Read Ice Creams at Carrington’s Online

Authors: Alexandra Brown

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Romance

Ice Creams at Carrington’s (8 page)

BOOK: Ice Creams at Carrington’s
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‘Oooh, yes please, I’d love to,’ I smile, feeling relieved to be chatting about something else. Not that anything ever happened between Dan and me. He’s a really lovely guy, hot and cool in a cowboy-kind-of-way. All leather jeans, checked shirt and guitar slung casually over his shoulder. Very Gunnar Scott in
Nashville
. We just had a bit of fun; it was never going to be anything more. I was already in love with Tom by then … even if we weren’t properly together.

‘That’s sorted then—’ Cher starts, before Meredith coughs impatiently.

‘Err, excuse me,
ladies
! We do have a very tight schedule to get through, so if you can organise drinking sessions in your own time, please.’ Meredith does a sarcastic smile. I inhale sharply and let out a long breath, as if to clear my head, thinking, what is her problem? She clearly hates Carrington’s, and me, but what I want to know is, why? She got sacked years ago and has obviously moved on into a good job, so why is she still so bitter? ‘So, before we wrap up, are there any more ideas?’

‘Yes, I have a few.’ After grabbing another notepad from my bag, I flick open the cover. ‘I made a list,’ I explain, waving the pad around like a looper and wondering if I should quickly power up my iPad mini – I’ve made a Pinterest board too, titled ‘Carrington’s Regatta’, and found loads of brilliant nautical-slash-festival-slash-summer-slash-ice cream-slash-carousel-slash-cake-themed pictures to really get us in the mood. I could pass the iPad around so everyone can see … But on clocking Meredith’s glazed look, I push the iPad back inside my bag and will my cheeks to stop flaming. I get on with just reading out the ideas instead. I’ll save Pinterest for another time – doesn’t hurt to have a ‘double debut’, as it were.

‘OK, here goes.’ I clear my throat and Cher nudges me gently with encouragement. ‘We could have food stalls selling a variety of delicious delights.’ I pause to see if I’m on the right lines, but nobody says a word. I’m just about to carry on when someone pipes up, ‘As long as the fancy stuff is well away from my burger vans.’ It’s a man with a bandana around his head.

‘Err …’ I start.

‘Yes, don’t worry. We’ll draw up a map of who goes where,’ Meredith huffs impatiently, and then motions for me to continue.

‘And a selection of cakes from Cupcakes At Carrington’s. My best friend Sam owns the café and her cakes are legendary – people travel from all over for them, so they’re bound to be a huge hit.’ Silence follows. Perhaps I’ve got it wrong, and they’d prefer more of a ‘village fete’ event after all – guess the weight of the homemade cake, that kind of thing, to go with the welly throwing. Only, I’m not sure my customers will get excited by that, and I have to do my best for Carrington’s. It’s the reason I’m here, after all, plus I can’t imagine Isabella being impressed by a small-town fete, not when she’s used to commissioning Botticelli murals just for an afternoon soirée. Tom told me later that the yacht is usually adorned in framed watercolours, but Isabella fancied a change, so a team of interior designers were flown in from Milan to carry out the temporary transformation. Botticelli has since been whitewashed over and the framed prints put back in place. So, no no no! We must up our game.

‘I had afternoon tea in the Carrington’s café,’ someone eventually says. ‘And it was actually very nice.’
Fab.
I beam. ‘A bit on the pricey side, though!’ Hmm, and my smile fades.

‘But worth it if the cakes are as good as Georgie says,’ Cher chips in, and I want to hug her.

‘Exactly. And we can have lots of cake stalls dotted around town to suit all budgets,’ I say, ‘and there are loads of cafés and cake places in Mulberry, so everyone will have a chance to get involved if they want to.’

‘It’s a good idea, but don’t canopies cost a fortune to hire? Being a start-up, we just don’t have the money, and it’ll be sweltering without any shade.’ Ahh, it’s the woman from the new bakery. I smile and she smiles back.

