Fry (6 page)

The summer I turned eighteen, Kate and I worked as play leaders at a children’s holiday camp called Camp Windylake. While Kate’s group charged up and down the football pitch, mine were more stylish and artistic. We had the best times in the arts and crafts tent, fashioning intricate hats and gloves from old scraps of material and decorating them with sequins, buttons and beads. We customised jeans and T-shirts with safety pins, ribbons and lace. Every one of my charges made something they could be proud of that summer, culminating in a big fashion show on the last day, where the kids strutted their stuff down a makeshift catwalk to Right Said Fred.

I started smoking that summer, actually. I know, most people start much younger than eighteen, but smoking had never interested me before. Yet somehow, sitting round the camp fire one night, I found myself accepting a cigarette. And despite many, many failed attempts, I’ve never managed to quit since. Not even after what happened to Rose Cottage.

The day camp finished, Julio picked us up in a cherry-red convertible he’d been working on, drawing numerous wolf-whistles from the girls, fellow camp leaders, and even one or two of the mums. This was way before he and Kate were ever an item, of course.

After dropping Kate off home, we returned to Rose Cottage, the holiday home Dad rented every summer since we were little. I dumped my bag in the hallway and ran upstairs to take a shower. Dad was out on a date that night (what can I say? Like father, like son) and Julio suggested we go out for a few drinks and catch up.

“How about here?” he said, as we walked down the High Street, in the direction of the Millennium nightclub.

“No,” I said, glaring at the long-haired bouncer. He looked particularly smug that night, organising the crowd into an orderly queue and deciding who could go in and who couldn’t. “I hear there’s a new Turkish place that’s just opened across the road. Let’s go and have a look.”

The raki poured freely that night, and it was gone midnight by the time we finally stumbled home along the beach.

Julio sniffed the air. “Hmm, smells like barbecue.”

I blinked at the unfriendly lights ahead of us. “I don’t think that’s a barbecue. Something’s on fire!”

We strained our eyes to see, and, perhaps because we’d had quite a bit to drink, we still failed to realise that the source of all the commotion was our very own Rose Cottage. Until we saw Dad, that is. He was walking across the sand towards us, his arms crossed, his expression as dark as the thunderous clouds of smoke above us.

“OK, which of you did it?” he demanded. “I’ve just been speaking to the fire crew and they think it was probably started by a cigarette.”

Julio and I looked at each other in horror. We had each had one before heading out that night. But I’d stubbed mine out, I was certain of it. Poor Dad, he had no idea either of us smoked.

“It wasn’t me!” Julio said indignantly, his body language mimicking his father’s.

“Well, it wasn’t me, either!” I defended myself. “I wouldn’t be that careless!”

And so it went. I blamed Julio, and he blamed me. We never did get to the bottom of it. That was the end of our holidays at Rose Cottage though. The place was damaged beyond repair.

* * *

“So you admit that you started the fire at Rose Cottage?” Penney asks. The man has ants in his pants. He keeps pacing up and down, seems unable to sit for longer than ten seconds. His partner, meanwhile, lounges back on my sofa, taking in the stack of fashion magazines on the coffee table and the orderly row of shoes, lined against the wall. These are not all my shoes, by the way, just the ones that don’t fit in the shoe cupboard.

“We never found out for sure,” I say cagily. “It could have been me, but it could equally have been my brother. It was a long time ago and an accident at that. I really can’t see what it has to do with the fire at the caravan park.”

“Except that it’s another unexplained coincidence,” Penney points out.

“Look Isabel, we don’t want to do this, but if we find any more of these little ‘coincidences’, I’m going to have to turn you over to my boss, and she’s not into these cosy little home visits, if you get my drift. She’ll want to question you properly.”

“Down the station,” adds his partner, as if I’m an imbecile.

“Look, I know this looks bad,” I say, in exasperation, “but there’s really nothing more to tell.”

“So this is going to be the last time we’ll need to speak to you then?”

“Yes. Absolutely the last.”

Next morning, I am awoken by the sound of the phone ringing.

Groggily, I reach for it.

“Hello?”

“Isabel? It’s Sonya. Are you OK?”

“Yes, fine. Why?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

“It’s gone half past nine. Are you still in bed?”

“Oh, bollocks!” I glance at my bedside clock. “I must have overslept. Sorry, Sonya – I had trouble getting to sleep last night.”

“You OK?”

“Yes, fine, just had the police sniffing round again last night.”

I don’t know why I told her that, Sonya isn’t exactly the soul of discretion.

