A bolt of sunshine bounced through the window and woke me at eight o’clock the following morning and, despite having barely slept, I felt recharged.
I rolled out of bed and crossed to the window. The sea glittered and danced under a faultless blue sky, and it was such unusual weather for a bank holiday I decided to hold my sweet-tasting session outside.
After washing and dressing, and arranging a hairband low on my forehead to disguise my lack of fringe, I marched outside and wrenched a trestle table from the back of the shed that my grandfather last used when he wallpapered the living room in 1979.
After dusting off the cobwebs I hauled it into the kitchen, where I was distracted for five minutes by a deluge of photos pinging onto my phone from Beth. All were of Bunty, and all identical as far as I could tell. She was lying in a little Perspex crib, wearing one of the onesies I’d bought for her, patterned with yellow rabbits.
Meet your god-daughter, crumble-face. Isn’t she gorgeous? Can’t wait for you to meet her xxx
I blinked back a rush of tears.
She’s got her mother’s looks – half-alien, half bombshell ha ha. Seriously, she’s beautiful. Hope you’re OK. Can’t wait to see you both xx
I’ve never been happier, though my pretty duckies are already leaking like dodgy milk cartons. Might see you sooner than you think xx
‘I’ve got some nice tablecloths you can put on that,’ said Celia, striding into the kitchen, seeming to grasp immediately what the trestle table was for. She seemed remarkably refreshed, considering the night we’d had, and was fully dressed in a stiff-collared white blouse, black corduroy culottes, and snow-white trainers. As she fished the tablecloths out of a drawer, I found some card and a pen, and prepared to write out some sweet labels as Mum drifted in, as dewy as if she’d showered beneath a waterfall.
‘Shouldn’t you be at the shop?’ she said to me, filling the kettle.
‘I open at ten on Sundays and bank holidays.’
Her eyes scanned Celia’s outfit, but although her eyebrows convulsed, she refrained from commenting. ‘I’d like to help out, if you’ll let me.’
‘Of course,’ I said, amazed she was even out of bed. Mum had never been an early riser. ‘You did make most of the sweets.’
‘I thought it would be nice to do something together,’ she said, pulling a band from the pocket of her white denim skirt, and twisting her hair into a knot. ‘I kind of wish sometimes I’d helped out more when Dad was alive.’
Celia made a harrumphing noise but didn’t retaliate. I had a feeling we’d turned a corner the night before, and none of us was willing to break the fragile bond that had sprung up.
I guessed it wouldn’t last. For a start, I’d need to talk to Harry at some point, and I privately thought Mum should apologise to him for what happened between her and his dad. And she definitely needed to let Steven Fairfax know that I wasn’t his daughter.
Shoving these thoughts aside, as well as the ones of Alex that kept creeping in, I focused on writing out peanut brittle in my fanciest handwriting.
I felt oddly nervous as I loaded the trestle table into the back of Celia’s car, now she’d decided she was ready to drive again. I wanted things to go well – particularly as Sandi Brent, and that awful reporter, Chris Weatherby, were bound to turn up in the hope things would go badly wrong.
And I had no doubt that Isabel Sinclair had plans.
‘I’ve got my session with that dog today,’ announced Celia as we kangarooed past Isabel’s cottage in the car. She’d never been the best driver, even before she broke her leg.
‘That’s no way to talk about Isabel,’ I said.
Mum gave a shout of laughter. She was sitting up front with Celia, while I flailed in the back, trying to stop the trays of sweets from sliding onto the floor.
‘I’ll drop you two off, but I’ll be down later on.’ Celia seemed to be semaphoring me a message with her brows in the rear-view mirror, but I couldn’t decipher their meaning.
‘Will you be bringing Paddy?’ I said, with mock innocence.
‘Paddy?’ Mum’s eyes bulged. ‘Paddy-next-door?’
‘We’re friends,’ said Celia, not rising to the bait. ‘And he’s working today.’
‘Ooh, you and Paddy,’ Mum said, nudging Celia’s arm, which had the effect of making her swerve into the middle of the road.
‘Christ, Mum, are you sure you’re OK to drive?’
Celia responded by slamming her foot on the accelerator, while Mum squealed like a child and clutched the sides of her seat.
By the time Celia had jack-knifed the car round the back of the sweet shop my face was avocado-coloured, and we’d only been driving three minutes.
‘Do you think she’s safe with the old beast?’ said Mum as the car roared off, belching fumes.
‘Paddy’s really nice and he’s helped Gran a lot.’
Mum gave me a look that reminded me a lot of Celia. ‘That car’s an environmental hazard.’
‘You know how independent she is,’ I said, slipping my key into the back door. ‘Anyway, the hospital has signed her off so I guess she’s fine.’
