Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 47
‘Cor,’ said Rosie, ‘it’s very perky round here. No wonder everyone is miserable and sick, staring at those half the morning.’
‘Hmm,’ said Moray. ‘So you don’t think there’d be any conflict of interest in us stocking your leaflets?’
‘But these are just sweeties!’ said Rosie. ‘They’re not made of scary trans-fats. We don’t have to give away free toys to get the kids coming back. They’re just sweets! A treat, not their bloomin’ breakfast!’
‘Can I give you a bit of advice?’ said Moray. ‘Don’t go into …’
‘Mr Blaine’ said Rosie. ‘I know. I’ve met him.’
‘If I wasn’t a medical professional, I’d say keep out of his way altogether.’
‘Look,’ said Rosie, taking out her pen. ‘What about this?’
On the bottom of a leaflet she quickly scribbled, And don’t forget to eat your five fruit and veg a day too!
‘That’s like people who tell you to drink whisky responsibly,’ said Moray. ‘You do have to wonder if someone isn’t taking the piss.’
‘Well, I think you’re very not helpful towards a local enterprise,’ said Rosie. ‘And, you know, if the business works well it will be good for the town economically and, as everyone knows, the better off everyone is, the better their health is. So actually it would be making Lipton healthier, if anything.’
‘You’re wasted in sweets,’ said Moray, ‘when you should really be in epidemiology.’
‘Yeah,’ said Rosie.
‘Well,’ said Moray. ‘I might take a few, with your fruit and veg waiver, thank you. If you do something for me.’
‘Is it what I think it is?’ said Rosie, with a twitch of an eyebrow.
‘No,’ said Moray. ‘It’s to go see Stephen Lakeman again. You’re the only one who seems to be able to get any sense into him.’
‘That is exactly what I thought it was,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh, was it?’ said Moray, looking momentarily guilty. ‘Uhm, yes. I mean. Obviously. Great.’
Rosie felt bold enough, in the end, to cycle up the hill to Peak House by herself. She figured it would be just what she needed to counteract the effects of the stodgy meals – including roast pork with crackling and apple sauce, which she had guessed, correctly, that Lilian would be unable to resist. Being here was actually helping her cooking skills. Gerard’s favourite home-cooked meal was pasta with supermarket tomato sauce ‘with no bits’.
Roads that zipped by in a Land Rover went on for bloody ages at ridiculously steep angles. Why on earth people lived so far out of the way, Rosie couldn’t imagine. Her rucksack weighed a ton on her back, she got a stone in her shoe and was cursing for once not the rain but a hot summer day that made her striped T-shirt cling to her back.
Finally, and in a thoroughly grumpy mood, thinking it probably wasn’t worth all this effort to deal with someone stonewalling her and being rude for twenty minutes, she dismounted, stiff and saddle-sore, outside the back door.
Maybe, she thought. Maybe this time he’d be pleased to see her. Drop the hostility. Maybe he’d realise he needed someone like her. And maybe pigs would fly.
Rosie rapped loudly on the kitchen door, then marched in before he had the chance to tell her to go away.
‘Meals on Wheels,’ she announced. There he was, still in that same seat at that same table. It beggared belief that he was still there, in the same spot, after all that time.
‘Are you still here?’ she asked, trying to keep the horror out of her voice.
‘No,’ came the clipped tones. ‘Obviously I took some time off to test-drive my new rocket. Then there was the Wimbledon eventing. And I spent a pretty wild weekend in Ibiza.’
‘You’re becoming one of those shut-ins,’ said Rosie. ‘Next time I come here you’ll have sixty-seven cats.’
‘Next time,’ said Stephen. ‘Be still, my overexcited heart.’
But she could see him eyeing her bag.
‘What’s in there?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ said Rosie, unpacking pork chops, half-roasted potatoes, homemade apple sauce and red cabbage on the table between them, as well as half a pound of butter fudge and a large packet of dolly mixtures. They regarded each other.
‘The NHS is a lot more caring than I remember it,’ said Stephen.
‘This isn’t about the NHS,’ said Rosie. ‘This is about me trying to bribe people to come to my sweetshop.’
Stephen looked completely bemused as Rosie turned on the oven.
‘Oh yes?’
‘I thought you got all the gossip from Mrs Laird?’ said Rosie.
‘Well, she talks, I’m not saying I listen.’
‘My lovely sweetshop … I mean, Great-aunt Lilian’s lovely sweetshop is having its grand reopening ceremony … tomorrow.’ She showed Stephen her leaflets. ‘Why don’t you come?’
Stephen grimaced.
‘Thanks for that. Afterwards, maybe I could do some basket weaving and art therapy?’
Rosie gave him a look.
‘No. You could eat a lolly, like normal people.’
‘Thank you for lumping me in with the normal people,’ said Stephen.
‘Ha, you’d hate that,’ said Rosie. ‘You’d hate being one of the normal people.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Stephen mildly, but with real hurt in his voice. Rosie loaded up the surprisingly clean grill pan, and set the potatoes in the oven to finish cooking. Already they smelled wonderful.
‘To what do I owe this munificence?’ said Stephen. ‘Is Moray trying to poison me?’
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘Maybe yes. No, I don’t think so. But there is a snag.’
‘I thought there might be.’
‘You have to let me change the dressing.’
The light went straight out of Stephen’s eyes.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I do that myself.’
‘God,’ said Rosie, ‘I’m surprised you’re not dead of blood poisoning.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Stephen.
‘If it were fine,’ said Rosie, ‘you’d be out in the garden, or climbing the stairs, or going to the gym, or seeing your friends or chatting up some girl or boy or going back to work … Stephen, where’s your family?’