“About the fire?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s crazy! They should stop wasting your time and catch some real criminals.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re all right, anyway. I’ll see you at work then.”

“Yeah. I’ll be as quick as I can. Sorry about oversleeping.”

“Not to worry, it’s kind of dead today, anyway.”

I thought she was just trying to make me feel better, but I get a bit of a shock when I walk through the door of Robertson’s an hour later.

“Hey, where is everyone?” 

Stu walks out of his office.

“Something’s not right,” he says, pointing out the obvious. “Maybe you should go over to Filbert’s, Isabel and see if it’s quiet there too.”

“I really don’t see how checking out the opposition is going to help,” I object. “Wouldn’t my time be better spent helping with the inventory?” I glance at Sonya for support.

“No, I think they’re up to something,” Stu insists. “Just go and have a look.”

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Sonya agrees.

I didn’t want Stu to be right, but when I reach Filbert’s, the car park is so packed that I have to drive round in circles for ten minutes before I can get a space. What’s more, their trolley bays are all empty. Meaning either they’ve had a major trolley theft, or every single one of them is in use.

What’s going on here?

That’s when I see the sign: ‘Half price Friday! Everything half price!’

How did I miss this? How did we all miss this?

Why are they doing this? They must be making a massive loss!

But look how many people there are! They’ve taken most of our customers and then some!
I fight my way into the store and look around. Shelf stackers work furiously to replenish the stock, but they’re no match for the bargain hungry shoppers, some of whom have taken more than one trolley. I’m tempted to do a little shopping myself.

I follow the crowd towards the checkout. No zombies here. They have fully automated tills, with helpful assistants on hand to advise people on how to use them. All the staff seem ultra smiley and efficient. They must invest a lot more in staff training than we do.

Hey - I wonder if they pay more than Robertson’s?

Boldly, I walk over to the customer service desk.

“Hi, do you have any vacancies?” I ask.

“Yes,” says the smiling assistant. “We’re currently looking for customer service personnel and shelf stackers.”

“What’s the pay like?”

“Very competitive,” says a voice behind me. I turn round and find myself looking at Bernie Greengrass, the store manager. He needs no introduction - his picture is in the local paper just about every week.

“But I’d have thought junior manager would be more suitable for you, Isabel?”

“You know my name?”

“I make it my business to know,” he says with a smile. “If you’re really interested in a position here, just let me know. Our pay and conditions are very generous.”

He hands me his business card.

“Thanks, I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. We have an excellent fast-track programme, and just think - you wouldn’t have to work for that idiot, Stu, any more!”

He flashes a cheeky grin, then he’s gone, his attention diverted as a local TV news crew walks through the door.

* * *

I race back to Robertson’s to tell Stu and Sonya all I’ve discovered - well not quite all - I don’t mention Bernie Greengrass’ job offer. Sonya looks riled enough.

“It’s just a stunt,” I reassure her. “They can’t keep that up for long, unless they’re looking to bankrupt themselves.”

“But what else have they got up their sleeves?” she wonders, grasping at her hair with her hands. “Don’t you remember, when Filbert’s first opened, a lot of people said Queensbeach was only big enough for one supermarket. What if they were right?”

“I can’t believe we missed this,” I say, shaking my head. “They must have advertised on the radio and in the papers.”

“Not in the papers I read,” Stu says.

“No, well they probably didn’t advertise in the Beano,” Sonya mutters, flicking through the newspaper stand. “Here it is, front cover of the Queensbeach Echo. No wonder this place is deserted.”

The store is so quiet that Sonya lets me leave early, despite my late start. It makes a pleasant change to get out while it’s still light. I head for the High Street, intending to make a start on my Christmas shopping, but a shimmering green dress immediately catches my eye. It’s in the window of a little boutique I’ve never been in before. Curiously, I push open the door and walk inside.

The predatory eyes of the shop assistant watch as I finger the cool, silky fabric.

“That’s a lovely dress,” she says approvingly. “Would you like to try it on?”  

I glance at the price tag. I know I shouldn’t, but I find myself nodding and following her to the fitting room, where it takes less than a minute to shimmy out of my black tailored suit and into the dress.

I admire myself in the communal mirror. The material hugs my figure in all the right places, neither too tight nor too loose.

“Oh, my!” The shop assistant gasps. “It looks like it was made for you!”

I know that they’ll say anything to make a sale, but I can’t help feeling she’s right on this occasion. The colour complements my complexion perfectly, as does the shape.

“Would you like to take it?” she asks.

