Alexandra Brown - Ice Creams at Carrington’s

‘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—’

‘What a fantastic idea.’ As if by magic, Tom appears with his dad, Vaughan, following close behind – a tall, robust, bear of man, with a crumpled cream linen suit and a weather-beaten face. ‘Georgie is an excellent organiser, a good team player, and she certainly knows how to look after people. She’s an expert when it comes to customer service. And all our regular customers adore her,’ Tom says, smiling proudly before taking my hand in his and giving it a big squeeze. Vaughan nods heartily in agreement. My heart melts, but the feeling quickly evaporates when I spot Isabella in my peripheral vision – she’s pursing her lips and gazing majestically into the middle distance. What is her problem? One minute she’s schmoozing me, the next she clearly hates me.