The Peacock Emporium(104)
“What’s up, Suze?”
“Nothing.” Suzanna stared straight ahead at the barns.
There was a lengthy pause.
“I heard about what happened at the shop. I tried to ring a couple of times—to make sure you were okay.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting to return calls.”
“Are you fully back in business?”
“In theory. Neil tells me I can’t last long at this rate. I’m not really making any money. It’s hard to know what to do to bring people in.” She smiled at her sister apologetically. “I don’t suppose I’m the most welcoming person at the moment. Not a great draw at the best of times. That’s really why I can’t see any point in Dad investing in it.”
Lucy leaned forward, drawing her knees up to her chest. “And you and Neil?”
“Fine.”
“I’m assuming the cigs mean Peacock minor is not yet imminent . . .”
“I think the accepted phrase is ‘if it happens, it happens.’ I guess I’ll try a bit harder when I’m feeling a bit . . . brighter.” Her voice trailed away.
“Try a bit harder?” Lucy pulled a face. “What are you trying to turn into? Some kind of Stepford wife?” She studied her sister’s profile, her smile fading when she saw that there would be no jocular reply. “You don’t sound like yourself, Suze. You sound . . .” She couldn’t find the right words. “Married, for a change?” When Suzanna turned back to her, Lucy was shocked to see that her eyes were filled with tears.
“Don’t mock me, Luce. I’m doing my best. Really. I’m trying to do my best.” Her hair, caught on the wind, stood up on one side, looking shorn and brutal.
Lucy Fairley-Hulme hesitated for just a second, then placed her arms around her beautiful, troubled, complicated sister and held her tighter than she had since they were children.
* * *
—
Suzanna was about to close the shop. She needn’t have bothered coming back after her parents’ lunch. It had probably cost more in petrol to return than she had made in coffee profits. The skies had grown steadily grayer, heralding a premature dusk.
She knew the shop looked as unwelcoming as it felt. Despite the builders’ promises, the new windows had still not arrived, and the boards that stood in their place looked increasingly faded and grubby, an unwelcome reminder of Jessie’s fate. The previous day she had had to peel off several stickers from the outside, offering the chance for “homeworkers” to make “tens of thousands” if they only rang the phone number advertised, and a crude poster advertising a flea market outside the White Hart.
She couldn’t seem to summon the energy to chase the builders. She stared around at the unwanted stock, at the empty gaps on the shelving that she hadn’t yet filled from the new boxes, wondering how much she would miss it when it was gone. She had accepted now that it would be gone. If she had cared enough, her father’s offer might have seemed like a lifeline. Instead it felt like the latest in a long line of affronts.
Suzanna checked the cartons of milk in the fridge and, out of habit rather than necessity, refilled the coffee machine, noting that with the school-run mothers gone home, she was unlikely to have anyone else in that day. She didn’t care. She felt tired. She thought of her cool bed, of the deadening comfort of going home and crawling between the sheets. She would set the alarm for seven thirty that evening so that she would be up again before Neil returned. It seemed to work quite well that way.
The door opened.
“Have you seen the jam in the market square?” said Mrs. Creek.
“I was going to close.”
“The cars have got themselves into a complete gridlock. All over one parking space. They’re all out there shouting at each other.” She removed her hat and sat down at the blue table. “Silly old fools. All because they can’t be bothered to pay the forty pence to park behind the church.” She had made herself comfortable and was squinting at the blackboard as if it had changed since the previous day, as if Suzanna had ever offered anything but seven different types of coffee. “I’ll have a cappuccino, please, with those brown cube sugars on the side. The ones from the pretty box. They taste quite different from what you get at the supermarket.”
There was no point protesting. Suzanna wasn’t even sure she could raise her voice enough to do it. She thought of showing Neil the till receipts for the day, the fact that this afternoon she would have sold the grand total of three coffees, one for each hour the shop had been open.
She began to prepare the machine, only half listening to Mrs. Creek’s chatter, nodding as required. “Nod and smile,” Jessie had once advised her. It gave one the appearance of listening.
“I’ve been asked to make a wedding dress, did I tell you?”
Suzanna had never asked Jessie if she’d wanted to get married. She could imagine her as a bride; some insane bright-pink confection, with beads and feathers and flowers spilling off it. She thought of what Cath Carter had said at the funeral about Jessie’s nails, and wished suddenly that she could have had the chance to wear a bridal dress too. Except that that would have implied she was bound even more tightly to Jason. The thought of him brought the van crashing through the front of the shop again, as it did several times a day, and Suzanna willed the image away.