by Karen Clarke
I adjusted my Spanx beneath my dress, feeling as if my spleen was being dissected, then stalked through the rose-covered archway at the top of the path leading to the front door. No one answered the bell. Probably all in the garden.
I made my way round the side, heart beating like a jackhammer, still rehearsing in my head what to say to Bobbi-Jo.
‘How do you do?’ Too Jane Austen.
‘Good to meet you, Bobbi-Jo. Alex has told me so much about you.’ Except he hadn’t.
‘Yo, bitch. Wassup?’ Maybe not.
I headed straight for the marquee in the middle of the lawn, managing to avoid eye contact with anyone. It was hot inside, holding the warmth of the day, and I felt perspiration break out on my forehead. The band was playing cover versions, and recognising my cousin Ben on the saxophone, I waved.
He winked, and inclined his head to where Alex’s dad was helping himself to a mountain of food from the buffet.
‘Hi, Max,’ I said tapping him on the shoulder.
He swung round, his broad face lighting up. ‘Marnie!’ He drew me into a hearty, one-armed hug. ‘So glad you came, lovely girl,’ he said. ‘We’ve missed you.’
‘Happy Anniversary!’ I carolled, giving him a squeeze. I’d missed him too, and Helen. They were the sort of parents everyone should have; safe, supportive, and reassuring. They’d both retired from teaching now, and did a lot of voluntary work in the local community.
‘You might find them dull,’ Alex had said, after his memorable introduction to my mum, but I hadn’t. I liked that they had heated discussions around the dinner table, but never fell out.
I’d imagined Alex and me being like his parents one day – comfortable in each other’s company, still holding hands, still in love.
Sometimes, in Peru, when I thought about never going home, I’d felt a pang at what we would be missing.
‘Come and see Helen,’ Max was saying, dashing crumbs from his shirt-front. He led me out to the dappled shade of an apple tree, where Helen was chatting with a clutch of friends, sipping a glass of champagne.
‘Happy Anniversary!’ I said again, handing over the card I’d brought, and a little decorative bowl I’d bought off Etsy. ‘It’s inlaid with pearl,’ I explained as she unwrapped it. ‘You know, because it’s your pearl anniversary.’
‘It’s beautiful!’ She smiled radiantly, holding it up for her friends to admire. ‘You really shouldn’t have.’
‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ Max agreed, looking a little baffled. He probably couldn’t see the point of a decorative bowl.
‘Thank you, Marnie,’ Helen said, warmly. She was a tiny, compact woman with neat auburn hair, but her eyes and smile were just like Alex’s.
‘Congratulations on your award!’ she said, slipping a hand round my middle. The waist of my Spanx rolled over, creating a rubber-band effect, and I hoped she couldn’t tell. ‘And take no notice of all that nonsense in the paper,’ she said sotto voce, so her friends couldn’t overhear. ‘You just keep doing what you’re doing.’
I gave her a grateful smile. ‘I’m trying a couple of things,’ I said. ‘Moving with the times.’
She gave me an appraising look. ‘Well, good for you.’
‘You’re made of strong stuff,’ said Max, through a mouthful of coleslaw. ‘You’ll be fine.’
As Helen nodded her agreement I was touched by their misplaced faith. They clearly weren’t holding any grudges about me not going to America with Alex.
‘He’s here,’ Helen said, as if she’d read my expression. ‘Why don’t you get a drink and say hello?’
But I didn’t want a drink. A headache prodded at my temples from the night before, and my stomach was doing cartwheels. I wanted to grill her about Bobbi-Jo; ask if she was pretty, clever, did they like her?
It struck me like a punch that, as Alex’s potential wife-to-be, she would get the same heartfelt treatment that I had.
‘I just popped by to wish you all the best,’ I said, shaking my head at a waistcoated waiter, hovering with a tray of drinks. ‘I can’t stay.’
‘Oh, Marnie you must,’ said Helen, removing her hand from my waist as my Spanx rolled over again. ‘I know he’d like to see you.’ She brought her head closer, her sparkly earrings catching a ray of sunlight. ‘Between you and me, I’m not sure about his new girlfriend,’ she whispered.
