Ice Creams at Carrington’s

‘Oooh, harsh,’ I tut.

‘Indeed.’

‘But that doesn’t mean you have to be superwoman. Sam, you can’t do it all – run the café, oversee Alfie’s estate with all those meetings up in London, not to mention the management of the Carrington’s freehold, and still find time to be Mary Poppins. For the sake of your orgasms you must say no!’ I laugh to lighten the mood.

‘Don’t you mean yes yes yes?’ Sam laughs too, not missing a beat.

‘Ha!’

‘Do you think Mary Poppins had orgasms?’

‘Stop it! There’s no place inside my head for that image.’

‘Hmm, on second thoughts, you’re right.’ And Sam makes a bleeeeugh sound down the phone.

‘Besides, you’re already a fantastic mother just the way you are. You really are. So you must do whatever works best for you and ignore the opinions, because everyone has one, but they’re just that … opinions!’ I say gently, wondering where the old Sam went – she would never have been bothered by a bit of gossip; she’s always been so self-assured and confident. Blimey, she’s put me right on many occasions, but now it seems to be the other way around, which is OK – of course I’ll champion her as best I can – but I’d much sooner see Sam happy. And by the sounds of it, this really doesn’t seem to be the case.

‘I know. And you’re right, of course. But then my own mother couldn’t be bothered with me, remember? So I don’t ever want the girls to feel the way I did, and still do sometimes …’ Her voice trails off.

‘Oh Sam, that will never happen. You’re not Christy …’

At boarding school, Sam and I had shared a bedroom, and she’d lie awake at night wondering about her mum, Christy, an interior designer who ran off to LA with a famous rock star client when Sam was only five years old. I used to try to comfort her by sharing sweets and whispering bedtime stories about princesses in castles, and even though Sam hasn’t mentioned Christy for years until now, I think she still struggles to understand why she left. And even more so since becoming a mother herself, but then who can blame her? Christy literally did a moonlight flit. There at bedtime and gone by breakfast, and that’s tough, especially when all you have is a bag of Haribo Strawbs and the vivid imagination of a nine-year-old friend to comfort you.

‘True … but my brain is so addled from lack of sleep, it’s affecting everything, and it’s just sooooo not like me,’ she replies.

‘Of course it isn’t, you’ve always been the most positive, upbeat person I know. Tell you what, why don’t I babysit for a weekend or something? You and Nathan could stay in a hotel overnight, get some rest, chat, have loads of sex – do whatever you like, it would be just like the old days,’ I say impulsively, instantly pushing away the panicky feeling that follows – I’m sure it can’t be that hard to look after two tiny babies for an evening. Heeeelp!

‘Would you really do that?’ Sam perks up.

‘Sure, that’s what best friends are for. I’m just sorry I didn’t think to offer before now.’ I know Nancy will jump at the chance to lend a hand should I need it. She adores children and really cannot wait to be a grandmother; she even asked me one time if Tom and I had chatted about all that yet. I didn’t have the heart to tell her we haven’t – that our time together is spent mostly in bed, or across my kitchen table or in the shower, or the hallway, and my sofa has certainly seen a lot of action too – and that I’m just not interested in having babies, to be honest. No wild urge to procreate. That biological thing I hear so much about hasn’t kicked in for me yet. Maybe it never will.

‘Well, that would be brilliant. I’ll chat to Nathan about it. It might put him off the nanny idea for a while longer.’

‘Are you really that against it, then?’

‘Hmm, I can’t help wondering – what if she tries it on with him and they end up having a steamy affair? I know it’s a cliché, but you hear about that kind of thing all the time, and the way I feel at the moment, I’m not entirely sure I’d have the energy to confront them, let alone slap her before chucking them both out,’ she laughs wryly.

‘Don’t be daft. Nathan adores you, so that would never happen. Besides, you could get a manny …’

‘A male nanny! Yes, now that’s a good idea. Like a fit pool boy … But with childcare qualifications obviously,’ Sam confirms, sounding a whole lot perkier, and more like her old self now.

‘Yes, something like that.’ I smile.

‘You could help me with interviews?’

‘Of course I could.’

‘Wonder if I could get away with issuing a uniform – tiny running shorts, perhaps? Perfectly reasonable, seeing as they would definitely be doing lots of running around, the twins will make sure of it.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, enough of this manny talk – more importantly, what are you wearing to the soirée? Indulge me with a few minutes of adult chat about frivolous things like dresses and shoes, instead of eco-friendly reusable nappies because, to be honest, I couldn’t give a shit … oops, no pun intended,’ we both snigger, ‘what little Luella wears on her backside.’

