Shopaholic And Sister Part 38

5 jun 03 16:54 to Becky from SuzeBex. Sorry I missed u. Why aren't u answering the phone? Had disastrous day at picnic. We all got stung by wasps. I miss u. Am coming to London to visit. Call me.Suzex.x.xx 6 jun 03 10:02 to Becky from SuzeHi, Bex, I'm here. Where RU? Please call!!!!Suzex 6 jun 03 2:36 to Becky from SuzeBex. Where RU????????????????Suzex.x.xx

Eighteen

I DON'T SLEEP well.

In fact, I'm not sure I sleep at all. I seem to have spent the whole night staring at the uneven ceiling of Edie's B&B, my mind going round and round in circles. Except I must have slept for a bit, because when I wake up in the morning my head is full of a terrible dream where I turned into Alicia b.i.t.c.h Long-legs. I was wearing a pink suit and laughing with a horrible sneer and Jess was looking all pale and crushed. In fact, now that I think about it, Jess looked a bit like me.

Just the thought of it makes me queasy. I have to do something about this.

I'm not hungry, but Edie has cooked a full English breakfast and doesn't seem impressed when I say I normally have just a piece of toast. So I nibble at some bacon and eggs and pretend to have a go at the black pudding, all the while avoiding the attempts at conversation by a kindly German couple on holiday. After a final sip of coffee I leave to find Jess.

As I head up the hill to her house, the morning sun is in my eyes, and a cool wind blows through my hair. Across the green I can see Jim outside his store, unloading crates of apples from a delivery truck, and he lifts his hand in greeting. I wave back, my spirits lifted. This feels like a day for reconciliations. Fresh starts and clean slates.

I approach the all-too-familiar brown front door, ring the bell, and wait.

There's no reply.

OK, I am really tired of people not being in when I want to have emotional reunions with them. I squint up at the windows, wondering whether she might be hiding. Maybe I should throw some stones up at the windowpanes.

Except what if I broke one? Then she'd really hate me.

I ring the bell a few more times, then give up and walk back down the path. I sit on a piece of wall and settle myself comfortably. This is fine. It's a lovely day. I'll just wait, and when she arrives back home I'll spring up with a speech about how sorry I am.

The wall isn't quite as comfortable as I first thought, and I s.h.i.+ft a few times, trying to find a good position. I check the time, then watch an old lady and her little dog walk slowly along the pavement on the other side of the road.

Then I check the time again. Five minutes have gone by.

G.o.d, how on earth do stalkers do it? They must get bored out of their minds.

I get up to stretch my legs and walk up to Jess's house again. I ring the bell, just to be on the safe side, then meander back to the wall again. As I do so, I see a policeman coming up the street toward me. What's a policeman doing here, out on this little street at ten o'clock in the morning? I thought they were all tied to their desks by paperwork or zooming around inner cities in squad cars.

I feel a bit apprehensive as I see that he's looking directly at me. But I'm not doing anything wrong, am I? I mean, it's not like stalking is against the law.

Oh. Well, OK, maybe stalking is against the law. But I've only been doing it for five minutes. Surely that doesn't count. And anyway, how does he know I'm stalking anyone? I might just be sitting here for pleasure.

"All right?" he says as he approaches.

"Fine, thanks!"

He looks at me expectantly.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

"Could you move along, miss? This isn't a public seat."

"Why should I?" I say boldly. "That's what is wrong with this country! Anyone who doesn't conform is persecuted! Why shouldn't you be able to sit on a wall without being hara.s.sed?"

"That's my wall," he says, and gestures to the front door. "This is my house."

"Oh, right." I flush red and leap to my feet. "I was just . . . er . . . going. Thanks! Really nice wall!"

OK. Stalking over. I'll have to come back later.

I trail down the hill to the village green, and find myself turning toward the shop. As I enter, Kelly is sitting behind the till with a copy of Elle, and Jim is arranging apples on the display rack.

"I went to see Jess," I say morosely. "But she wasn't there. I'll have to wait till she comes back."

