Ice Creams at Carrington’s (25 page)

‘Hey, where are all the other vans?’ I ask the guy, in between customers buying Screwballs, strawberry Mivvi and Fab ice lollies. I wait while he unwraps a vanilla ice-cream brick to sandwich between two wafers.

‘Sorry love, I’ve no idea. This is my allocated pitch for the day – I was asked to move away from my usual place down by the pier. Yes mate, what can I get you?’ he says, turning to serve the next customer – a man with a trillion children all bouncing up and down with excitement.

‘You could try the marina; there were hundreds of them down there a few minutes ago,’ a guy in a black-and-white London Grammar T-shirt suggests. ‘They might be open now. None of them were earlier – too busy sounding their chimes and arguing. That’s why I came here. I think there’s some kind of turf war going on down there.’

Whaaaat?

‘Thank you,’ I quickly shout out as I hare off towards the seafront.

And oh my God! He’s right. Leaning against a wall to catch my breath, I can see ice-cream vans everywhere; there must be at least thirty – each one has a massive Carrington’s sticker on the side, and they’re all triple-parked up to form a blockade right outside the main entrance to the marina. The very heart of the regatta! And if that wasn’t bad enough, the deafening din of their chimes – ‘Greensleeves’ and ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ – fills the air. It’s a disaster. An utter, utter fucking disaster!

And the marina is packed with yachts – people are standing on their decks to get a better view. Jesus, one woman even has a pair of binoculars pressed up to her pillow cheeks. And I dread to think where Tom’s parents’ yacht is – I bet Isabella is horrified. Because right now, Carrington’s is a laughing stock. And what is that whirring noise? I look up into the glorious, cloudless blue sky and see a light aircraft hovering on the horizon, above the glittery sea, hazy in the heat – and it’s trailing a banner. Oh God. It’s
Sky News
. Filming the whole thing, no doubt!

My heart sinks – could today get any worse? There’s no way Tom isn’t going to find out about this – that’s if he isn’t watching, aghast, on TV right now. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called me back, he’s too blooming busy appeasing Mr Dunwoody, because I wouldn’t put it past him to have beaten a path straight to Tom’s door to have a bitch about his reputation being ruined in Westminster.

I get closer and spot Matt trying to reason with a big bald guy who has a spider tatt on the side of his neck. But it’s no use, as the guy just bats a dismissive hand in the air before bombing back into his van and sliding the plastic vending screen shut.

‘At last! You better sort this out, now that you’ve deigned to put in an appearance. And not before time … Where have you been all day?’ Meredith steps out from a doorway and taps her finger on my shoulder. And I snap! I’ve had enough. The last week or so has been a nightmare, not to mention today so far, and I’ve tried really bloody hard to make things right. I draw in a big breath before batting her hand away.

‘Um, excuse me, but where do you get off being so rude? I’ve been fire-fighting all day, making sure the Carrington’s tunnel tours happened, that people are having a good time – isn’t that what this is all about?’ I say, standing square on to her. ‘What have
you
been doing all day?’

‘I beg your pardon!’ she huffs, indignantly. ‘How dare you talk to me like this?’ And she goes to march off towards the ice-cream van fracas that’s unfolding before us.

‘Don’t play the victim here, Meredith. You’ve been arsey with me since the moment I turned up at the first committee meeting.’

‘No I haven’t.’

‘Yes you have.’

‘Well, it’s not my fault if you swanned in late to the first meeting expecting special treatment just because you’re dating
Mr Carrington
.’

‘Hardly! And, for the record, I wasn’t late – you started the meeting early.’ Ha! Take that. ‘So, what exactly is your problem?’ I can feel my heart pounding with adrenalin. It’s like she’s jealous or something.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I have to jog to keep up with her.

‘Yes you do. Tell me!’ I wince as my voice jumps an octave.

‘OK. You really want to know?’ Meredith stops and plants her hands on her hips, but before she can answer, a spectacular arc of raspberry sundae sauce catapults into the air before landing on her head. She turns to me with an outraged look on her face, pink gunge dripping down her cheeks. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then does a massive harrumph before stalking off.

I spin around and see, to my horror, there’s a full-on war ensuing now. The ice-cream men are all leaning out of their vans and pelting each other with chocolate flakes, mini plastic spoons, wafer shells and Haribo sweets. One even has a giant tub of rainbow sprinkles, which, after flipping the lid off, he swings, strong-man-style to gather maximum momentum before spraying everyone within a mile radius, or so it seems. Jesus Christ.

