‘It’s a three-bean casserole. Pinto beans, haricot beans and kidney beans.’
He laughed and tickled her ribs. ‘Good one, Candice. What is it really?’
‘What do you mean? It’s really a three-bean casserole.’
He peered into the pot as though his eyes had deceived him. ‘Where’s the flamin’ meat?’
‘It’s vegetarian, Beau. There’s no meat. It’s better for you and costs a lot less.’ She picked up the supermarket receipt. ‘Look how much I saved. I thought you’d be pleased.’
He stared at the ceiling and inhaled deeply. A muscle in his jaw pulsed as he clenched his teeth. ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t think you’ve quite understood this economising thing.’ He glanced around the kitchen, his eyes settling on the four cans of lager on top of the fridge.
‘What the fuck are those? Where’s my Special Brew?’
‘That’s the supermarket’s own brand. Everybody knows it’s the same stuff inside but it’s half the price.’
‘Candice, you are so naïve sometimes. I can’t drink that camel’s piss.’ He ran his finger down the receipt. ‘So that means you’ve actually wasted two pounds seventy-five.’ He looked at the cans with renewed disgust.
‘Well, I’ve bought own-brand everything now. Washing-up liquid, shampoo and even caged eggs because the free-range are too dear.’
‘Them things don’t matter, Candice. As long as we don’t compromise on the essentials.’ He took hold of her chin. ‘Do you understand the difference? Next time get me my Special Brew, okay?’
She nodded and turned her attention back to the casserole. ‘Do you want some or not?’
‘Obviously not,’ he scoffed. ‘I’m not eating that crap.’ He patted the sofa. ‘Come and sit here and tell me why you were so late home.’
‘I’ve already told you. I was talking to Jenny – well, listening to her actually – and I didn’t realise the time.’
He tapped his chin and stared at her. ‘This the one who thinks she’s taking you away?’
She chose to ignore the comment. She wasn’t in the mood for an argument about her forthcoming trip to Italy.
‘Yes, the lady who turned a hundred last week.’
He threw his head back, laughing. ‘Bloody hell, Candice. You’re a genius.’
‘What’re you on about?’
‘Does she suspect?’
‘Suspect what?’
‘That you only sit around listening to her waffle so that she’ll write you into her will?’
She thumped him on his arm. ‘Beau, that’s a terrible thing to say. Nothing could be further from my mind. You’re so cynical sometimes.’
He stayed quiet, and Candice could almost hear the cogs grinding. ‘A hundred years old, though, and no family? No sense in it all going to the cats’ home.’
‘All what, Beau? I’ve no idea how much money Jenny has. She’s in residential care for a start, and that doesn’t come cheap.’
‘She likes you, though. Would you say you’re close?’
‘Yes, I suppose we do have a bond. She’s a lovely lady, very spirited and way too switched on not to see straight through me.’
‘Does she have anything worth nicking, then? Just to tide us over, like?’
She gave him a hard stare. ‘If you think I would . . .’ She stopped when she saw him grinning. ‘Is this a wind-up, Beau?’
‘Of course it is, babe. I know you wouldn’t do anything so unscrupulous.’ He stood and slung his leather jacket over his shoulder. ‘Right, I’m off to get my Special Brew.’ He stopped at the doorway and gave her a backward glance. ‘Think about it though, eh?’
15
I think Candice will make a more than competent beauty therapist. She has the looks, aside from the ‘edgy’ hair she’s sporting at the moment, and she has a lovely way about her as well. She’s genuinely interested in other people, especially me for some unfathomable reason.
‘It’s been a few days since we last had a chance for a proper chat,’ she says. ‘I’m dying to know what happened after the dance, after Nico kissed you.’
She gently combs my wet hair and I close my eyes, remembering with high-definition clarity the events of almost eighty years ago. ‘I wasn’t looking for love exactly, but that’s what happens when you let your guard down, Candice. Two come along at once.’