‘Really?’ This was unprecedented. The Steadmans liked everyone. My imagination ran wild. Had she accidentally killed a patient, or dropped the F-bomb over breakfast?
I was hijacked by a horrible thought. She’d shared a bed with Alex. Probably the one in his childhood bedroom which, despite being updated since he left home, his Baywatch posters banished, still contained the essence of him.
‘She’s a bit too perfect,’ Helen said, with a little eye-roll.
‘Oh.’ Compared to murdering your family, or mugging a pensioner, it wasn’t much of a criticism. ‘Could be worse,’ I said, managing a strangled laugh.
‘There he is,’ Max boomed, making me jump about a foot in the air. ‘Alex, over here!’
My heart rate rocketed, and I suddenly felt on the verge of a panic attack. I grabbed a glass of champagne from the circling waiter and knocked it back in one, then sneezed three times in a row.
‘Hello, Marnie.’
I pivoted round, jogging Helen’s elbow and sending her drink cascading down Max’s shirt.
‘Oh god, I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it,’ she laughed, flapping her hand. ‘Come on, you.’ She steered a soaked and bemused Max towards the house, so I had no choice but to lift my snotty-nosed face to greet Alex.
‘Hi,’ he said again, and it was as though everyone else had been blasted off the face of the earth leaving just the two of us, locking eyes for the first time in nearly a year. Every emotion I thought I’d buried pounded back to the surface, and the force of it made my legs wobble.
How can he not feel it too?
For a blazing, heart-soaring second I thought he had, as his eyes burned into mine. He might look a bit different to the Alex who’d walked out of Celia’s house all those months ago, but underneath the longer hair he was the same man I’d fallen in love with.
Then his lips started moving (the lips I’d so badly missed kissing) and I tuned in to hear him saying, ‘ … this is Bobbi-Jo.’
The world zoomed into garish focus, and I saw a woman at his side, holding onto his arm and studying me with open curiosity.
She was perfect, small and curvy with an air of maturity that probably came from being a nurse. And a mother. The laughter lines around her wide, blue eyes hinted at a fun personality, as did her discreet nose-piercing.
Ungluing herself from Alex’s side, she swept a strand of shiny, conker-brown hair from her cheek and thrust out her hand.
‘Lovely to meet you, Marnie,’ she said in a Jennifer Aniston accent, her smile uncovering a kooky gap between her two front teeth. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
Grasping her palm I pumped it firmly, noting that her strappy, camisole top showcased a tattoo of a tiny bird on her shoulder.
‘Good to meet you too, Blobbi-Jo. I mean, Jobby-Blo.’ Alex’s face was gripped by a spasm of laughter. ‘Sorry, I mean, Jo …’
‘Hey, it’s OK,’ she said with immense kindness, and it was easy to see her in a hospital, administering a drip, or shoving a thermometer up an old man’s rectum. Or would it be in his ear? I wondered if Alex liked her to wear her nurse’s uniform outside work, and felt a bit sick. ‘Just call me Bobbi,’ she urged, releasing my hand. ‘Everyone else does.’
I could feel another sneeze building. It erupted before I could stop it, and my hair slide unclipped. As it flew out, my fringe flopped down, and a bubble popped out of my nostril. ‘Oops,’ I said, mortified. I fished a tissue from my bag and blew my nose, eyes scanning the grass for my slide.
It was nestled in the grass by Bobbi-Jo’s sandal-shod feet. Too late, I realised she was be
nding to retrieve it too, and as we bobbed down our heads crashed together.
‘GODDAMMIT your skull is like GRANITE!’ she cried, clutching her forehead, her face crumpled with pain.
‘Here,’ said Alex expressively, handing me the hair slide.
Perspiring and confused, I managed to squash it back in, and almost fainted when I pressed the emerging lump on my scalp. ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, wishing the ground would open up.
‘Hey, it’s OK, I’m fine,’ she said, though her watering eyes were slightly less friendly.
A heavy silence fell. I was still holding my champagne glass, and brought it to my lips before remembering it was empty. I took a pretend sip anyway, and Alex clamped his teeth to his lower lip.
