Vivien's Heavenly Ice Cream Shop (23 page)

‘Hello?’ his voice came again.

In the background was a young child’s laughter. She’d have recognised it anywhere.

Later that evening back at home, Anna waited on the sofa, with the TV on and the volume low. When she finally heard Jon’s key turn in the lock, she felt sick with nerves.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ he called out. He came into the living room and bent down to give her a kiss. She moved just a fraction so that his kiss landed on her cheek.

‘What’s up?’ he said, taking a seat next to her.

‘I’m confused,’ Anna said. ‘I feel like what I thought I knew doesn’t make sense any more.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jon said.

‘I came by your offices today, and they told me you didn’t work there any more.’

Jon loosened his tie a little. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘They mean fulltime. I told you my role had changed a bit, love. I’m more of a freelance consultant now, so I’m out at meetings rather than at my desk all the time. I work for more than just EnVision now. I haven’t really had time to fill you in on all that, have I? You’ve been so busy with the shop.’

Anna furrowed her brow. ‘So this afternoon, you were with a client?’

‘Yes,’ Jon said. ‘Until just now. Huge opportunity, if it comes through.’

Anna felt torn: there was so much that still didn’t add up, and yet she didn’t want to accuse him of lying.

‘Any reason I’m getting the Spanish Inquisition here?’ Jon said with a laugh. ‘I mean you’re looking pretty smart for going to work in an ice cream shop, now I think about it.’

‘I went to get a loan approved,’ Anna said. ‘For the business.’

‘You’ve what?’ Jon said, wrinkling his forehead. ‘You’re putting more money into that place?’

‘Yes,’ she said calmly. It was one of the few things at the moment that she felt completely confident about. ‘We are.’

‘Imogen’s spent nearly all of the funds your grandma left you, and this is how you’re dealing with it?’

‘It’s our decision,’ Anna said numbly. ‘Mine and Imogen’s.’

The way she’d felt that afternoon, hearing his phone ring and ring, came back to her in stark clarity. ‘How come you didn’t pick up when I called you today?’

‘I told you,’ he said, curtly. ‘I was in a meeting.’

‘With
Alfie
?’ she snapped.

Jon was staring at her blankly, but not a single word came out.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ Anna said, after the silence between them had stretched out for what felt like forever.

‘They sacked me,’ Jon finally admitted.

‘What?’ Anna said, disbelieving. Jon had got up every morning, without fail, since they’d moved in together, and got dressed in a suit. They’d talked about his meetings together over dinner in the evenings. What he was saying didn’t tally. ‘When?’

‘A month ago. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

‘A month ago … so almost half of the time we’ve been living together, you’ve been lying to me?’

‘I suppose so. I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t know how to tell you the truth,’ he said, his face showing the strain. ‘It never seemed like the right time.’

‘OK,’ she said, putting a hand to her forehead, trying to make sense of the situation. At least now she knew what she was dealing with. ‘We’ll get through it, Jon. You’ll find a new job, or we’ll work something out. It’s all right.’

‘It’s not,’ he said, his eyes dropping down so that they no longer met hers.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I needed somewhere to go, Anna. I needed a home, and this didn’t feel like my home. I wanted to be somewhere I could feel like me again.’

‘Like you again?’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Jon said. ‘I don’t know what it all means. But that place, where I could be myself, was with Alfie. And with Mia.’

‘It’s a vendor’s pass,’ Imogen said, showing her Glastonbury ticket to a guard on the perimeter fence.

‘Haven’t seen one of those before,’ he said, eyeing the neon-orange lanyard Imogen had handed to him.

‘All of the food and drink vendors have them,’ Imogen said, starting to lose her patience. Did he think she’d brought along the ice cream van just for fun, to try and sneak her way into the music festival with it?

‘I’ll have to check it out with my supervisor,’ the man said, stomping off in his khaki wellies, sending mud flying all around with each footstep.

Imogen had set off just after midday. She’d loaded the van with camping essentials borrowed from friends who were regular festival-goers, then filled the van’s freezers with ice creams and sorbets and put in bags of cones and wafers. She just had to hope that the hot weather held – if it was another rainy year, not only would there be the risk of another health-and-safety nightmare, but she was pretty sure that people
would be heading towards the organic burger vans, not feasting on ice-cold sorbets and granitas.