She stops combing, squeezes something from a tube into her palms, then digs her fingers into my scalp as she massages in some cream or other, which she assures me will make my hair soft and shiny. I don’t like to tell her that the shininess of my hair is the least of my worries.
‘Mmm . . . this smells wonderful,’ she enthuses, dipping her nose towards my head. ‘Frangipani and orange blossom. Sorry, carry on.’
I gaze up at the ceiling, trying to order my recollections. ‘I remember I couldn’t sleep, so I lay on my bed running through Lorcan and Nico’s respective good points. Both were handsome in their own way. Lorcan had those ice-blue eyes, unruly dark hair and a little-boy smile. He was also thoughtful, caring and a natural with our Louis, who doted on him.’
‘Ah, bless.’ Candice says, wiping her hands on a towel.
‘Nico was so charming, though, and he oozed confidence, which only made him more desirable.’
‘I’d have thought Lorcan was a much safer bet.’
This irritates me more than it should, probably because I know she’s right.
‘Did Louis like Nico?’ she continues, oblivious to my sour expression.
‘Of course he did. Probably because he brought him ice cream. Kids are fickle like that.’
She nods sagely, as though she has a wealth of experience with kids. I expect she does, living with that spoilt brat Beau.
‘I’d felt comfortable and safe in Lorcan’s arms as we shuffled around the dance floor, his warm breath in my ear, his fingers intertwined with mine.’ I sigh at the memory. ‘And it was nice, honestly, but it wasn’t quite nice enough.’
Only the passage of time has made me realise it was more than enough.
‘I know exactly what you mean, Jenny. You’re right, something just has to click, doesn’t it? When I first met my Beau, it was love at first sight too.’
My features remain passive as I stare at her in the mirror. ‘Love at first sight can often be cured by taking a second look.’
She immediately takes offence and pulls at my hair a little too hard. ‘Don’t be so mean. You said it was like that for you and Nico, so you of all people should know what I’m talking about.’
‘Candice, it was only the other day that you asked me how you could tell when you were really in love.’
She only misses a beat. ‘Did I? Well, you know how it is sometimes.’
Indeed I do. ‘Where did you meet him?’ I ask.
‘At the petrol station where I used to work part-time. He came in for a packet of fags and a Twix. I saw him walking across the forecourt and he just looked so cool, with his leather jacket and a fag stuck to his bottom lip. I banged on the glass to tell him to put it out because it wasn’t allowed, what with all the petrol fumes an’ all. He ground it out with his shoe and mouthed an apology. When he came in, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was so unlike anybody I’d met before. So confident, you might even say cocky. He paid for the fags and the Twix and then he opened the wrapper and offered me one. A stick of Twix, I mean, not a cigarette. Well, I’d not long since had me tea, so I wasn’t hungry, but he insisted.’ She places her hand across her chest, her eyes shining at the memory. ‘And then he said, “I’ll be back to pick you up later. What time do you finish?” Just like that. Can you believe it?’
I have no trouble at all believing it but choose not to say anything.
‘We were living together a month later. Talk about whirlwind.’ She points to my head. ‘I’ll just give it a quick blast so you don’t get a chill.’ The whirring of the hairdryer fills the silence.
Ten minutes later, my hair is fluffed up and feels as
soft as the feathers in a pillow. ‘Thank you, Candice. That’s just the job.’ All this remembering the past, together with the scalp massage, has made me sleepy. I feel drugged as she helps me to my feet and into the wheelchair.
‘Where to now?’
‘I think I’ll have a little lie-down, love.’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘But that’ll flatten the back of your hair.’
Oh, to be young again and care about such things. ‘Take me to the conservatory lounge, then. I’ll have a nap in there in the sunshine.’
She pushes me out into the corridor, one wheel making an irritating squeak, which becomes even more irritating as we gather pace. ‘It’s Beau’s first gig at the Lemon Tree tonight, she says. ‘I’m so excited.’
‘Yes, you must be,’ I reply. ‘And the money will help too, I expect.’
She parks the wheelchair and gives me a queer look. ‘He does try, you know. It’s not his fault he can’t get more gigs.’