"Shall I read out your horoscope?" says Kelly. "See if it says anything about sisters?"

"Now, young lady," says Jim reprovingly. "You're supposed to be revising for your exams. If you're not working, you can go and wait at the tea shop."

"No!" says Kelly hastily. "I'm revising!" She pulls a face at me, then puts Elle down and reaches for a book called Elementary Algebra.

G.o.d, algebra. I'd totally forgotten that existed. Maybe I'm quite glad I'm not thirteen anymore.

I need a sugar rush, so I head toward the biscuit section and grab some chocolate digestives and Orange Club biscuits. Then I drift over to the stationery shelf. You can never have too much stationery, so I pick up a packet of thumbtacks in the shape of sheep, which will always come in useful. And I might as well get the matching stapler and folders.

"All right there?" says Jim, eyeing my full arms.

"Yes, thanks!"

I take my goodies over to the till, where Kelly rings them up.

"D'you want a cup of tea?" she says.

"Oh, no, thanks." I say politely. "I couldn't intrude. I'd get in the way."

"Get in the way of what?" she retorts. "n.o.body'll be in until four, when the bread comes down. And you can test me on my French vocab."

"Oh, well." I brighten. "If I'd be useful . . ."

Three hours later I'm still there. I've had three cups of tea, about half a packet of chocolate digestives, and an apple, and I've stocked up on a few more presents for people at home, like a set of toby jugs and some place mats, which everyone needs. Plus I've been helping Kelly with her work. Except now we've progressed from algebra and French vocab revision to Kelly's outfit for the school disco. We've got every single magazine open, and I've made her up with each eye different, just to show her what the possibilities are. One side is really dramatic, all smoky shadow and a spare false eyelash I found in my makeup bag; the other is all silvery and sixties, with white s.p.a.ce-age mascara.

"Don't let your mother see you like that," is all Jim keeps saying as he walks by.

"If only I had my hairpieces," I say, studying Kelly's face critically. "I could give you the most fantastic ponytail."

"I look amazing!" Kelly's goggling at herself in the mirror.

"You've got wonderful cheekbones," I tell her, and dust s.h.i.+mmery powder onto them.

"This is so much fun!" Kelly looks at me, eyes s.h.i.+ning. "G.o.d, I wish you lived here, Becky! We could do this every day!"

She looks so excited, I feel ridiculously touched.

"Well . . . you know," I say. "Maybe I'll visit again. If I patch things up with Jess."

But even at the thought of Jess, my insides kind of crumble. The more time goes by, the more nervous I am at seeing her again.

"I wanted to do makeovers like this with Jess," I add, a bit wistfully. "But she wasn't interested."

"Well, then, she's dumb," says Kelly.

"She's not. She's . . . she likes different things."

"She's a p.r.i.c.kly character," Jim puts in, walking by with some bottles of cherryade. "It's hard to credit you two are sisters." He dumps the bottles down and wipes his brow. "Maybe it's in the upbringing. Jess had it pretty hard going."

"Do you know her family, then?" I ask.

"Aye." He nods. "Not well, but I know them. I've had dealings with Jess's dad. He owns Bertram Foods. Lives over in Nailbury. Five miles away."

Suddenly I'm burning all over with curiosity. Jess has barely told me a word about her family, despite my subtle probing.

"So . . . what are they like?" I say, as casually as I can. "Her family."

"Like I say, she's had a pretty hard time. Her mum died when she was fifteen. That's a difficult age for a girl."

"I never knew that!" Kelly's eyes widen.

"And her dad . . ." Jim leans pensively on the counter. "He's a good man. A fair man. Very successful. He built up Bertram Foods from nothing, through hard work. But he's not what you'd call . . . warm. He was always as tough on Jess as he was on her brothers. Expected them to fend for themselves. I remember Jess when she started big school. She got into the high school over in Carlisle. Very academic."

"I tried for that school," says Kelly to me, pulling a face. "But I didn't get in."