‘Hmm,’ said Moray. ‘So you don’t think there’d be any conflict of interest in us stocking your leaflets?’
‘But these are just sweeties!’ said Rosie. ‘They’re not made of scary trans-fats. We don’t have to give away free toys to get the kids coming back. They’re just sweets! A treat, not their bloomin’ breakfast!’
‘Can I give you a bit of advice?’ said Moray. ‘Don’t go into …’
‘Mr Blaine’ said Rosie. ‘I know. I’ve met him.’
‘If I wasn’t a medical professional, I’d say keep out of his way altogether.’
‘Look,’ said Rosie, taking out her pen. ‘What about this?’
On the bottom of a leaflet she quickly scribbled, And don’t forget to eat your five fruit and veg a day too!
‘That’s like people who tell you to drink whisky responsibly,’ said Moray. ‘You do have to wonder if someone isn’t taking the piss.’
‘Well, I think you’re very not helpful towards a local enterprise,’ said Rosie. ‘And, you know, if the business works well it will be good for the town economically and, as everyone knows, the better off everyone is, the better their health is. So actually it would be making Lipton healthier, if anything.’
‘You’re wasted in sweets,’ said Moray, ‘when you should really be in epidemiology.’
‘Yeah,’ said Rosie.
‘Well,’ said Moray. ‘I might take a few, with your fruit and veg waiver, thank you. If you do something for me.’
‘Is it what I think it is?’ said Rosie, with a twitch of an eyebrow.
‘No,’ said Moray. ‘It’s to go see Stephen Lakeman again. You’re the only one who seems to be able to get any sense into him.’
‘That is exactly what I thought it was,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh, was it?’ said Moray, looking momentarily guilty. ‘Uhm, yes. I mean. Obviously. Great.’
Rosie felt bold enough, in the end, to cycle up the hill to Peak House by herself. She figured it would be just what she needed to counteract the effects of the stodgy meals – including roast pork with crackling and apple sauce, which she had guessed, correctly, that Lilian would be unable to resist. Being here was actually helping her cooking skills. Gerard’s favourite home-cooked meal was pasta with supermarket tomato sauce ‘with no bits’.
Roads that zipped by in a Land Rover went on for bloody ages at ridiculously steep angles. Why on earth people lived so far out of the way, Rosie couldn’t imagine. Her rucksack weighed a ton on her back, she got a stone in her shoe and was cursing for once not the rain but a hot summer day that made her striped T-shirt cling to her back.
Finally, and in a thoroughly grumpy mood, thinking it probably wasn’t worth all this effort to deal with someone stonewalling her and being rude for twenty minutes, she dismounted, stiff and saddle-sore, outside the back door.
Maybe, she thought. Maybe this time he’d be pleased to see her. Drop the hostility. Maybe he’d realise he needed someone like her. And maybe pigs would fly.
Rosie rapped loudly on the kitchen door, then marched in before he had the chance to tell her to go away.
‘Meals on Wheels,’ she announced. There he was, still in that same seat at that same table. It beggared belief that he was still there, in the same spot, after all that time.
‘Are you still here?’ she asked, trying to keep the horror out of her voice.
‘No,’ came the clipped tones. ‘Obviously I took some time off to test-drive my new rocket. Then there was the Wimbledon eventing. And I spent a pretty wild weekend in Ibiza.’
‘You’re becoming one of those shut-ins,’ said Rosie. ‘Next time I come here you’ll have sixty-seven cats.’
‘Next time,’ said Stephen. ‘Be still, my overexcited heart.’
But she could see him eyeing her bag.
‘What’s in there?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ said Rosie, unpacking pork chops, half-roasted potatoes, homemade apple sauce and red cabbage on the table between them, as well as half a pound of butter fudge and a large packet of dolly mixtures. They regarded each other.
‘The NHS is a lot more caring than I remember it,’ said Stephen.
‘This isn’t about the NHS,’ said Rosie. ‘This is about me trying to bribe people to come to my sweetshop.’
Stephen looked completely bemused as Rosie turned on the oven.
‘Oh yes?’
‘I thought you got all the gossip from Mrs Laird?’ said Rosie.
‘Well, she talks, I’m not saying I listen.’
‘My lovely sweetshop … I mean, Great-aunt Lilian’s lovely sweetshop is having its grand reopening ceremony … tomorrow.’ She showed Stephen her leaflets. ‘Why don’t you come?’
Stephen grimaced.
‘Thanks for that. Afterwards, maybe I could do some basket weaving and art therapy?’
Rosie gave him a look.
‘No. You could eat a lolly, like normal people.’
‘Thank you for lumping me in with the normal people,’ said Stephen.
‘Ha, you’d hate that,’ said Rosie. ‘You’d hate being one of the normal people.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Stephen mildly, but with real hurt in his voice. Rosie loaded up the surprisingly clean grill pan, and set the potatoes in the oven to finish cooking. Already they smelled wonderful.
‘To what do I owe this munificence?’ said Stephen. ‘Is Moray trying to poison me?’
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘Maybe yes. No, I don’t think so. But there is a snag.’
‘I thought there might be.’
‘You have to let me change the dressing.’
The light went straight out of Stephen’s eyes.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I do that myself.’
‘God,’ said Rosie, ‘I’m surprised you’re not dead of blood poisoning.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Stephen.
‘If it were fine,’ said Rosie, ‘you’d be out in the garden, or climbing the stairs, or going to the gym, or seeing your friends or chatting up some girl or boy or going back to work … Stephen, where’s your family?’