It was 6 p.m. as she waited for the security guard to give her the go-ahead. The roads on the way up to Somerset had given her a pretty clear run until the last couple of miles leading up to the site when the gridlock had started. She’d got through it, the long wait in traffic with all the other festival-goers who’d come up early, by blasting out the tunes on her radio.

Anna had worked hard all morning in the shop to get the ice creams ready in time for Imogen to take away. She’d seemed tired, and Imogen had offered to help, but Anna insisted she wanted to do it on her own.

‘You’re good to go through,’ the security guard said, handing Imogen back her lanyard and waving her through the gate. ‘Nice van, by the way.’

Imogen revved the engine and immediately stalled. She felt a flicker of fear – perhaps she should have got the van checked by a qualified mechanic before setting out on such a long journey? She tried the ignition again, and this time, to her immense relief, it caught. With a noisy rev the engine kicked into life and the van juddered through the gate along pockmarked muddy ground.

And she was in! As she entered the festival ground, she felt a rush of excitement about the weekend ahead. Yes, she’d be working, but outside the confines of the shop she immediately felt freer. A field of white wigwams spread out to her right and to her left, smaller tents and food and drink stalls
had started setting up. A woman in a luminous vest took a look at her lanyard and waved her through towards the field where her pitch was. She double-checked the details. It was perfectly positioned – a short walking distance from the Jazz World stage where festival-goers would be lazing in the sun and were most likely to snack, and about ten minutes from the larger Pyramid stage where the headline acts would be playing, guaranteeing plenty of human traffic.

Imogen parked the van and got out, doing a gentle stretch to release the muscles that had tightened while she was driving. She looked back at the vehicle that had just completed its first long-distance trip under her ownership and felt a glow of pride. Painted in vibrant pastels, with a bold logo and an ice cream on top of the roof, it was now both pretty and functional. Plus there wasn’t another van on the road like it. She’d had a few admiring toots from cars and lorries on the way up.

Now she was here, it was time to explore. She locked the van with her things inside, pulled on her wellies and straw cowboy hat, and walked off to familiarise herself with her new surroundings.

She strolled across the fields and after a while reached the stone circle, a raised area of land towards the back of the site, its signature large stones reminiscent of a miniature Stonehenge. A group of men and women in their twenties were sitting in the middle of the semi-sacred space, singing along to a badly played guitar.

‘Room for one more?’ Imogen asked.

‘Of course,’ a woman with dreadlocks replied. ‘Do you sing?’

‘No, but I can play the guitar,’ she said, sitting cross-legged with them on a blanket.

‘Thank God for that,’ the woman said, laughing. ‘Hand it over, Rich.’ She took the instrument from her friend and passed it to Imogen, ignoring his protests.

‘Any requests?’

‘“One Way or Another”,’ someone called out.

Imogen strummed the guitar, tuning it up before playing the opening chords. As she played the field slowly filled up with more groups of young people starting the festival early. The crowd she was with passed a two-litre bottle of cider around between them, singing a little louder with each swig.

‘Keep playing,’ one of the men said when Imogen attempted to lay down the guitar.

‘OK, just one more,’ she conceded. ‘But I can’t stay here all night. I’ve got an early start getting the van set up for customers in the morning.’

‘What is it that you’re selling here?’ said a handsome guy with thick stubble and a woolly jumper. ‘You seem like one of us. You’re not here on some kind of capitalist drive, are you?’

Imogen laughed. ‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘I’m only selling ice creams.’ His expression softened a little. ‘My sister makes them. We’ve got a little shop together in Brighton.’ The guy smiled at that, a lazy, sweet smile that caught Imogen’s attention. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘I’m Brodie, by the way.’

‘Imogen,’ she said.

‘“All Along the Watchtower”,’ a drunken friend of Brodie’s shouted out, impatient to carry on the singalong.

‘OK, you asked for it,’ Imogen said, merrily strumming out the opening chords.

The howls of drunken singers echoed out into the starry evening.