"She's a clever girl, that Jess," says Jim admiringly. "But she had to catch three buses every morning to get there. I used to drive past on my way here-and I'll remember the sight till I die. The early-morning mist, no one else about, and Jess standing at the bus stop with her big schoolbag. She wasn't the big, strong la.s.s she is now. She was a skinny little thing."

I can't quite find a reply. I'm thinking about how Mum and Dad used to take me to school by car every day. Even though it was only a mile away.

"They must be rich," says Kelly, rooting around in my makeup bag. "If they own Bertram Foods. We get all our frozen pies from them," she adds to me. "And ice cream. They've a huge catalog!"

"Oh, they're well off," says Jim. "But they've always been close with their money." He rips open a cardboard box of Cup-a-Soups and starts stacking them on a shelf. "Bill Bertram used to boast about it. How all his kids worked for their pocket money." He straightens a bundle of chicken and mushroom sachets on the shelf. "And if they couldn't afford a school trip or whatever . . . they didn't go. Simple as that."

"School trips?" I can't get my head round this. "But everyone knows parents pay for school trips!"

"Not the Bertrams. He wanted to teach them the value of money. There was a story going around one year that one of the Bertram boys was the only kid in school not to go to the pantomime. He didn't have the money and his dad wouldn't bail him out." Jim resumes stacking the soups. "I don't know if that was true. But it wouldn't surprise me." He gives Kelly a mock-severe look. "You don't know you're born, young lady. You've got the easy life!"

"I do ch.o.r.es!" retorts Kelly at once. "Look! I'm helping out here, aren't I?"

She reaches for some chewing gum from the sweets counter and unwraps it, then turns to me. "Now I'll do you, Becky!" She riffles in my makeup bag. "Have you got any bronzer?"

"Er . . . yes," I say, distracted. "Somewhere."

I'm still thinking about Jess standing at the bus stop, all little and skinny.

Jim is squas.h.i.+ng the empty Cup-a-Soup box down flat. He turns and gives me an appraising look.

"Don't worry, love. You'll make up with Jess."

"Maybe." I try to smile.

"You're sisters. You're family. Family always pull through for each other." He glances out the window. "Ay-up. They're gathering early today."

I follow his gaze, and see two old ladies hovering outside the shop. One of them squints at the bread display, then turns and shakes her head at the other.

"Does n.o.body buy bread full price?" I say.

"Not in this village," says Jim. "Except the tourists. But we don't get so many of those. It's mostly climbers who want to have a go at Scully Pike-and they don't have much call for bread. Only emergency services."

"How d'you mean?" I say, puzzled.

"When the stupid b.u.g.g.e.rs get stuck." Jim shrugs and reaches for the half-price sign. "No matter. I've got to thinking of bread as a loss leader, like."

"But it's so yummy when it's all fresh and new!" I say, looking along the rows of plump loaves. Suddenly I feel really sorry for them, like they haven't been asked to dance. "I'll buy some. Full price," I add firmly.

"I'm about to reduce it," Jim points out.

"I don't care. I'll have two big white ones and a brown one." I march over to the bread display and pluck the loaves off the shelf.

"What are you going to do with all that bread?" says Kelly.

"Dunno. Make toast." I hand Kelly some pound coins and she pops the three loaves into a bag, giggling.

"Jess is right, you are mad," she says. "Shall I do your eyes now? What look do you want?"

"Customers'll be coming in," warns Jim. "I'm about to put the sign up."

"I'll just do one eye," says Kelly, quickly reaching for a palette of eye shadows. "Then when they've all gone, I'll do the other one. Close your eyes, Becky."

She starts to brush eye shadow onto my eyelid, and I close my eyes, enjoying the brus.h.i.+ng, tickling sensation. I've always adored having my makeup done.

"OK," she says. "Now I'm doing some eyeliner. Keep still. . . ."

"Sign's going up now," comes Jim's voice. There's a pause-then I hear the familiar tinkling sound, and the bustle of people coming in.

"Er . . . don't open your eyes yet, Becky." Kelly sounds a bit alarmed. "I'm not sure if this has gone right. . . ."

"Let me see!"