just …’ He broke off, colour rising in
his cheeks. ‘Actually, no I don’t,’ he said. ‘Stupid, I know but …’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, wondering how someone got to the age of twenty-five without opening a bank account. ‘Maybe you could open one next week?’
He hesitated, and seemed on the verge of saying something else when Agnieszka called for assistance, and the moment passed.
‘Will you be OK to lock up?’ I said, when the time finally crawled to five o’clock.
‘Of course,’ Agnieszka and Josh said in synch and exchanged a smile. They’d been getting on well, to the point where I’d heard Agnieszka giggle several times – a surprisingly rich sound I’d never heard before.
‘You see your man?’ she asked, doing a pouty thing with her lips, though she knew Alex and I were no longer together.
Josh gave me a quizzical look that warmed my cheeks. ‘Your man?’
‘No man.’ I needed a panic wee, but couldn’t face wrestling my Spanx down. Instead, for the second time that day, I said, ‘I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late.’
Twenty-One
Alex’s parents lived just outside Weymouth, in a detached, white-fronted house framed by beech trees and bordered by a picket fence.
As the taxi drove off I lingered on the pavement, the evening sun warm on the back of my neck, and debated whether to run away.
Jazzy music drifted from round the back, mingling with voices and laughter. No one would miss me if I didn’t turn up.
My phone buzzed. Beth.
Thinking about you. Stay strong, Crumble-face XX
I smiled at the nickname, invented by a bitchy girl at school, who tried to make something of my surname and came up short. ‘Appleton, apple-pie, … apple … crumble-face.’
I looked at the house again, its sparkling windows mirroring the cloudless sky. I’d eaten Sunday lunch inside, countless times. I’d admired the sea view from the orchard at the bottom of the garden, and the antiques his parents had collected. I’d watched television in the front room, and helped comfort his sister, Rebecca, when she moved back after a relationship break-up. But I hadn’t visited since Alex went to New York. It wouldn’t have felt right without him, and although they hadn’t said so, I worried his parents blamed me for our break-up.