‘How have you been?’ he said at last, and his toffee-coloured eyes were warm as they rested on my face.
‘Oh, fine, fine, you know.’ I grinned maniacally. ‘Busy, busy!’
‘I’m glad,’ he said simply.
He was wearing a navy polo-shirt over stone-coloured jeans, and my heart twisted that he’d bought them without me knowing.
‘You?’
Something flickered across his face. ‘OK,’ he said quietly, raising his beer bottle as if in a toast. ‘My contract’s just ended, but there’s something else in the pipeline.’
I hate this. Talking as if we were strangers.
My brain cells lumbered about, seeking a fresh topic.
The gentle music floating from the marquee suddenly switched to a blistering Rihanna cover, and a couple of kohl-eyed girls sprang to life and started twerking.
‘You look good,’ Alex said, and I switched my gaze back to see if he was joking. Apart from my crazy hair and red-rimmed nostrils, my Spanx had rolled over so many times it felt like I’d stuffed a hula-hoop up my dress.
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, aware Bobbi-Jo was looking from me to Alex with a fixed smile.
I cast a quick glance at her generous hips, encased in the sort of tapered trousers that would make me look like a businessman, and when I looked up, Alex was wearing an expression I’d last seen in Iquitos, after our Amazon trip. We’d left the hostel to grab some food at a café close to the river to watch the sunset. There’d been music playing, soft and sensuous, and I hadn’t been able to resist getting up to dance, moving and swaying to the beat, and when I opened my eyes, Alex had been looking at me just like he was now; as if I was rare and precious.
‘Hey, I hear you own an award-winning candy store!’ Bobbi-Jo said, snapping the moment in half. Appearing to have recovered from our collision, she gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘If Adam was with us I’d take him there, for sure.’
‘Where is your son?’ It came out wrong; more hardened social worker than polite enquiry.
Bobbi-Jo’s smile calcified. ‘He’s with my parents,’ she said, looking at Alex, as if for confirmation, and as she rested her hand on his forearm I spotted the ring on her wedding finger and my heart did a triple backflip.
How hadn’t I seen it before, when a diamond that size was probably visible from space?
A klaxon was going off in my head. They’re engaged, they’re engaged, they’re engaged!
Why hadn’t anyone told me?
I tried to speak, but my vocal cords felt broken. I attempted what I hoped was a facial movement, to indicate I had to leave, terrified I might throw up.
‘Marnie, what’s wrong?’ called Alex as I streaked away, elbowing guests out of my path. As I flew past the marquee I spotted Max wearing a fresh shirt, standing beside Helen. He looked about to make a speech, but I couldn’t bear to hear a toast to his long and happy marriage.
I had to get away, even if it meant walking all the way back to Shipley.
‘Marnie, please, just wait a minute.’
I paused and turned, chest heaving. I didn’t dare lift my eyes from the toes of his loafers. When had he started wearing loafers? Is that what stepdads wore? He’d probably started eating muesli too. Did he even go swimming in the sea any more, or was that off the agenda for health and safety reasons?
Aware my thoughts were spiralling out of control, I made to leave.
‘Marnie, please can we talk?’ Seeing his hand reaching out, I took a step back.
‘Not really,’ I said, still staring at the grass. ‘I hope you’ll both be happy.’ My tone was more suited to offering commiserations at a funeral, but I couldn’t muster the energy to make it sound more convincing. ‘Say goodbye to your mum and dad for me.’
Twenty-Two
I leapt onto a bus at the bottom of the road with seconds to spare, puffing as if I’d just completed a triathlon. I slumped in a seat at the back, the view back to Shipley misted by a veil of tears.
My phone buzzed a couple of times.
How’s it going? X
Phoebe.
What’s she like?
Beth.
Hope she looks like this …
She’d attached a picture of an orang-utan, which under different circumstances would have made me laugh.
As I tried to compose a reply another message appeared, from Alex this time.
Are you OK? Can we meet? Really need to talk to you.
Maybe he was going to break the news that Bobbi-Jo was pregnant.
Feeling sick, I deleted the text and switched my phone off.
