The Peacock Emporium(44)

She moved to the till, almost unconsciously sweeping crumbs from the tabletop as she moved to collect stray receipts. “We got you a Crunchie ice cream. Did you know they did Crunchie ones? That’s what me and Emma decided you’d like best.”

“Thanks,” said Suzanna, her face buried in her folder of invoices. “Can you stick it in the fridge?” She had been staring at them for almost twenty minutes now, unsure why she had got them out in the first place. Her father’s visit had unbalanced her, sucked out her drive and enthusiasm.

“Don’t leave it for long. It’ll melt in there.” Jessie moved toward the tables scanning them for empty cups. “Anyone been in?”

“No one special.”

That was the maddening thing about crying. You could do it only for a few minutes, and your skin, your nose would still display the telltale signs half an hour later.

Jessie’s glance settled on her a fraction of a second longer than it would otherwise have done. “I had an idea while I was out. About Arturro,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I’m going to get him together with Liliane.”

“What?”

“I’ve had this idea, see. Tell me what you think . . .”

Suzanna could hear the sound of a cloth being run under a tap, as Jessie chattered on.

She spoke into her folder. “You know what I think, Jess? It’s that people should just be left alone.”

“Yes, but I think Arturro and Liliane have spent too long by themselves. It’s become such a habit with them that they’re both too frightened to break it.”

“Perhaps they’re happier like that.”

“You don’t really think so.”

Oh, go away, thought Suzanna, exhausted. Stop trying to turn everyone into shinier, happier versions of themselves, and convince me I’m someone I’m not. Not everyone sees things like you do. But she said nothing.

Jessie stared at her for a minute. “Why don’t you take a break? Go and have a walk. It’s such a beautiful day outside.”

“I’m fine, Jessie. Just give me a break, will you?” It came out more sharply than she’d intended. She caught the hurt in Jessie’s expression, which was immediately disguised under an understanding smile.

“Oh, okay, you’re right. I’ll go,” Suzanna said, grabbing her wallet, feeling perversely resentful that she was being made to feel guilty yet again. “Look, I’m sorry—take no notice of me. It’s just hormones or something.” And then hated herself for using that as an excuse.



* * *



—

She walked around the square for almost twenty-five minutes. It was market day, and she found herself meandering between the tightly packed stalls, savoring the brief period of invisibility, eyeing the cheap imported confectionery, the wholefood stall, the timeless arrangements of the greengrocers, while simultaneously fighting the inner voice reminding her that London markets had been so much more interesting, so much more vibrant and excitingly stocked.

Suzanna wondered, as she occasionally did, whether she would have felt the same way if her mother had lived. Sometimes she wondered if she felt this way precisely because her mother hadn’t.

“Do you want something, love?”

“Oh. No. Thank you.”

She shoved her hands into her pockets and moved on, the internal lightness she had felt at the start of the day having turned into something dull, leaden. Perhaps Neil was right. Perhaps she should just give in and have a baby. At least she would be doing the one thing everyone expected of her. She would probably love it when it came. Most people did, didn’t they? It wasn’t as if anything else had made her happy.

If it’s my destiny, my biology, she asked herself, walking slowly back toward her shop, why does every bone in my body scream against it?



* * *



—

“You know what you should do?”

Suzanna closed her eyes, and opened them slowly. She had told herself firmly that, with only two hours before closing time, she wasn’t going to take out any more of her bad mood on Jessie. Even a Jessie sporting a pair of child’s angel wings and balancing a pair of frankly ridiculous pink sunglasses on her head. “What?” she said evenly.

“I was thinking about something Emma said. About drawings.”

“You think I should get people to do drawings?” Suzanna, refilling sugar bowls, struggled to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“No. But I was thinking about what we said earlier, about getting people involved with the shop, building up regulars. Because that’s what you’re going to need around here. You could have a sort of Regular of the Week.”

“You’re joking?”

“No, I’m not. Look at what you’ve put on the walls—the old sheet music and the wills you pasted up. Every time someone’s come in this afternoon they’ve stopped to read the wills, right?”

It had been one of her better ideas. The bundle of yellowed, calligraphied wills had been on a skip in London; she had kept them in a folder for years waiting for a chance to use them as wallpaper.

“And once they’ve spent that long in the shop, they’ve ended up buying something, right?”

“And?”