Imogen woke up in her van feeling as if something had died in her mouth. It was furry, her temples throbbed, and she was desperate for a wee. Rather than coming back early as she’d planned, she’d ended up staying out drinking cheap cider with Brodie’s friends until the early hours of the morning. Pulling her sleeping bag more closely around her, she tried to ignore the pressure on her bladder, but it just got worse. Reluctantly, she wriggled out of her sleeping bag, pulled on a fleece and opened the door to the van. She swung her legs out and put on her wellies, bracing herself for a visit to the nearest Portaloo.

She trudged through thickening mud and tried to block out the pain in her head. The sun was peeping up above the horizon, faintly lighting her path to the plastic cubicle. As she inhaled the smell of urine mixing with toilet chemicals she felt certain for a moment that she was about to get reacquainted with the cider she’d downed with that guitar-loving bunch last night. Holding her breath, she opened the Portaloo door and closed it behind her.

A couple of minutes later, she surveyed the campsite as she walked back to the van. A few people were still scattered
about who had clearly been up all night, but on the whole the place was quiet. Fields stretched for miles around, and she was caught up for a moment in the sheer beauty of the Somerset countryside: lush green fields and trees – it was pretty. Still not Thailand, but it wasn’t bad.

That afternoon, Imogen scooped out an Earl-Grey sorbet and passed it to a pretty blonde festival-goer: she looked like a younger Holly Willoughby, and in a pristine flowery dress, she must have only just arrived.

She took the girl’s money with a smile and turned to the next customer.

‘How can I help you?’ she said cheerfully.

‘Can’t believe you had Sarah Canelli here at your van,’ the next woman in line said.

‘Sarah who?’

‘The girl you just served. Didn’t you recognise her? She hosts that celebrity street-dance show. Goes out with … Oh, I forget. Very famous though – my daughter’s always on about her.’

‘Really?’ Imogen said, interested. She barely watched TV these days. ‘Well, a celebrity visiting can’t be a bad thing, I suppose.’

‘It can make all the difference, can’t it?’

‘Regular customers can too,’ Imogen said with a smile. ‘So what can I get you?’

‘A strawberries-and-cream ice, please.’

The morning went like clockwork, despite Imogen’s faint
hangover. The sun beat down on the Somerset fields, and the temperature soared towards 30 degrees, bringing a steady stream of customers over to the van. At midday, she stripped down to just a vest and swept her long hair back into a ponytail.

Feeling cooler, she turned to the next man in line. She recognised him at once – the cheeky glint in his eye. He was the guy from the guitar singalong the night before. Brodie.

‘What’s a granita?’ he said, reading the menu and bringing his eyebrows together in puzzlement.

‘I’ll make you one,’ Imogen said. ‘On the house.’

She crushed the flavoured ice and put it into a tall plastic cup for him. He took greedy sips until the cup was practically drained, then nodded his approval.

‘Give us a try of that,’ a dreadlocked girl said as she appeared by Brodie’s side. He put a spoonful into her mouth and then followed it with a lingering kiss.

Imogen fought back disappointment. She was here on business, she reminded herself. That was all.

Jon was looking in the fridge when Anna stepped into the kitchen. From behind, in a striped navy and white dressing gown, he looked identical to the man she’d fallen in love with.

‘I made a chilli,’ she said, sitting down at the kitchen table and taking the weight off her feet, ‘and put it in the freezer the other day. We could have that tonight.’ Bad as things were, Anna thought, a decent meal always helped. Didn’t it?

‘Sure,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘That would be good. Thanks.’

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Do you want some wine? I’m not quite sure I can get through this evening without some.’

After Jon’s revelation about Mia two nights ago, Anna had been in shock. The kind of shock that makes having a conversation not only pointless, but impossible. They’d resolved to sleep on it – Anna in her bed and Jon in the spare bedroom. One night had turned into two. They’d stepped around each other silently, like cohabiting ghosts. Anna hadn’t slept much
either night: she’d lain there staring at the ceiling, trying to stop the thoughts – the nagging doubts that maybe, somehow, this was her fault.

She poured a glass of red. ‘Do you want to sit down?’ she said. ‘And maybe you can tell me what’s going on. Because a couple of nights of insomnia haven’t helped me understand this any better. Are you and Mia back together?’ It hurt to say the words. ‘Or are you having some kind of crisis, Jon?’