‘Looks like things aren’t quite going according to plan.’ Sandi’s trauma-nurse expression didn’t fool me for a second. She was clearly in her element. ‘Would you care to tell viewers what’s going on?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Mum stepped over to stand between Sandi and me. ‘My daughter’s sweets have been a great success.’ She gestured at the almost empty table behind her. ‘As you can see, nearly everything has been eaten.’
‘And is currently being regurgitated,’ Sandi said silkily, keeping her eyes averted. She looked poised and polished in a simple, beige silk dress and flat jewelled pumps. ‘Kyle!’ She turned to the cameraman, who’d been focusing on Mum’s delicately flushed face, and he swung the camera to where the vomiting lady was slumped on the kerb, hands pressed to her stomach.
‘Uuuurghhh!’ she groaned, pushing her face between her legs. Her skirt rode up to reveal vast thighs and a glimpse of gusset.
Kyle swiftly lowered the camera.
‘It’s not appropriate to be interviewing me,’ I said shakily. Although the woman had stopped being sick, I wanted to check she was OK. ‘Excuse me.’
But before I could move, a high-pitched voice streamed out above the gathering. ‘Was there peanuts in them sweets?’
I revolved to see a lanky teenager clutching his throat, lurching towards me like a drunk.
‘Dear god, what now?’ Mum muttered.
‘What now, indeed?’ Sandi echoed with thinly disguised glee, angling her microphone for maximum effect.
‘The peanut brittle,’ I croaked, unpeeling my T-shirt from my back where I’d started sweating. ‘It’s the peanut brittle.’
‘But surely it was obvious what it was?’ said Mum, exasperated. ‘It’s in the name: peanut brittle.’
‘Exactly.’ My eyes swept around, but no one would meet my gaze. All eyes were on the staggering boy, and several people were filming his swaying progress on their phones.
‘Irresponsible attitudes get people killed.’
I should have known Chris Weatherby would be there, talking in bloody headlines.
‘Someone get the paramedic,’ I called, and word passed down the group like Chinese whispers.
Chris snapped a photo of me grabbing the boy as he stumbled into me.
‘Do you have one of those pens?’ I said urgently, lowering him to the ground. He was gasping, trying to pull air into his lungs. ‘Oh god,’ I whimpered. ‘Somebody help.’
‘I can do a tracheotomy,’ announced Celia, appearing as though teleported. ‘I’ll need a straw and a biro.’
‘No one uses pens any more,’ someone said.
‘Are you a nurse?’ Vegan-woman asked Celia.
‘No, but I’ve done one before, on a Maltese.’ Misinterpreting the silence, she explained impatiently, ‘It’s a toy dog, like a feather duster with eyes.’
‘Why would you perform a tracheotomy on a toy dog?’ Vegan-woman looked understandably confused.
‘Not that sort of toy,’ scoffed Celia, rolling up her sleeves, but I was spared having to rush inside to hunt down either a straw or a biro as a paramedic appeared and dropped to her knees beside us.
She pulled out an epi-pen and efficiently jabbed the boy in the thigh.
‘OW!’ he howled, glaring as if she’d shot him with a bow and arrow. His colour faded from puce to vanilla and he scrambled to his feet, dusting his hands on his shorts.
Chris Weatherby sprang towards him. Freed from its pony-tail, his middle-parted hair draped untidily around his face. ‘What do you have to say to Ms Appleton?’ he asked, in a provocative manner, giving me a sideways look.
‘Who?’ Confusion crossed the boy’s face.
‘She made these so-called sweets.’
As Sandi Brent and Kyle closed in to record his answer, he puffed up with self-importance.
‘Well, I fort it might be good to have more ’elfy sweets, but it shows they can be just as dangerous in the wrong hands.’ As his thick brows beetled in my direction, everyone turned to stare.
I fanned my burning face with the hem of my apron.
‘Sounds like he’s been coached to say that,’ muttered Mum. Half her hair had come loose, and there was a smear of chocolate on her cheek. I shoved my hairband up off my eyebrows, trying to look concerned but in control.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But look how everyone’s lapping it up.’
‘You should be thanking that paramedic for saving your life, you ungrateful sod,’ shouted Celia. There was a swell of agreement, then everyone began clapping and the mood shifted slightly.
Not in my favour.
‘I warned you earlier,’ said Vegan-woman, who I was beginning to hate with a passion. ‘You should have listened.’