‘Who’s Luella?’

‘Oh, just another overheard conversation in the café – a group of eco-mummies were having a nappycino —’

‘A whaaaat?’ I yell, wondering if a bonkers barista somewhere has come up with yet another kind of hot beverage. Hmm, skinny soya nappycino to go – sure doesn’t sound very appetising.

‘Well, it’s not an actual coffee.’ Oh that’s a relief. ‘But from what I can gather, it’s some kind of get-together to chat about nappies. I didn’t join in or anything – was too busy working.’

‘Of course you were,’ I offer in solidarity.

‘Anyway, it got me all edgy about my seemingly indulgent use of disposables, but I can’t get my head around having buckets full of pooey nappies all over the place, waiting for the recycling van. Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough!’ Sam laughs, but I’m sure I detect an edge in her voice. ‘Sooo, your outfit? I bet it’s gorge.’

‘It is,’ I confirm quickly, sensing she’s keen to change the subject. ‘I’m going with that new butterfly print silk maxi-dress that I bought in the Womenswear sale – beautiful, and such a bargain with my staff discount.’

‘Lovely. And shoes?’

‘I was thinking the silver strappy Laurent sandals.’

‘Oh yes! Divine and very super-yacht yah-yah,’ she says in an exaggerated plummy accent.

‘How about you?’

‘With a bit of luck, something baby-gunge free.’

‘Don’t be daft, you always look amazing.’

‘Aw, thanks, and you always cheer me up.’ A short silence follows. ‘Oh for crying out loud – Jeeeeeeesus. I don’t believe this … Nathaaaaaaan, where the hell are you?’ My stomach tightens. What on earth has happened? Something catastrophic, by the sounds of it. I hold my breath. ‘Gotta go – Ivy has just tipped raspberry yogurt over Holly’s head.’

And the line goes dead. I sigh with relief.

Stowing my mobile on the bathroom shelf above the mirror, I flick the shower on and select my favourite body wash – Soap & Glory Sugar Crush. Sam has always wanted a big family full of children, and I’m thrilled that she has the twins, and she really does do a fantastic job all round, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for all that just yet.

As the warm water saturates my hair and cascades down my back, I can’t help thinking how wonderful my life is right now, just the way it is – why change it? When I have a job that I adore – two, in fact, plus fab friends, money in the bank, and a cosy, secure home of my own. Dad is back in my life, with Nancy now too, and we’re getting on really well – the three of us are close, loving and supportive, like a proper family should be, and I have a brilliant boyfriend who loves me, and I love him. (I make a mental note to make sure we find the time for us to talk about living together; perhaps he could move in with me? Now there’s a thought … My flat may be small but it’s much more of a proper home than his sterile new-build apartment.) And I honestly can’t remember ever having all these wonderful things, together, at the same time … It’s perfect. And I truly hope it stays this way forever because it’s been a long time coming, but so very worth the wait.

3

Taking Tom’s hand, I carefully step onto the narrow wooden gangway and through a twink-ling fairy-light-studded voile tunnel, arriving in a Maplewood-panelled stateroom swathed in streams of silver satin with opulent mountains of fruit – grapes, plums, pineapples and pears – all piled high in pewter platters set on head-height pillars. There’s even a ceiling curtain cascading from the enormous central chandelier. A string quartet is playing Mozart in one corner, and a group of waiters – who surely must be Ralph Lauren models, they’re that fit – are loading up silver trays with canapés in the other.

The whole yacht looks like an Italian Renaissance painting. On one wall, there’s even a giant mural of Botticelli’s The Birth Of Venus – I know, because I read up when Tom and I first got together. He’s a talented artist in his spare time, and I wanted to appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. And I can see where he gets it from now; I imagine he grew up surrounded by this stuff – a million miles away from the Take That poster I had pinned to the space beside my bed.

‘Ciao, mio bel figlio. Tom, daaahling, you made it!’ It’s Isabella, looking resplendent in a floor-grazing lemon lace Givenchy gown. And blimey, she’s even wearing a jewelled tiara on top of her immaculately coiffed jet-black hair. She loops her arm through Tom’s and immediately steers him away from me. I smile as he glances over his shoulder to mouth ‘sorry’ when Isabella refuses to let him go. She’s definitely not taking no for an answer; even when he tactfully tries to release his arm from her grasp, she grabs his hand instead and practically catapults him towards her guests. Poor Tom. He hates being cantered out like some kind of show pony.

