The Peacock Emporium(87)

“I am,” she said. “But it’s not anyone’s fault if the first time around you get the wrong one.”

The jazz compilation playing in the background ended, leaving a silence within the shop, allowing for the dull rumble of an approaching storm outside.

“I think you are a romantic,” he said.

“I just think sometimes people need a bit of a shove.” She shifted on her step. “Including me. Come on, let’s get out of here. My Emma will be wondering where I am. She’s coming to watch me get my nails done this evening. First time ever. I can’t decide whether to go for some tasteful pink or a lovely tarty scarlet.”

He held out his arm, and she took it, helping to raise herself from her seated position. “God,” she said, as they emerged into the glowing shop. “I’m absolutely filthy.”

He shrugged his agreement, patted himself down, glanced out at the rain. “You have an umbrella?”

“Raincoat,” she said, gesturing toward her fuchsia plastic mackintosh. “Essential English summer garment. You’ll learn.” She moved toward the door.

“You think we should ring Suzanna?” Alejandro said casually. “See if she’s okay?”

“She’ll be stuck in A and E for hours.” Jess checked the keys in her hand. “But I’ve got to drop these at hers later so I’ll tell her you were asking after her, if you like . . .” She grinned, with a hint of mischief.

He refused to answer her, shook his head in mock exasperation. “I think, Jessie, you should keep your schemes to Arturro and Liliane.” He stooped to peel off a piece of tape that had attached itself to his trouser leg. Later, he would say he had heard Jessie begin to laugh—a laugh that was interrupted by a rushing noise, a screech of such escalating volume and velocity that it sounded like a vast, angry bird. He had looked up in time to see the blur of white, the ear-splitting crack of what might have been thunder, and then the front of the shop exploding inward in a crash of noise and timber. He had lifted his arm to protect himself against the shower of splintering glass, the flying shelves, plates, pictures, and he had fallen backward against the counter. All he had seen was a flash of bright pink plastic as it disappeared, like a wet carrier-bag, under the van.



* * *



—

It was her fourth cup of machine coffee, and Suzanna realized that if she drank any more her hands would begin to shake. It was hard, though, given the tedium of waiting in the cubicle, and disappearing for coffee seemed to be the only way of legitimately escaping Rosemary’s relentlessly bad humor. “If she says, ‘The NHS isn’t what it used to be,’ one more time,” she whispered to Vivi, seated beside her, “I’m going to take a swing at her with a bedpan.”

“What are you saying?” said Rosemary querulously, from the bed. “Do speak up, Suzanna.”

“I shouldn’t bother, dear,” muttered Vivi. “These days they’re made of the same stuff as egg cartons.”

They had been there almost three hours. Rosemary had initially been seen by a triage nurse, sent for various X-rays, and diagnosed with a fractured rib, bruising, and a sprained wrist. Then she had been removed from the urgent board, and placed at the end of a long queue of mundane injuries, which she had taken as a personal affront. The young nurse had informed them that it was likely to be another hour at least. Always more accidents in the rain.

Suzanna glanced every few minutes at her left hand, as if it bore the visible sign of her duplicity. Her heart leaped every time she thought of the man who possibly still stood in her shop. This is wrong, she would tell herself. Overstepping the line. And then felt the quicksilver racing of her pulse as she allowed herself, yet again, to replay the events of the previous hours.

Vivi leaned toward her. “You go, dear. I’ll get a taxi home.”

“I’m not leaving, Mum. Honestly, I can’t leave you alone like this.” With her, went the unspoken addition.

Vivi squeezed her arm gratefully. “I should tell you how Rosemary did it,” she whispered.

Suzanna turned, and Vivi glanced behind her, about to impart some piece of information, when the cubicle curtain was pulled back with a loud swishing sound.

A policeman was standing in front of them, his walkie-talkie hissing and stopping abruptly. A female officer was behind him, talking into her own.

“I think you want the end cubicle,” said Vivi, leaning forward conspiratorially. “They’re the ones who’ve been fighting.”

“Suzanna Peacock?” said the policeman, looking from one to the other.

“Are you going to arrest me?” said Rosemary loudly. “Is it an offense to wait for several hours in a hospital now?”

“That’s me,” said Suzanna, thinking, This is like a film. “Is it—is it Neil?”

“There’s been an accident, madam. We think you’d better come with us.”

Vivi lifted her hand to her mouth. “Is it Neil? Has he had a crash?”

Suzanna was rooted to the spot. “What?” she said. “What is it?”

The policeman looked reluctantly at the older women.

“They’re my family,” said Suzanna. “Just tell me, what is it?”

“It’s not your husband, madam. It’s your shop. There’s been a serious incident and we’d like you to come with us.”