‘What was that?’ Sandi Brent pounced. ‘Are you saying Ms Appleton didn’t make clear the ingredients in her sweets?’
‘IT SAID PEANUT BRITTLE ON THE LABEL!’ Mum yelled, and I jumped about a foot in the air. I’d never heard her raise her voice. ‘People can read, can’t they?’ She suddenly looked like Angelina Jolie in Changeling and I heard the whirr of the camera zooming in. ‘People do have to take some responsibility for their health and safety,’ she went on, waving the little card as proof. ‘My daughter is a responsible and caring member of this community.’
‘Good girl,’ approved Celia, rolling her sleeves down. ‘About time she made a stand about something important.’
‘Who is that?’ Chris Weatherby asked no one in particular.
‘My mum,’ I said, proudly.
His eyes flicked from her to me, as if seeking a likeness, and finding none, looked suspicious.
The teenager was refusing to give his name. ‘I’m supposed to be studying for exams and my mum thinks I’m in my room,’ he said, looking shifty. ‘I can’t be on telly, but you can put me in the paper as long as I stay ’nonymous.’
‘Well now that’s a shame, as these dramatic events will make a great piece on this evening’s news,’ gushed Sandi Brent, frowning as a gust of wind pushed a strand of hair across her face. ‘And you come across so well on camera,’ she lied, peeling hair off her lipstick.
I could see the boy was torn.
‘Nah, gotta go,’ he said at last and strutted off, clearly revelling in the many back-claps and cries of ‘Take care son’ that followed his departure.
‘I’m so glad you’re OK,’ I called, marvelling that minutes ago he’d been at death’s door, and now seemed so thoroughly alive. Thank god for the St John’s ambulance.
Aware Sandi was searching for a new victim to interview, I was tempted to slip away. I glanced through the shop window to where Agnieszka was still serving customers, as though there wasn’t a real-life episode of Casualty unfolding outside, and behind my reflection saw a familiar SUV screech to a halt by the kerb.
Isabel dismounted in a hurry, and dragged a placard from the back seat, almost braining her husband who was driving.
‘Go and fetch Fitzy from the babysitter and then come back,’ she ordered, before careering round the back of the TV van to artfully tousle her hair with her fingers, and adjust her cream, off-the-shoulder dress, so it was mostly off.
‘Oh, thank goodness you’re still here,’ she cried, sashaying through the still gossiping crowd, to where Sandi and Chris were attempting to talk to the vomiting woman being examined by the paramedic. ‘I’ve been so busy with my publisher this morning, I almost didn’t get here,’ Isabel continued loudly.
‘Rubbish,’ spluttered Celia. ‘There was no publisher, I was there.’
Isabel wagged her ‘SUGAR IS POISON’ placard, to which she’d added a photo of the shop, struck through with a crude red cross. ‘I was determined to make the most of this opportunity to …’
‘ … promote yourself,’ said Celia, frowning heavily.
‘ … express my dismay that sweet shops continue to thrive in this day and age,’ Isabel went on, flashing her luminous eyes to full effect. The sun glanced off her exposed tanned shoulder, and turned her dress almost invisible.
‘I can see her nipples,’ Mum whispered.
‘How did she even get out?’ said Celia, at the same time as I said,
‘She used to be a model.’
‘But why is she doing this?’ Mum enquired.
Isabel began handing out flyers again, stepping about delicately in strappy gold sandals that made the most of her gym-toned calves.
‘There’s more information on my blog,’ she was saying, aiming her words at Chris Weatherby, who was photographing her at an angle, like Mario Testino. She did an automatic supermodel pose, shoulders jutting forward, before remembering where she was. ‘I’m asking people to sign a petition to close down sweet shops everywhere.’
‘What do you mean, how did she get out?’ I whipped round to face Celia. ‘What did you do?’
Isabel suddenly spotted us, lurking by the shop doorway, and hurried over with Chris’s gaze fixed to her swaying backside.
‘I know what you did,’ she hissed, her eyes slitty. ‘And it didn’t work.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Celia assumed an innocent expression that fooled no one.
‘She knew Gerry wasn’t home, and somehow trained Pollywollydoodle to guard the door so I couldn’t get out.’
‘Gran!’
‘Mum!’
Under the weight of our glares, Gran straightened the collar of her blouse.