‘What’s she come as? Queen of fucking everything!’

An arm circles my waist. I spin around – I’d recognise that outrageously acerbic voice anywhere.

Eddie!

Oh my God. We chat on the phone and Twitter all the time, but I haven’t actually seen Eddie, physically, in ages, and now he’s here, standing right in front of me and looking more like a superstar than ever. His dapper blond hair is now all messy quiff, and he’s wearing an exquisitely tailored charcoal grey Tom Ford suit. And on closer inspection he’s had a little lifting work around his sparkly blue-green eyes and his brows have definitely been manscaped. He looks fantastic. Flawless. And smells divine, too, of tropical summer holidays – coconut and citrus.

‘What are you doing here?’ I fling my arms around his neck and squeeze him tight. ‘God I’ve missed you. I thought you were in LA.’ Eddie is my other best friend and used to work at Carrington’s as Tom’s BA, or boy assistant – that was before he was ‘discovered’ on Kelly’s TV show and practically became a superstar overnight. He has his own chat show with a Saturday night primetime slot, and a reality series called Eddie: I Do It My Way, and lives between his villa in the Hollywood hills and a penthouse apartment overlooking Mulberry Marina. And he’s actually stayed at Simon Cowell’s house in America, as Simon’s personal guest! Doesn’t get much starrier than that.

‘Tom invited me – as a nice surprise for you,’ Eddie says, as we pull apart.

‘Aw, how lovely. He’s so thoughtful,’ I beam.

‘Ooh, he is – the quintessential gentleman. Delish too. Not as beautiful as my Ciaran, mind you, but still, a very close second.’ He nudges me.

‘How is Ciaran? Is he here?’ I scan the deck.

‘No, he’s looking after Pussy – you know what a diva that dog is, hates travelling and refuses to go in a crate, so Ciaran’s flown straight back to LA with her on his lap after she created the most almighty fuss when Claire dared to go near her.’ I laugh and shake my head. Pussy is Eddie’s fluffy white bichon frise, and thoroughly spoilt, so it’s hardly surprising. Claire is Eddie’s manager, Peter André’s too.

‘Straight back? What do you mean?’

‘Only a fleeting visit, petal. Filming starts on my second series tomorrow. We were in Ireland yesterday, at some windswept tiny town that time forgot …’ He rolls his eyes. ‘For Ciaran’s cousin’s wedding – Sinéad, Shona, Sorcha; something like that, anyway … I forget which one, he has that many … and I wasn’t even drinking.’ He waves a dismissive hand in the air and I smile, thinking, same old Eddie, as grandiose as ever, fame really hasn’t changed him one bit; he must be the only person I know who can go to a wedding and then claim not even to know the bride’s name the very next day. ‘Yes, it was a last-minute decision – we weren’t going to bother after the way his family shunned him when he finally leapt out of the closet. Anyone would think he’d tried to poke the Pope, the way they all carried on.’ Eddie pauses to pull a face while I wonder if perhaps it was just that they were a bit shocked. I mean, Ciaran did actually come out at his own wedding, to a woman, after all. It was all annulled quite swiftly, but still, his mother is practically on first-name terms with the Pope, so I can’t imagine it was easy for her. ‘But you know how Ciaran is for all that family stuff, and then when his Catholic guilt kicked in, I just couldn’t bear watching him perched on the proverbial spike doing all that hand-wringing, so we dashed to the airport and managed to get last-minute flights. Plus I needed to check on the apartment and then remembered Tom’s invite, so I thought, why not pop in and see my most fabulous bestie in the whole wide world. So, surprise surprise!’ Eddie bats a hand in the air. ‘But I haven’t got long, I have to check in for the return flight in like …’ he pulls back a sleeve to glance at his watch, ‘an hour!’

‘Oooh, get you. Jet-setter.’ I nudge him with my elbow.

‘I know. Fabulous, isn’t it? And see the group behind me …’ I glance over his shoulder, and a guy shaped like an American fridge-freezer stuffed into a black suit, with a curly plastic wire hanging from his ear, is lurking ominously nearby. And there’s a woman in leather skinnies and a floaty top who keeps checking her mobile phone and muttering something to a younger guy with an eager look on his face.

‘I see them.’

‘Meet my people!’ Eddie laughs.

‘You have people? Oh my God!’ I ponder for a second before adding, ‘Ed, do you actually need people?’ My forehead creases with curiosity.

‘Vital, darling! You can’t make it in Hollywood without an entourage.’