‘A feisty old stick, isn’t she?’ Mum said, as if she’d only just noticed. ‘I honestly thought she’d go ballistic last night.’
‘I suppose you couldn’t have blamed her if she had.’
‘Maybe I’ve not always been fair to her.’
Hallelujah, I thought as she followed me through to the shop.
‘Oh wow, this looks amazing!’ she said, twirling around to admire the new décor with shining eyes.
I puffed up with pride, seeing it through her eyes. ‘Good, isn’t it?’
She wafted behind the counter to study my certificate, and the photo of Gramps, and I left her to her thoughts while I brought the sweets in from the car.
Ten minutes later we were out on the pavement, wrestling the trestle table open. It couldn’t have been simpler to operate, but somehow kept collapsing in the middle.
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ Mum said, pink around the cheeks, but with a bit of judicious thumping the hinge finally slotted into place, and I shook the tablecloths over the glue-stained surface.
We were already attracting attention, and passing drivers tooted their horns. The little girl from the guesthouse next door was watching our progress from the dining room window, and gave me a little wave.
As the sun danced through the shop window, I found the long hook to pull down the awning, and after persuading Mum we needed to wear latex gloves, we decanted our sweets onto an eclectic assortment of plates and bowls, and a couple of tiered cake-stands purloined from Celia’s cupboards.
We’d just finished when Agnieszka glided over, her hair in a sleek ballerina bun that showed off her sharp cheekbones.
‘Looks superb,’ she declared, kissing the tips of her fingers as she admired our efforts. ‘May I?’ She helped herself to a salted caramel cup and popped it in her mouth. ‘Mmmmmm.’ She rolled her eyes, and patted her concave stomach. ‘Is very delicious.’
I introduced her to Mum, then she went inside to prepare for work.
‘Ah, it looks beautiful!’ she exclaimed, eyes skimming the new-look interior, and gave me a smiling thumbs-up through the window.
‘Is she wearing any knickers under those jeans?’ Mum squinted after her. ‘I can practically see her ovaries.’
‘Mum!’
I left her labelling the sweets with my handwritten cards, and went to put the float in the till – should anyone want any normal sweets – and fetch some chalk to write on the board I used for promotions.
Try my handmade, low-sugar sweets. Free today!
It wouldn’t win the Man Booker Prize.
‘What if no one’s interested?’ I said, looking up and down the street. There were quite a few people about; mostly local dog-walkers, looking longingly at the beach, or taking in the air along the pier.
‘I suppose it’s still early yet,’ said Mum, though it was pushing eleven o’clock.
‘I’ll get the tongs,’ I said, rushing back into the shop.
‘No Josh?’ said Agnieszka, in an overly casual way, as she slipped her gilet off.
‘No Josh.’ I was slightly surprised he hadn’t put in an appearance. Perhaps he’d taken me at my word and decided to stay away – especially after seeing me sprint after Alex the day before.
I noticed Agnieszka was wearing a jewel-green top that looked new. She normally wore the same plain long-sleeved T-shirt, like a uniform …
‘Aprons!’ I said. ‘We’re all wearing them from now on.’ That was a laugh, when I wouldn’t even be here in a couple of months.
I ran to the stockroom to retrieve some fresh ones, having completely forgotten to wash the others. Mine was crumpled in the corner, and Josh’s was hanging from a shelf. I couldn’t help thinking, in spite of everything, I’d prefer to see it on him.
‘What’s this?’ Mum held hers up, nose wrinkled, as though I’d offered her a wetsuit. ‘Do I have to put it on?’
‘It makes us look like a team,’ I said, feeling my ears redden.
‘Didn’t your granddad order these, but you refused to wear one?’
How the hell had she remembered that? ‘Well, now I want to,’ I said, slipping it over my head and fastening it tightly. For a second, it felt like he was giving me a hug.
Mum did the same, with an obvious air of reluctance. ‘Good old Dad,’ she murmured, a smile curving her lips. ‘He just wanted a peaceful life.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ I surprised myself by saying. ‘He loved this place, and the shop, and had a lot to be proud of.’
‘You’re right, sweetheart.’ Mum leaned forward and tonged a chunk of coconut ice into her mouth.
‘Don’t eat the stock,’ I said, swiping at her hand.
‘But it’th tho good.’ She picked up another and squeezed it between my lips.
Several cups of tea later, the pavement in front of our table was jostling with people keen to try our sweets.
‘Only one each,’ I improvised, realising belatedly that I hadn’t factored in running out by midday. There were more in the fridge, but once they were gone that was it.
‘We should have charged fifty pence each,’ Mum murmured at one point. ‘Might have deterred the freeloaders.’
She looked in her element, at one point coyly refusing to reveal what made the marzipan crunch (pistachios). ‘It’s a family secret,’ she said with a wink, when asked by a crop-haired woman with a vegan vibe.