‘Carrington’s can help – provide canopies, or how about a number of food marquees big enough for several stallholders to share? I’m sure the visitors and tourists on the day will welcome the shade, too, while they peruse all the delicious food on offer,’ I grin, remembering the email I got earlier from the board saying that they’ve already done a deal with a local marquee hire company for this exact reason. So everyone wins – the hire company, the local food suppliers and Carrington’s – which in return for covering the hire cost will have the store logo on a select few canopies (having it on all of them would just be ridiculous and defeat the purpose of this being a whole community endeavour – something Carrington’s is keen to be seen to be supporting). And it wasn’t that long ago that Carrington’s was struggling and very nearly went under. If it hadn’t been for the loyalty of the local community – coming in store to buy school uniforms, a special birthday present, treating themselves to afternoon tea in Sam’s café or a pedicure in the spa, then we most definitely wouldn’t have made it. It all adds up. It’s thanks to them that we’re now in a position to support others who might still be struggling in this economical climate.

‘I’m definitely in,’ the woman from the bakery beams, and a few other people all smile and nod in agreement.

‘Fab. And I thought perhaps a mini-film festival,’ I move on. Meredith sniffs with disapproval – I take a deep breath; I can sort of understand why she might be a bit down on Carrington’s, but it’s not my fault she got caught out,
in flagrante
as it were, with the Heff. ‘And old-fashioned pop-up ice-cream vendors.’

‘Ooh, that sounds lovely. I can picture it now, all candy-striped awnings and swirly Mr Whippy cones with sprinkles on top,’ Cher says, nudging me again.

‘Yes, that would be brilliant, and we could even have a special limited-edition Mulberry Regatta ice-cream flavour made – you know, like …’ I pause to catch my breath. ‘Of course, this is just off the top of my head – cinnamon, mulberries and cream for example,’ I say, feeling excited now, and if I’m not mistaken, a little buzz reverberates around the room. ‘And I was thinking a fleet of ice-cream vans would be good – the old-fashioned ones that chime tunes like “Greensleeves”.’ Cher nods and, feeling more relaxed, I add, ‘You know, my mum used to say the chime meant they’d run out of lollies …’

‘Mine too!’ Cher laughs. ‘Not for our regatta though, eh? We’ll make sure of it.’ She winks at me conspiratorially. Grinning, I carry on.

‘We could have them dotted all around Mulberry, and lining the route to the marina perhaps, like a welcoming party so people can buy an ice cream plus pick up a programme,’ I say, getting into the swing of things now.

‘Yes, good idea.’ It’s Matt from the council. ‘And that would save us having to draft in students from Mulberry College to stand around trying to flog the programmes. That’s what we usually do for our other major event – the switching on of the Christmas lights – but it’s not ideal as last time one of the environmental health officers found a big pile of programmes dumped in the bushes up on Mulberry Common.’ A tutting sound reverberates around the room, but at least they’re all getting involved now. I keep going.

‘And in line with the retro theme, I thought a carousel would be cool, like the ones you get at the funfair. And, last but not least, a guided tour of Carrington’s underground tunnels.’ An ultra-ominous silence follows this time. Oh God, I’ve lost them now.

‘Well, that’s quite a list. Is anyone interested in working with Georgie?’ Meredith asks the room, and I’m sure I spot a glint in her eye.

‘I would, love, but I reckon I’ll have my hands full with the music festival,’ Cher says, apologetically.

‘Me too. Sorry Georgie,’ Jared chips in.

‘And I’d like to do the donkey rides,’ someone else adds, and then, in turn, they each allocate themselves to the various ideas, all except mine.

‘Oh dear, looks like you’re on your own in that case,’ Meredith says. I gulp.
Whaaaat?
Surely she doesn’t think I can do everything by myself? I swivel around, desperate for volunteers.

‘We’ll do the film festival.’ A man in full combat gear stands up. ‘My staff will assume responsibility for this one,’ he adds, practically clicking his heels to attention.

‘Oh that would be fab, thanks so much.’ Relieved, I grin at the guy, and he nods as if to formally seal the deal.

‘Well, I guess it makes sense, seeing as you own the television shop,’ Meredith says quickly, desperate to claw back control.

‘That’s right. Mulberry Sound and Vision. We sell everything from home cinema systems to car audio equipment, and we have a specialist covert and surveillance department on the first floor,’ commando man corrects, and there’s definitely a hint of frostiness in his voice. Ha! So he’s got the cut of Meredith then. Good, maybe he can hunt her down when he’s next out on manoeuvres – or whatever it is he does dressed up in that gear. He even has a pouch on his belt, which I’m guessing real soldiers use for storing grenades – his has a mobile phone inside.

‘Yes, yes of course,’ Meredith mutters. ‘So, that’s settled then. Everyone know what they’ve taken responsibility for?’ She does a cursory glance around the room before snapping her clipboard shut. ‘Good, because I for one am parched. See you all next time – details will be emailed out. And do come with project plans – supplier names, costs and itineraries, that kind of thing, so we can go through them and get everything approved with the various authorities.’