‘Georgie! Are you OK?’ It’s Matt, ducking down with his hand over his head in a desperate attempt to avoid the raft of flying missiles. And then I spot Denise, standing right behind him, with a brochure held up in front of her face like a shield.

‘Yes, I’m fine. I think,’ I say, picking sprinkles off my face.

‘You know Denise, yes?’ Matt yells, before quickly grabbing her hand and pulling her close into his chest for protection.

‘I sure do,’ I grin, and squeeze her free hand. Despite the ice-cream paraphernalia raining down on us, she’s beaming with happiness, having bagged a man ‘so dreamy’. Aw, I’m really pleased for them. ‘Do you know what’s going on here?’ I shout to be heard over the racket.

‘I’ve no idea! I just got a call from Bob, the harbour master, asking me to get down here right away, I thought you might be able to shed some light on it … weren’t the ice-cream vans one of your things to organise?’

‘Um, yes they were. Hold on a sec.’ I duck into a tiny alcove next to a nautical-themed gift shop and pull out my mobile. Annie answers right away and confirms that, as far as she is aware, the ice-cream vans are all in place at their designated spots, she checked first thing this morning, and each one has a plentiful supply of regatta brochures and is stocked up with the special regatta ice-cream flavours that she and Lauren chose when they went to the factory – bubble gum, mulberry and cinnamon crumble, Eton mess (strawberry with mini-meringue pieces in), lemon parfait, a traditional Neapolitan and the one that Jack chose – chocolate with Smarties sprinkles. She sounds so pleased with herself for having pulled it off, after I forgot to even visit Tom’s Uncle Marco, that I don’t have the heart to tell her what’s going on here. I hang up after thanking her.

‘Right. I’m going in!’

‘Are you mad?’ Matt bellows.

‘Probably. But someone has to stop them!’ I head straight towards the van that has the guy with the spider tatt inside, and tap firmly on the plastic screen. A few seconds later, he appears and slides the screen open.

‘Please can you tell me what the hell is going on?’ I say, ducking quickly, but I’m too late – a lump of vanilla ice cream hits my shoulder and slides down my bare arm.

‘You’d better hop in, love. Come on,’ he says in a lovely Northern accent as he flings open the door for me to climb in. He hands me a paper napkin.

‘Thank you.’

‘Hang on.’ He slides the screen closed. ‘That’s better. Bloody fools. They’ve ruined it for us all now …’

‘What do you mean? Why are you all here? You were supposed to be dotted around the town,’ I say, wiping my arm.

‘And they were. I was the one supposed to be here at the entrance to the marina – it’s the prime spot, you see, and seeing as how I organised everything, then fair dues. But they didn’t like it – ice-cream vendors can get very territorial, you see, if their pitch isn’t doing well. Hence they took it upon themselves to move here looking to up their takings. They’re all self-employed, love, and times are hard I guess … But none of that excuses this behaviour, fighting like kids in a playground, it’s blooming embarrassing.’ He shakes his head.

‘Ah, so you must be Tom’s Un—’

‘Marco,’ he says, holding out a hand for me to shake.

‘I’m Georgie.’

‘You’re our Tom’s lass! Well, lovely to meet you at last. And don’t look so surprised … I’m not what you were expecting, eh?’

‘Um, err …’ I start, not wanting to be rude but he’s right – he isn’t at all how I imagined a relative of Tom’s to be.

‘Don’t worry, love, I get it all the time. I’m from the normal side of the family. My brother is the one who married into the money, the Rossi dynasty – not that they always had it, mind you. Wouldn’t think so, though, where Isabella is concerned, not with all her airs and graces.’ And he laughs, while I wonder what he means. ‘Anyway, I guess we had better get this riot stopped.’

‘Yes, it’s madness. It needs to stop right now or I’ll have to call the police,’ I say, really hoping it doesn’t come to that – knowing my luck it’ll be the same police officer who shut down the carousel, and I’ll be deemed doubly incompetent.

‘Trading standards, more like! Here, tell them.’ And with a mischievous glint in his eye, he hands me a megaphone. I take it and, after flicking a switch, I pull back the plastic screen, lean my head out and bellow as loud as I can.