‘I think you’ll find it’s in the public interest to display the ingredients, especially when the goods are homemade,’ the woman said sternly, before striding away without trying anything.
‘Shit,’ I muttered. I went back to the board and wrote
All ingredients organic, including eggs, flour and beetroot powder where used. Sugar alternatives are medjool dates, rice and maple syrup, and stevia.
It didn’t sound very sexy, but then I wasn’t penning the next Fifty Shades. Should I include almonds? Could people be allergic to almonds, or just peanuts? Oh god, the peanut brittle.
Let us know if you have a peanut allergy
I added. There was hardly any room left on the board.
‘Talk about a buzzkill,’ Mum said.
‘Better than actually killing someone.’
‘Ew beetroot,’ said a little boy with a head of tight curls, from his pushchair. Surely he wasn’t old enough to read? ‘I don’t want a horrid sweet, Mummy, I want a real one.’
‘Who the hell’s Stevia?’ said someone else.
‘I think I know his cousin.’
I rubbed out what I’d written with the hem of my apron. ‘We’ll just tell people when they ask,’ I said to Mum. ‘That way, we can make them sound more appealing.’
She nodded. ‘Good idea.’
Some of the older regulars eyed my efforts with suspicion, as if they were deep-fried sheep’s testicles.
‘I’ve managed all these years without sugar alternatives, and I prefer my beetroot pickled and in a jar,’ said the butcher, who closed his shop on a bank holiday, and was dressed for a day on the beach in sunhat, shades and sandals. ‘I think I’ll stick with my usual.’
At least people were buying from the shop, its fresh new appearance drawing favourable comments.
‘About time you did away with that turgid brown,’ said Mr Flannery, emerging with a bulging bag. He must have been dying of curiosity as he rarely left the newsagent’s, and saw me as competition. ‘I’ll have some of that peanut brittle, it looks nicer than the stuff in there.’
A compliment indeed. I’d used my little hammer to smash it up earlier, and placed a generous sliver in his outstretched hand.
‘I’ll have some too,’ said someone else, and suddenly there was a sea of waggling hands, and the peanut brittle had gone.
‘I’ll fetch the rest,’ Mum said, and slipped into the shop.
The street was crowded now, and it seemed everyone wanted to try a handmade sweet.
Comments varied from ‘Surprisingly nice, considering how horrible it looks’ to ‘Are you going to sell these regularly, they’re yummy?’ and ‘Never thought sucking on a ginger ball would be the highlight of my day!’
And there was still no sign of Isabel.
‘Mum, I could use my award money to refit the kitchen and make the sweets on the premises,’ I said when she came back, getting carried away, in spite of a little voice in my head, reminding me I was going to Thailand soon.
‘That’s a brilliant idea.’ She sounded just as enthused. ‘They’re a real hit, Marnie, I’m proud of you.’
‘Aw, thanks, Mum.’
I was half-expecting to see Phoebe, but when I checked my phone, there was a message. There’d been an emergency at the restaurant, and she’d had to rush back. I smiled. She’d find it harder to escape than she imagined – if she even wanted to, deep down.
Every now and then I scanned the sea of faces, looking for Alex. His dad was probably firing up the barbecue under the gazebo, while Bobbi-Jo entertained them with tales of all the lives she’d saved during her nursing career.
And where was Josh? He’d seemed determined to win back my trust, and although I couldn’t blame him for not showing up, I’d been certain he would.
‘Only one,’ I said, to a stout woman with reddening freckled shoulders, reaching for her third piece of Turkish delight. I was wondering whether to ask Mum to nip back to Celia’s and make some more when I became aware of a commotion.
‘I feel so sick,’ said a woman, with more rolls of fat than the Michelin man. She was clutching her stomach, looking green around the gills, and staggered across to the gutter where she began to retch.
There was a sudden sense of danger in the air.
‘How do we know this stuff’s fresh?’ The crop-haired vegan woman was back, pushing her way to the table. ‘You could have poisoned these people.’
A terrible hush fell, apart from the sound of a child sobbing, and a flare of hip-hop from a passing car. People were drifting over from the beach to see what was happening, and an opportunistic seagull dive-bombed the sweets and took off with some marzipan crunch.
‘Should I call for help?’ I said, as the fat woman retched again.
‘There’s the St John’s ambulance over there.’ Mum pointed it out. ‘They always turn up when it’s busy in case someone drowns or gets sunstroke.’
‘It’s coming over,’ said an onlooker.
‘Shit,’ Mum murmured. ‘This isn’t good.’
Vegan-woman leant on the table, bringing her cabbage-breath to my face. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
Before I could reply, a News South-West van pulled up, and Sandi Brent stepped into the chaos, brandishing a microphone.