The Beachside Sweetshop by Karen Clarke

Author:Karen Clarke [Clarke, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-78681-036-6
Publisher: Bookouture

Nineteen

‘Wow, Mar, you look great!’ said Phoebe, rising from her seat at the bar to give me a bear-hug. ‘I’m loving the denim jacket and the hair,’ she added, with a grin, though my cousin’s tawny curtain made mine look as if it had been styled by a tipsy chimp.

I’d texted her on impulse after work to see if she was free that evening, remembering she was going to be in Bournemouth visiting Uncle Cliff. She suggested we meet at The Anchor, a favourite haunt years ago, that had transformed from traditional spit ‘n’ sawdust to trendy pub and bistro.

‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ I said, though charcoal shadows cradled her hazel eyes, as if she’d not slept for a year.

‘I’m knackered,’ she confirmed, in her usual forthright way. ‘Burning the candle all the way through and forgetting to light it again.’

At the tender age of eighteen, Phoebe had been the first Appleton to move to London, and landed a job as a waitress in a Mexican restaurant, much to Uncle Cliff’s horror. He’d clawed at his hair, imagining all kinds of horrors befalling his beloved daughter; most of them involving drug cartels and the Mafia.

But when a fiery relationship with her manager ended, and he fled back to his native country, Phoebe ended up running the place. She brought in a new chef, a young and as yet unknown talent, and within a couple of years El Mirador was one of the most sought after restaurants in London, attracting celebrities from around the globe.

Phoebe invited Beth and me to stay once, and we spotted a tiny Kate Moss with some friends, drinking sparkling water and smoking a cigarette, and when Alex and I went there he swore he saw a Kardashian going into the ladies.

Since then, Phoebe had opened another, equally successful, restaurant in the city. I was in awe of her success, but it had come at a price. She hadn’t had a relationship in years, and her last visit to Shipley was to attend our grandfather’s funeral.

‘So what’s been happening in your life?’ I said when we’d collected our drinks and moved to the only available seating area – a leather-covered alcove next to a party of women celebrating a birthday, judging by the ‘Happy 40th’ balloons, and the empty cocktail glasses littering their table.

After bringing me up to date, making me laugh with her stories – one involving a cat-fight at El Mirador after a double booking between rival reality shows – we were halfway down our second bottle of red wine when she said, ‘I heard you were having some problems at the shop since winning that competition.’

‘How did you know?’ I said, shrugging off my jacket and getting comfy – though someone had been at the seat with Mr Sheen and I kept sliding forward.

‘Celia keeps Dad and my brothers informed, and they let me know.’ She showed me her iPhone. ‘We have a WhatsApp group called Family Matters.’

‘Sensible,’ I said. ‘You probably know more than I do about what I’m up to.

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