‘Whose fault is it then?’
She seems hurt and I realise I’ve pushed it too far. I take hold of her hand. ‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just hate to see you having to work so hard while he’s . . . doing whatever it is he does.’
‘I don’t mind. I love it here. And in any case, I know it’s not forever. My ambition is to have my own salon one day.’
I run my thumb over her chapped knuckles. ‘When did you last have a holiday, Candice?’
‘A holiday?’ she asks, as though she has no concept of what this might be.
‘Some time off,’ I clarify. ‘It’s a couple of months before we embark on our trip to Italy. I think you could use a break before then.’
She snatches her hand away. ‘I don’t need time off, Jenny. I’m fine.’ She takes the chair opposite me and massages her temples.
‘Candice?’
She lifts her head. ‘What?’
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. You just seem tired and a little . . . irritable. Has Beau come round to the idea of you going away yet?’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘Well, you know how it is. He’s sad about it because he’ll miss me so much. We’ve hardly been apart since the day we met, so it will be hard.’ She stands and brushes herself down. ‘Right, Mrs Culpepper will have my head on a stick if I don’t make a start on laying the tables for tea.’
‘Have you lost weight, Candice?’
She instinctively squeezes her waist. ‘What? No. Although Beau did say the other day that he thought I could do with losing a few pounds. He calls me his little Chubster.’ She giggles, but I can tell it stings.
‘Little Chubster?’
‘It’s just a pet name. He doesn’t mean it as an insult or owt.’
I’m not quite sure how it’s possible to dislike somebody you’ve never even met. ‘Don’t listen to him, Candice. You’re perfect the way you are.’
She gives me a doubtful smile before scuttling off. This trip to Italy will be cathartic for me, but I’m determined that Candice will have a little fun too. It’s the least she deserves.
16
Candice battled her way along the pavement using her umbrella as a shield instead of for its intended purpose. Seriously, was there any weather worse than horizontal hailstones? The bus had been late, meaning she’d had to run down Mauldeth Road, leaving her shiny-faced and breathless as she arrived at the Lemon Tree. She shook out the umbrella as she approached the entrance. A doorman stood with his meaty arms folded.
‘Can I get past, please?’ she asked.
‘Ticket.’
‘What? Since when? It’s a bar, I don’t need a ticket, surely?’ She could hear low-level music coming from inside, tinny-sounding dance tracks accompanied by flashing lights. ‘Look, my boyfriend’s playing here tonight. You’re not telling me I need a ticket to see him, are you?’
He produced a clipboard and ran his finger down a list.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Candice Barnes.’
To his credit, he checked the list twice before tossing the clipboard onto the desk. ‘Nope, sorry, your name’s not on the list. That’s a tenner, please.’
‘Are you sure?’ She could feel her nose begin to fizz. ‘I haven’t got a spare tenner and my boyfriend didn’t mention anything about having to pay.’
He moved out of the way and pulled her over the threshold, pointing to the small stage in the corner of the room. ‘Is that him there? The one carrying on like he’s Jon Bon Jovi?’
Candice stared at Beau. He had his foot up on a chair as he chatted to two giggling girls, one of whom apparently thought it was appropriate to stroke his bicep.
‘Yes, that’s him,’ she said tightly.
The doorman gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Go on then, but don’t tell everybody.’
She pushed her way to the front, apologising to some big oaf who barged into her and sloshed his lager down her sleeve. ‘Beau, I’m here,’ she called, waving.
He looked over the heads of the two girls and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, his eyes unblinking as he stared at her.
It was difficult to understand what he meant, but as she took another step forward, he removed his foot from the chair, took the elbow of the inappropriately demonstrative girl and turned his back on Candice.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, suddenly feeling like a gatecrasher who’d blagged her way in. She felt a hand in the small of her back. ‘Come on, love, I’ll get you a drink.’
She turned to see the bouncer smiling, his kindly expression at odds with his bulk.
He clicked his fingers at the barman. ‘Whatever the lady wants,’ he said, guiding Candice towards a vacant bar stool. ‘Put it on my tab.’