The shop was peaceful when I let myself in, and the first thing I did was yank my Spanx off and toss them on the floor. I drew air into my lungs, for what felt like the first time all day, and felt fractionally less sick.
Josh had forgotten to set the alarm, but had left a handwritten note on the counter, with his mobile number, and a message to call if I needed a hand with anything the following day.
Money in my pocket, ha ha, not really, it’s in the safe
he’d added in a loopy scrawl.
Loads of customers, two said they wouldn’t be back because of that woman appearing on Morning, Sunshine! and going on about how evil you are, but Aggie said they bought twice as much as usual!!
Aggie? And what was Isabel doing on Morning, Sunshine!? I rarely watched breakfast telly, but lots of people did.
With a nugget of dread in my chest I turned the computer on, and waited for it to judder to life. After finding the website, I pressed the link to that morning’s edition. It immediately cut to Isabel, seated on a citrus-yellow sofa in the studio. She was in full ‘earth-mother’ mode, as if auditioning for one of the channel’s family dramas, her beautiful face made up to look make-up free, her hair in a tousled pony-tail. A simple, open-neck blouse was tucked into a tiered skirt that floated to the ground, leaving only a glimpse of her giant feet, encased in espadrilles.
‘If you read my blog,’ she was saying with a meaningful glance to camera, ‘you’ll see I’m a passionate advocate of sugar-free eating, especially where our children are concerned.’ She pressed a manicured hand to her chest. ‘They really are our future.’
Vom.
‘And you have a particular issue with …’ The weekend presenter, Donal Kerrigan, a bandy-legged Irishman who’d recently been nominated ‘weird crush of the year’ by heat magazine, glanced at his notes. ‘The Beachside Sweet Shop in Shipley, which recently won an independent business award?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Isabel’s chest inflated with indignation. ‘People shouldn’t be rewarded for encouraging unhealthy eating,’ she said, switching from earth-mother to Sunday school teacher. ‘It has to stop, and it has to stop NOW.’
‘Isn’t that a bit strong?’ said Donal, hitching up an eyebrow. ‘I mean, I loved my sweeties as a kid, back in Ireland.’ He fired off a throaty chuckle. ‘My favourites were Acid Drops,’ he said, shaking his head at the memory. ‘Do you remember them?’ He grinned. ‘I felt quite daring ordering a quarter of those, I can tell you!’
Yesss! In your FACE, Isabel Sinclair. I remembered Alex had met him at a couple of industry award dos, and they’d hit it off.
‘Yes, but that was the past,’ Isabel said in a syrupy tone, mak
ing a quick recovery. ‘Times are a’changing, and what I want to see,’ she jabbed her breast with a slender finger for emphasis, ‘is more people adopting a responsible attitude, like mine.’ She paused, lowering her eyes and bringing them up again, but Donal seemed unmoved.
‘Everyone loves a good sweet shop,’ he drawled, with a lop-sided smile that didn’t even look practised. ‘I might check out The Beachside Sweet Shop myself!’
‘Please do,’ I said to the screen. ‘I love you, Donal.’
Isabel looked like she wanted to throttle him, and I wondered how she’d landed the gig. Some contact from her modelling days, undoubtedly. ‘I do agree that they used to have their place,’ she said, lightly touching his knee, in a clear attempt to ingratiate herself. ‘But times are different, Donal.’
‘So if your plan is to close down this sweet shop and it works, what then?’ He made his eyes go big. ‘There are hundreds in the UK alone. Do you plan to close them all?’
Isabel’s back straightened. ‘That’s a brilliant idea, Donald.’
‘Donal.’
‘I could be the woman who made a difference to the entire nation,’ she said, almost to herself, and I could almost see the cogs turning. If she hadn’t been sure about her agenda before, she certainly was now.
Bloody Donal had given her a USP.
She gave a quick shake of her head. ‘In my blog,’ another look to camera, ‘I mention new pleasures we can all enjoy, like … like, nature, and walking, and only eating food that comes out of the earth.’
‘Oh, I love potatoes too,’ said Donal, closing his eyes in apparent rapture. ‘Mashed, boiled, roast, baked, chipped …’