‘But what do they do?’

‘Well, Ross is security, natch … and a total leather queen! You’d never guess, would you?’ He makes big eyes, and I shake my head. ‘And Carly is my PA – the boy is her assistant.’

‘Wow! Your PA has a BA …’ Blimey, how things have changed. It feels like only yesterday that Eddie was Tom’s BA, bored and desperate to escape Mulberry-On-Sea for a mythical, seemingly unattainable world of stardom – or so it seemed back then. I shake my head, bemused but thrilled that Eddie is living his dream. I give him another hug.

‘So, how are you, sugar?’ he asks, letting me go – Eddie has never been big on prolonged displays of physical affection.

‘I’m very well, thanks. Life is wonderful for me too.’ I take two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, who looks as if he’s just stepped off the front page of GQ magazine, and hand one to Eddie.

‘Ooh, peachy! And I’m so happy for you, Georgie. Just one pesky fly in the ointment though …’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘What do you mean?’ I frown again.

‘Her highness over there.’ He flicks his eyes to the far end of the deck, where Isabella still has a vice-like grip on Tom’s arm. ‘Did she even acknowledge you from behind that surgically enhanced mask of hers?’

‘I think her gaze may have hovered on me momentarily,’ I smile magnanimously.

‘Darling, it’s called a bitchy resting face!’ Eddie plucks a canapé from another waiter’s tray and takes a big bite. I try not to smirk, just in case Isabella is watching, or Tom – he has no idea how Isabella makes me feel, and that’s the way I’d like to keep it. At least until I feel more relaxed around her … And then there won’t be an issue in any case – we’ll be best friends and everyone will be happy, especially Tom. I hope! Yeayy. Well, that’s the plan.

Sam arrives, looking exquisite in a crimson silk jumpsuit that flatters her tiny size six figure and perfectly frames her natural blonde corkscrew curls. She gives Eddie a hug before turning to me.

‘You look beautiful – no baby gunge in sight,’ I whisper in her ear as she engulfs me in a big Cavalli-fragranced cuddle. ‘How’s Holly doing after Yogurt-gate?’ I grin, hoping calm has now been restored.

Sam steps back to get a proper look at me.

‘Love the maxi-dress. But where’s Tom?’ she replies, swiftly sidestepping the yogurt enquiry. Oh well, maybe she just wants to put it behind her and enjoy the rare afternoon off.

‘Whisked away.’ I motion with my head towards the other end of the deck, where Tom is now getting his arm pumped and his back slapped by an older beer-bellied guy wearing a straw boater, navy blazer and pleated mustard-coloured corduroy trousers.

‘Ew, not up to your standards, honeypie.’ Eddie pulls a face and hands the rest of the canapé to Sam. She hesitates before popping it into her mouth, and then pulling a face too, in between chewing and swallowing as fast as she can.

‘Hmm, they should have come to Cupcakes At Carrington’s – we would have laid on a lavish feast compared to this manufactured mush,’ she manages, after rinsing her mouth with a generous swig of bubbles. ‘I’m going to find out who their supplier is – always good to keep one step ahead of the competition. Although, it does surprise me …’

‘What does?’ Eddie asks.

‘That they didn’t come to Carrington’s for the food! The store their son owns … Strange, isn’t it?’ And Sam heads off towards the catering area with a determined look on her face, leaving me to ponder on what she’s just said, because it’s true, it is strange. I wonder why they wouldn’t want to support him. And it is supposed to be a family store, after all …

‘Uh-oh. Here comes Her Majesty.’ Eddie elbows me. ‘Time for me to mingle.’ Isabella is heading straight towards us, closely followed by an entourage made up of the beer-bellied guy, a couple of men I recognise from the Carrington’s board and a woman with a static helmet hairdo, a sensible skirt suit and a very scary scowl.

‘Hey, don’t leave me to deal with her on my own.’ Panic darts through me.

‘Sorry, flower, I don’t do divas, unless it’s Pussy … or me! Tom will rescue you, I’m sure. Catch you later.’ He kisses my cheek and then disappears too, leaving me all alone. I scan the deck, looking for Tom, but can’t see him in the crowd. I brace myself and wonder what could possibly go wrong. Oh God.

Keen to keep a clear head, I surreptitiously place my flute on a nearby table. Calm with clarity, that’s me. I inhale hard through my nose before exhaling as Isabella and her entourage form a semicircle around me. My resolve withers only slightly.