‘Trading standards are on the way! I repeat, trading standards
are on the way
!’ And a few minutes later, the vendors miraculously leap into their vans and drive off, convoy-style, towards Wayfarer Way.

‘Thank you.’ I turn to Marco.

‘Ah, don’t thank me, love; I’m just damn sorry they caused such a scene. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you sure gave it some – petrified, they were. Petrified!’

22

I
’ve managed to find Sam’s stall, it’s next to the new bakery one, but she’s busy packing up cakes into huge white cardboard boxes when I arrive.

‘Georgie!’ she says, looking taken aback. I step forward to give her a hug but she carries on packing.

‘How are you?’ I start awkwardly.

‘I’m fine,’ she replies. But it’s obvious she isn’t.

‘I can see you’re busy, I, um, maybe I should go,’ I start, desperately trying to keep my voice even, but I can’t bear the way things are between us. It’s as if we’re strangers. I know I’ve let her down, but she shut me out too.

‘OK.’ Silence follows while I scan the marquee ner-vously, feeling unsettled and unsure of what to do next. And then I remember Dad’s advice in the hospital that day.
Whatever it takes …

‘Sam, look, I’m really sorry; I know I’ve let you down … But please, let me apologise. At least hear me out …’ She stops packing and I hold my breath, willing her to give me a chance to somehow fix things between us. Another silence follows.

‘I’ll be finished in a bit. Why don’t you come back in half an hour?’ Sam keeps her head down as she places the last cupcake into a box.

‘Um, sure, I’ll do that.’

I wander off into the crowd, hoping the bubbly party atmosphere will lift my mood while I wait for Sam to finish up. I find a gap at the railings overlooking the finishing line and watch in awe as four speedboats race through the waves making the water jet up and spray all over us. The hooters sound out as the sleek silver boat wins – the two women crew cheering and hugging each other as Bob, the harbour master, hands them their prize bottle of champagne. I glance around, relishing in the smiles, the laughter, the perfect blue sky, the warm sun glistening on the sea and feel pleased, relieved, this is exactly how I imagined Mulberry-On-Sea would be on regatta weekend. Everyone seems to be having a brilliant time, the boat races are exciting and exhilarating, and that is the whole point of a regatta after all.

*

Sam and I are at the Hook, Line and Sinker pub, sitting either side of a wooden bench table outside on the beach, when Cher appears with two glasses and an enormous jug full of Pimm’s with sliced cucumber and mint leaves sloshing around inside.

‘There you go, girls. You look as if you could both do with this.’ She puts the jug in the centre of the table. ‘Who died?’ Chuckling, she wipes her hands on a cloth that’s slung over her left shoulder. ‘Right, I’ll, err … sod off and leave you to it then,’ she adds after clearing her throat when neither of us replies, and heads back over the beach towards the pub.

Sam lifts the jug and pours us both a drink while I watch the iridescent green waves swooshing and swaying back and forth, nudging the brown pebbles like a giant penny slot machine.

‘Thank you.’ Sam hands me a glass and I take a sip of the fruity mint concoction before placing the glass back on the table and pushing my hands under the sides of my legs, unsure of where to start. We’re both studying our drinks when we say,

‘I’m sorry,’ in unison. I glance at Sam, feeling relieved that we are at least talking now, it’s a start; but she keeps her head bowed. I reach a hand across the table and gently touch her arm.

‘Sam, I’m so very sorry for abandoning you when you needed me most. You’ve always been here for me, and the one time you needed me … I disappeared to New York. I don’t blame you for hating me …’ My voice trails off, and then I’m horrified to see silent tears snaking a path down her face before collecting in a little pool at the groove above her collarbones. I saw Sam cry when Alfie died, and then when she had the miscarriage, but those were both major, massive things. Sam doesn’t cry easily. I jump off the bench and dart around the table to sit next to her. I put my arm around her and, after a while, her shoulders soften as she leans into me.

‘Oh Sam, please, I can’t bear to see you like this … tell me what to do to make it better. Please … I’ll do it, I’ll do anything.’ She rests her head on my shoulder and we sit together in silence, in the still-warm evening air, for what seems like an eternity, with just the sound of the seagulls caw-cawing above us and the laughter in the distance from the last few revellers enjoying a drink before closing time.

Sam starts laughing. It throws me. I don’t know what to do. But for some unfathomable reason I start laughing too.

‘Why are we laughing?’ It’s Sam who recovers first.