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘And if the dog was guarding the door, at least you were in the kitchen.’ She fixed Isabel with an icy stare. ‘You didn’t have the child there, and had access to food and water,’ she said. ‘You were hardly in mortal danger.’
‘I had to climb out of the window, which is tiny,’ Isabel blasted. ‘Luckily, I’m very flexible, but I’ve a good mind to report you.’
‘You should stop interfering in matters that don’t concern you.’
‘Health is a matter that concerns us all,’ said Isabel in righteous tones, and there was a ripple of agreement from those eavesdropping closest to us.
‘I am concerned about health,’ I started to say, but she hadn’t finished.
‘I’m hoping to raise awareness with my book.’
‘Say what?’ Sandi Brent bounded over. ‘Hey, you’re the campaigner from Morning, Sunshine! Imogen …?’
‘Isabel Sinclair,’ said Isabel, turning on a sickly-sweet smile. ‘And I’m pleased to see that even the handmade sweets didn’t meet with the public’s approval.’
How the hell did she know that, when she’d only just turned up? Probably the sick in the gutter.
Suddenly, it was all too much. All I wanted was to run inside, lock the shop and never come out. Or, failing that, run all the way back to Celia’s and get into bed, or time-travel to Thailand. But escaping wasn’t an option, and Sandi Brent wasn’t done. Clearly hungry for more drama – or perhaps not wanting to be seen on screen with someone not only more attractive than her, but better at applying flicky eyeliner – she turned to face the goggling crowd.
‘Does anyone have anything they’d like to say to support this campaign, especially in light of today’s near miss with the supposedly healthier sweets?’
‘Yes,’ said a voice I recognised.
I stopped trying to edge inside the shop as Beth materialised, cradling a swaddled bundle. She radiated regal vibes in a sky-blue dress that swept the ground, and her curls were heaped up in a bun. Far from giving birth, she looked like she’d been on a retreat where she’d been taught how to meditate.
Harry was by her side, hands extended, as if worried Beth might drop the baby.
‘Whatever’s happened here today, we all love Marnie, and know that she’s a good person,’ she said in her warm, clear voice. ‘And as long as we all eat our veggies and clean our teeth, I think it’s OK to eat sweets now and then.’ Her beatific smile made me wonder if there were some labour drugs still in her system. ‘I’ve sampled Marnie’s handmade sweets, and lived to tell the tale.’
‘Copy that,’ said Harry, eyes still pinned on his daughter. I doubted he’d notice if a spaceship landed, never mind that Mum was trying to hide behind me.
‘You can always rely on Beth to cut through the bull-crap,’ Celia said approvingly.
‘Thank you,’ I managed in a wobbly voice, stealing a glimpse of Bunty that took my breath away as Beth sailed past.
‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ she said.
‘None of that changes what nearly happened here,’ Chris Weatherby butted in, just as I’d sensed a slight warming from the crowd. ‘People were ill.’
‘I liked the lady’s sweets and I didn’t vomit,’ said an educated voice. ‘I thought the Turkish delight was equal to, if not better, than that in Istanbul, and I should know because I’ve tried it.’
It was the young violin prodigy, looking super-smart in tailored trousers and an open-necked shirt.
His mum squeezed his shoulders. ‘I wasn’t sick either,’ she said shyly. ‘I loved the coconut ice.’
‘Me too,’ said someone else.
‘And it wasn’t the sweets that made me sick.’ We turned to look at the vomiting woman who was on her feet now, looking bashful. ‘I didn’t want to tell anyone until I was past three months, but I’m actually pregnant!’
A cheer went up, and she clapped her hands to her doughy cheeks. ‘It all seems so real now!’
‘Still a near death with the peanut allergy,’ intoned Chris, like the Grim Reaper.
‘Look,’ Celia interjected. ‘He didn’t read a clearly written label. Hardly my granddaughter’s fault,’ she said. ‘All’s well that ends well.’
‘And I’m really very sorry,’ I added.
Isabel had busied herself with the straps on her sandal, and Sandi appeared to be arguing loudly with Kyle.
‘We’re going to have to fucking well scrap everything we’ve filmed,’ she said viciously, but no one was listening as their attention had been diverted.
Following the source of their interest I noticed a black Mercedes with tinted windows purring to a standstill.
‘No one’s taking a blind bit of notice of parking regulations,’ Chris Weatherby muttered darkly. ‘There’s an article in there somewhere.’