‘Thank you,’ she muttered. ‘A glass of Sauvignon, please.’
‘I’ll have to get back to the door.’ He glanced in Beau’s direction, shaking his head. ‘You have my sympathy, sweetheart.’
She’d barely touched her drink before Beau arrived by her side, his face flushed and his shirt open to the navel, revealing his angel tattoo.
‘You missed the first set,’ he said accusingly. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I’ve been at work, and never mind giving me the third degree, who were those two?’ She nodded towards the girls, who were now giggling in the corner, foreheads together as they clutched their lurid cocktails.
‘Fans, Candice, fans. And it doesn’t look good when my girlfriend comes tottering over.’ He called to the barman. ‘Pint, please, mate.’
She picked up her glass and took a fortifying gulp. ‘Oh, well excuse me. I’m sorry if I’m cramping your style.’
‘There’s nothing in it, Candice. Fans like to think their heroes are single, that’s all. It’ll put them off if they think I have a girlfriend.’
‘I’m hardly Yoko Ono, Beau, and you’re definitely no John Lennon.’
He managed a laugh. ‘You’re so funny, Candice.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘You know you’re the only girl for me.’ He eyed her glass. ‘That’s a large one, babe. Did you really need all that? What about our economising?’
She was about to tell him that the doorman had bought it but instinctively knew this wasn’t a good idea. She stepped around the question, shuffling to the edge of her stool. ‘Tell me about your set, then. How did it go?’
He took a long draw on his pint, leaving a line of froth on his top lip. ‘They loved me, Candice.’ He took a step back and spread his arms wide, gazing down at his skinny frame. ‘I mean, obviously, how could they resist this?’
She hadn’t noticed his trousers until then. ‘Where did they come from? Are they real leather?’
He tutted at the ceiling. ‘Are they real leather? Of course they are. I’m a rock star. I can hardly go on stage in polyester.’
‘But—’
He silenced her with a finger to her lips. ‘I know what you’re going to say, babe, b
ut trust me, this is an investment. Don’t worry, I’ve budgeted for it, and in any case, they only cost about the same as your eyebrow course.’
‘Oh, well that’s brilliant. Can I go ahead and book it, then?’
He lifted a piece of her hair and twirled it in his fingers, his nose wrinkling. ‘You look a bit dishevelled, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
She brushed his hand away. ‘Yes, I do mind you saying so. I’ve come straight from work. The bus was late and I had to run the last half-mile in a bloody hailstorm.’
‘All right, Candice, calm down. Jeez . . . I was only saying.’
‘Well don’t.’ She swivelled on her stool, turning away from him as she picked up her drink. She felt him run his finger down her spine and shuddered involuntarily.
‘Candice?’
‘What?’
‘Aw, come on, don’t be like that. I’m due on stage again soon and I won’t be able to concentrate if you’re mad at me.’ He lifted her hair and blew gently onto the back of her neck.
‘Careful, Beau. I wouldn’t want your two fans over there to get jealous.’ She turned to face him again. ‘Next week, then?’
‘What about it?’
‘Can I book the eyebrow course for next week?’
He patted his front pockets. ‘No can do, I’m afraid. Money’s a bit tight.’
‘Like your trousers,’ she muttered.
He kissed her forehead. ‘Oh, you do make me laugh, Candice. Look, leave it with me and I promise to sort it. Couple of weeks tops, okay?’ He finished the rest of his pint in one long gulp. ‘I’d better go and get myself sorted. Don’t want to keep the punters waiting.’ He pressed his lips to hers. ‘Love you.’
She watched him weave his way back to the stage and sling his guitar strap over his head. He fiddled with the tuning pegs, probably more for dramatic effect than any useful purpose. With a quick swivel of his head, he flicked his hair out of his eyes. There was a ripple of applause as he leaned towards the microphone. ‘Gee, thanks, you guys.’ For some unfathomable reason he’d adopted an American accent, even though he originally hailed from Basingstoke.
The Memory Box Page 9