My conscience tugs at the hem of the dress. It is both expensive and elaborate, so there won’t be many occasions when I could wear it. But Kate and Deacon get complimentary tickets to a posh ball run by the hospital every year. It would be perfect for that.

“What shoes do you have?” I ask.

As it turns out, not only do they have great shoes, but also stoles and handbags. I leave the shop with parcels tucked under each arm, my face flushed with guilty pleasure. 

“Hi Isabel, can you get me a beer?” Deacon asks, when I arrive at the Beach House for dinner.

“Nice to see you too,” I mutter, opening the fridge. “Anyone else?”

“Yes, please,” Kate says.

As I shut the fridge, I notice a familiar cream coloured invitation card pinned to the door.

“You’re going to the Christmas ball then?” I say, casually placing the beers down on the table.

“Yeah,” says Kate, twisting hers open. “I’m taking Rhett as my plus one.”

I look expectantly at Deacon.

“How about you?”

“Actually,” he says, “I thought I’d ask Alicia this year. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Hi everyone!” Alicia calls, as she skips through the door. “Oh, hi Isabel!” 

She slides into the empty seat next to Deacon and it takes every ounce of my strength not to kick it out from under her. My stomach churns as he casually rests his arm on the back of her chair. The jealous wolf inside me has reared its ugly head.

“You’re really OK about Deacon taking Alicia to the ball?” Kate asks when I give her a lift home.

“Course, it’s no big deal,” I lie. “I’ve got another party that night anyway.”

“Great - you should come round to my house so we can get ready together.”

“Maybe.” 

“Oh, come on! We can open a bottle of wine and put on some music to get us in the party mood. Besides, I might need fashion advice.”

She’s got me there. One year, she tried to wear legwarmers under her cocktail dress, claiming her legs were cold. I definitely need to quality check her outfit before she sets foot outside the door.

“Well, OK.” I reluctantly agree. “I’ll get ready at yours.”

“If I hear Jive Bunny one more time, I’m going to ram a Christmas tree down someone’s throat!” Jon the security man tries to shield his ears, but it’s impossible to block out the sound.

That’s one of the many joys of working at Robertson’s at this time of year, they bombard us with diabolical Christmas music all day long. I’ve tried talking to Sonya about it, but apparently it’s a head office directive. We have to play Christmas music to get the customers in the spending mood. And so we do - all day long. I’ve heard the American government used the same technique on prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. I bet it was effective.

The Christmas shopping season has begun in earnest, but not as ferociously here as at Filbert’s, where the kiddies are queuing round the corner to see Santa.

Sonya rushes up to me, her face flushed.

“Isabel! I need a favour.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve just caught the elves conducting themselves in..er…”

“Un-elfly behaviour?” I supply.

She nods. “I’ve had to send them both back to the agency, so I was wondering if you could take over, just till they send someone else? Santa can’t cope on his own.”

“Surely there’s someone else who could do it?”

Sonya tugs at the hair at the back of her head. “Isabel, I’m asking you. I don’t want any more screw ups, I just want to know that it’s under control.”

“Well, OK.” I reluctantly agree, “But I don’t really have to wear a costume do I?”

“It’s in the office.”

It is a long, long afternoon. Stu comes over to leer at me in my ridiculously short belted tunic and curly toed shoes.

“There’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,” he croons, in a terrible faux Irish accent.

“That’s leprechauns, you ignorant bastard,” I hiss. “Oh, sorry!” My hand flies to my mouth as I remember too late that I’m surrounded by small children. Their mothers look at each other and shake their heads in consternation.

The promised replacement elves never materialise, so I have to prop up Santa all afternoon. Finally, at five o’clock, I stalk off to the toilets to change, feeling hot, sweaty and irritable. The cheap, tacky green tights leave an inky stain as I peel them from my legs, and my feet hurt from being squished into those stupid shoes. I wriggle thankfully into my normal clothes, bundling the hated costume into a ball and contemplate flushing it down the loo.

Sonya couldn’t be more apologetic, but her apologies don’t make up for my humiliation. Bernie Greengrass’ business card feels like a brick in my handbag as I stomp out of the store. Just one phone call and I could be out of here and onto something better. The idea of telling Stu where to go appeals more and more by the minute, but I don’t feel good about deserting Sonya. I’m not sure how she’d cope without me. I picture her tearing what remains of her hair out. But one way or the other, I’ve got to make up my mind and soon. Bernie doesn’t strike me as a patient man, and I have a feeling his offer comes with an expiry date.