As the side door slid open, I glimpsed a man in big sunglasses in the front passenger seat, next to a uniformed driver, and craned my neck along with everyone else for a closer look, but he ducked his head.
A tiny, crop-haired woman in jeans and a stripy shirt stepped onto the pavement and closed the door. ‘Marnie Appleton?’ she said, consulting a clipboard through black-rimmed glasses.
‘Is she from social services?’ asked Mum, sucking her finger. She’d trapped it, trying to pick up the trestle table.
‘I doubt it.’ Celia snorted. ‘Not unless they’ve smartened up a bit.’
‘Could be environmental health,’ I said with a sinking feeling.
‘Travelling in threes?’
‘Who else could it be?’ I stuck my hand up. ‘I’m Marnie Appleton.’
‘Where are the handmade sweets?’
‘This way,’ I said, leading the woman inside the shop with the air of someone about to face a firing squad.
‘But the council wouldn’t send their staff in fancy cars,’ I heard Mum say.
Beth was in the kitchen, breast-feeding Bunty while Harry looked on, sipping a mug of coffee.
‘They did a great job with the shop,’ he said. He didn’t look at me, but his voice wasn’t unfriendly. ‘Toby and Em.’
‘They did,’ I murmured, leaning past him to open the fridge.
‘I’ll take whatever you have left,’ said the woman, scribbling something on her clipboard.
Beth glanced up. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I said, close to tears as it hit me the shop was probably about to be closed down.
‘Is that everything?’ The woman eyed the foil trays, and looked like she was attempting to frown.
‘That’s all that’s left,’ I said dully. ‘Shall I put them in a carrier bag?’
‘Please,’ she said, looking at her clipboard again. ‘And do you have any Acid Drops?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Acid Drops.’
‘Er, I think so.’
‘Excellent!’ Her elfin face broke into a smile. ‘I’ll take the lot.’
Backing out of the kitchen, I exchanged puzzled looks with Beth.
‘Agnieszka, could you give this lady all the Acid Drops we have, please?’ I said. ‘And a carrier bag.’
‘Of course.’ She smoothed her apron, as if drawing attention to how smart it looked, then shared the jar of sweets between two paper bags. ‘That will be ten pounds thirty please.’
‘Oh, we’re not charging her,’ I said quickly.
‘I insist,’ said the woman, handing over a fifty-pound note. ‘Keep the change,’ she added with a breezy smile.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. It was like a bribe, but in reverse. ‘Please, just take them.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
Agnieszka looked at the note with puzzled eyes, as if it was Monopoly money. I had to admit it had been a while since I’d seen a fifty-pound note, and wondered if this could possibly be another of Isabel’s tricks.
‘Lovely to meet you, Marnie.’ The woman flashed another smile, and swept out to the waiting car.
I trotted after her, and rested my hand on the door before she could close it. ‘Will you call me to let me know what happens next?’
Once again, she attempted to pull her eyebrows together, and I realised she must have had Botox. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said politely.
‘But surely I need to have something in writing?’ I moved my hand as the door slid shut, but not before the man in the front seat removed his shades and turned to face me, and I caught a flash of familiar blue eyes.
Stepping back as it glided away, I tuned into the excited buzz around me.
‘That was definitely Donal Kerrigan in the front!’
‘I thought I recognised him before, when the woman got out!’
‘Oh my god, I love him so much!’
‘Did you see him on Morning, Sunshine!? Didn’t he mention the sweet shop?’
OH. MY. GOD.
‘Donal Kerrigan was in that car!’ I turned to Mum, who jumped and looked at Celia.
‘Donal who?’ they said.
And I’d thought I was out of touch with modern culture.
Everything fell into place. The Acid Drops. Of course! He’d said on the show how much he loved them.
‘It was only Donal bloody Kerrigan, buying my sweets!’ I cried as Beth emerged, rushing over to sneak a better look at Bunty.
‘Oh my days!’ she squealed, uncharacteristically. ‘I love that man!’
Word had got round, and the fizz of chatter and hormonal female laughter was deafening.
‘I voted for him as my weird crush in heat magazine.’
‘My girlfriend thinks he’s lush, can’t see it myself.’
‘Wish I’d asked for a bloody selfie.’
‘Wish I’d got in the bloody limo, he wouldn’t know what had hit him!’