‘Yes, that’s her.’ The beer-bellied guy pokes a finger at my chest, almost touching the fabric of my dress. Instinctively, I step back and rearrange my face into a smile. How rude!

‘Err, have we met?’

‘Only in my bedroom!’ he sniggers, making his shoulders pump up and down like he’s just told the funniest joke in the history of jokes, ever. And then quickly explains, ‘On the television,’ when the scowly woman gives him an extra-scowly look, if that’s even possible … which, by the looks of it, certainly is. Ooooh, scaareeee.

‘Geoooorgie,’ Isabella says in an extra-breathy voice as she steps forward to stand proprietorially by my side. ‘My dear, why did you lie?’

Whaaaat?

My heart immediately clamours inside my chest. Loudly – so loud I’m surprised someone hasn’t grabbed the crash kit that’s mounted neatly on the wall nearby. I rack my brain, desperate to fathom what she’s going on about. Lie? Sweet Jesus, I may have been economical with the details of my past, but an actual outright lie to my boyfriend’s mother who I’ve only met once before? I don’t think so. Or perhaps the jellybeantinis mushed my memory? Hmm … I swallow hard and smile, keen to ride it out.

‘Lie?’ I manage to squeak, suddenly wishing the Maplewood deck below my sandals would part and plunge me into the deep dark sea below – cold and wet, but definitely preferable to standing here while they all stare at the liar! And suddenly a ridiculous tune pops into my head – Liar liar, pants on fire. Oh God. Where the fuuuuuuck is Tom?

‘That’s right, my dear. Why didn’t you tell me you were famous?’

‘Um, well, I’m not exactly famous, not really, that happened quite a while ago now,’ I manage, practically shuddering with relief. Cringe. Maybe I should have mentioned Kelly’s TV show after all, but you’d have thought Isabella would have known all about it in any case. Kelly is her friend from university days. Isabella manages a half-smile and then actually loops her arm through mine before doing a weird kind of cuddly thing into me. Heeeelp. She’s being nice now, so why then do I still feel so edgy? I scan again … where is Tom?

‘Nonsense! Mr Dunwoody here says that you’re the nation’s sweetheart, and a columnist too; I’d say that’s a little more than being just a part-time shop girl. Sooo modest. You really should have told me, my dear.’ I open my mouth to speak, but Mr Dunwoody leaps in first.

‘Please. I may be the Member of Parliament for Mulberry-On-Sea, but no need to stand on ceremony.’ He puffs his beer-belly out a little further. ‘You can call me Dougie,’ he states, with an eager glint in his eye. Oh goody. After wiping a fleshy paw down the side of his cords, he offers it to me. Isabella drops my arm so I can shake Dougie’s hand. ‘And I was just saying that I need you.’

‘You do?’ I ask, raising one eyebrow while trying not to sound too sardonic.

‘That’s right. The town needs a high-profile person, someone in the public eye – I’d do it myself, but I’m not sure my constituents would thank me for it.’ He chuckles while I resist the urge to smirk. ‘No, my work is in Westminster! In London.’ Oh really. Like I didn’t know that already. I smile tightly. ‘But you would be perfect.’

‘Well I’m always happy to help if I can – what is it you’d like me to do?’ I ask tentatively, making sure I keep the smile in place while silently praying it isn’t something cringy or embarrassing: been there, done that, and on national television!

‘Help organise the Mulberry-On-Sea summer regatta, of course.’ It’s the scowly woman. ‘I’m Mr Dunwoody’s personal secretary,’ she says, fixing her beady eyes on me. Hmm, so you don’t have an actual name then …

‘Nice to meet you.’ I smile, but she doesn’t reciprocate.

One of the Carrington’s directors explains instead. ‘Georgie, Carrington’s are going to be sponsoring the summer regatta, in conjunction with the town council, the Mulberry Marina management company and the local radio station, Mulberry FM. It will be organised collaboratively by a number of retailers and community workers, together with the sponsors. Dougie asked if you could be involved, seeing as you grew up here, and you’re such a popular and well-known face in the town.’

‘Um, sure … and thank you.’ I feel flattered, and it sounds as if it might be fun.

‘We hoped you might help organise it on our behalf, be the face of Carrington’s? It’s such a fantastic opportunity for the whole community – to bring the town together, to have some fun, and for all of us retailers and local suppliers to make a bit of money too. It will really put Mulberry on the map if we can pull this off.’ He smiles and nods eagerly. ‘So, what do you say? Are you up for it? And it really would help with our expansion programme – to open a new store; help us to show how “community-spirited” the Carrington’s company is—’