‘I can’t believe I missed seeing Donal Kerrigan.’ Sandi wasn’t even bothering to hide how hacked off she was. Even her shiny hair was drooping, and her eyeliner had smudged. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me it was him?’ She gave Kyle a withering stare. ‘You know how much I’d love to work on Morning Sunshine! you complete and utter moron.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Kyle, striding to the TV van and bundling his camera equipment inside. ‘You can make your own way back to the studio.’
‘Kyle no, wait! I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she said, scuttling after him. ‘You know how much I love you.’
He let her clamber into the passenger seat before taking off, scattering a clutch of seagulls tearing apart a bin bag in the road.
‘Donal Kerrigan’s not all that,’ said Isabel sulkily, holding her placard like a shield. ‘He was actually quite rude to me.’
‘Good for him,’ I murmured.
Bunty started making a stuttering noise, like someone revving a moped.
‘I’d better change her nappy,’ said Beth, before I’d had a chance to get my mitts on her. ‘Come and have a coffee and leave this lot to it,’ she said, going back inside.
About to follow, a voice rang out behind me.
‘You know that lad who was allergic?’ It was Biff, so red his spots seemed to vanish altogether. ‘She paid him to do it,’ he blasted, pointing an accusing finger at Isabel, as if compelled to get it off his chest. ‘He’s a mate of mine and his mum’s friends wiv her,’ another wild arm movement in Isabel’s direction, ‘and she told my mate he should pretend to be allergic to peanuts for a laugh so he did, and he probably feels shit now, cos he’s not a bad lad, plus he was jabbed in the leg with that epi-whatsit.’
A pin-drop silence had fallen.
People were exchanging wide-eyed looks of disbelief.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘Absolutely disgusting.’
‘And they were blaming those lovely sweets.’
Biff looked like he wanted to defend himself further, but sensing the mood change took off down the street like Usain Bolt.
Isabel was parchment-pale beneath her natural tan. She flashed Chris a look of desperation and he immediately sprang to attention.
‘So, about this blog of yours …’ he began, but I stepped up and touched his elbow.
‘You heard what just happened,’ I said, a cocktail of relief and adrenaline coursing through me. ‘You can write a nasty story about me, and make stuff up, and give her so-called book a massive plug.’ Finally, I had everyone’s attention. ‘She’s clearly offered you some sort of bribe – an exclusive interview when she’s famous, or an introduction to Jamie Oliver, or other promises based on her past career.’ I could tell by the way his ears reddened and by Isabel’s fake-shocked gasp I was on the right track. ‘Or you can write the truth,’ I said. ‘That I believe in my sweet shop, and no amount of dirty tricks is going to change that.’
I turned to the crowd. ‘And I hope all of you who filmed that boy’s performance earlier have filmed this too,’ I said. ‘You’ve no idea what damage posting something like that on social media can do to someone’s livelihood and reputation.’
There was some awkward shuffling, and embarrassed apologies, then Gerry Sinclair rolled up in his SUV. Looking like a woman given a reprieve from death row, Isabel flung her placard back in the car, narrowly missing his head again.
He stuck his face out of the window. ‘Sorry about my wife,’ he said to me, with a sympathetic furrow. ‘This is what she does.’ He sounded resigned. ‘She hasn’t really found her feet since giving up modelling, you know?’
‘Not really,’ I said coldly.
He heaved a great sigh. ‘I was in London this morning and have been offered a new job, so we’ll be going in a few weeks,’ he said. ‘She’ll soon be out of your hair and onto her next project.’
‘You can’t prove I did anything illegal,’ cried Isabel, over the roof of the car. ‘And my book will be in Waterstones soon, you’ll see. A deal is definitely imminent.’
‘She’s not as connected as she believes,’ said Gerry, disloyally, and pulled his head back in.
I couldn’t even manage a pithy riposte. As the car disappeared, and Chris Weatherby headed to the beach with a dejected air, I couldn’t help wondering why Donal Kerrigan had come all the way to Shipley to try my sweets. It was hard to believe he’d acted on a throwaway comment.
Then, as the crowd dispersed, I saw Alex.
He was standing on the other side of the road, eating an ice-cream, the sun glancing off his soft, brown hair. And when he smiled, the slow, sexy smile that had melted my heart the day we met on the beach, I knew.
He’d used a connection of his own. For me.
The question was: why?