Matt jumps up and turns to face us all. ‘Before you all go – I’ve invited representatives from the emergency services, health and safety, traffic control, etc., to join our next meeting, so if you have any queries you’ll have a chance to ask questions or get clarification. And then we can all get cracking on making Mulberry’s first regatta a resounding success.’

‘Right you are – no time to waste. Cheerio!’ And with that, Meredith leaves the stage, pulls on her plum-coloured fleece and marches from the room with her clipboard tucked firmly under her arm.

Blimey, so it looks like I’m organising the Carrington’s tunnel tour, the ice-cream vans, and the food stalls then! Well, I’m going to need some help if I’m to pull this off – the regatta will be here in no time at all. I wonder if some of the other staff would like to help out – we could be hashtag Team Carrington’s
,
as Betty would say. She’ll help out, of course, and I reckon Annie will be interested, especially when she hears that Dan Kilby is headlining, and he’s bound to say yes, I just know he will. I could put a notice up in the staff room, asking for volunteers. I’ll head it up with #TeamCarringtons Needs You – it sounds more professional, and it has to be worth a go. But, hold on, what about the carousel? Oh my God, where on earth does one get a carousel? I quickly pull out a pad, write ‘CAROUSEL’ in big red capital letters, and underline it four times, before rummaging around inside my bag for the turquoise highlighter.

6

T
he fresh zest of orange mingled with warm sweet honey greets me as I push open the door to Sam’s café, on the fifth floor of Carrington’s. It’s my day off, so I thought I’d pop in to see how she is before meeting up with Tom later for lunch.

‘Hey, this is a nice surprise, how are you?’ Sam pops her head out from inside the kitchen. After wiping her hands on a navy-striped apron, she lifts the hatch in the counter and dashes through to give me a huge hug.

‘I’m fine thanks, getting busy with the regatta plans – but, more importantly, how are you?’

‘Knackered, for a change.’ She shrugs. ‘But come on, let’s get a booth; I could do with a break and a bit of a gossip. I’ve got half an hour before I have to collect the girls from the crèche and then take them to a play date before their baby ballet class later on … it’s a full-time job in itself trying to keep up with their hectic social life.’

‘Lovely.’ I wonder now if I should have volunteered Sam for a stall at the regatta; seems she has enough on her plate without more work from me. What on earth was I thinking? Sam beckons Stacey, one of the waitresses, over.

‘Would you mind bringing us two hot chocolates slathered in squirty cream and marshmallows, and a plate piled high with cakes please, Stace?’

‘Coming right up,’ she says, cheerfully.

‘Thank you, I really need a sugar hit,’ Sam groans, and Stacey turns to me.

‘I’ve been telling her all week to take it easy, but will she listen? Can you please talk some sense in to your friend?’ Stacey shakes her head and gives Sam’s shoulder a quick squeeze, before picking up a pair of giant silver tongs and heading over to a glass display cabinet which is full of creamy peaked cakes all lined up in rows. Sam rolls her eyes before looping her arm through mine.

‘I sure will,’ I call after Stacey. I knew it! What was I thinking? I’ll just tell the regatta committee that Sam has another huge event to cater for, a wedding or something – perfectly plausible with it being summertime, the wedding season, after all.

Sam and I make our way over to the best booth in the corner at the far end of the café – perfect for chatting and keeping an eye out to see who is coming or going. We flop down into the reclaimed crimson red velvet train seats; they’re arranged in booths of four around low tables, with frilly shaded lamps that radiate a golden glow to create an authentic steam-train-carriage atmosphere. It’s just like being aboard the Orient Express, circa 1920, and very in keeping with the elegant Art Deco style of the Carrington’s building.

‘So, tell me all about the regatta plans.’ Sam leans forward eagerly.

‘Oh, there’s nothing very much to report,’ I say, fiddling with my bag to avoid eye contact. ‘Early days and all that. At the meeting last week we just divvied up the events; I imagine the real work begins after the next meeting when our project plans have been approved.’ Stacey arrives with the cake mountain and two plates. Grateful for the distraction, I hand a plate to Sam and busy myself with sorting out the napkins and forks.

‘Rubbish. Georgie, you’ve always been a bad fibber and I know when you’re keeping something from me. What is it?’ Sam scrutinises me as she helps herself to a particularly plump red velvet cupcake with glittery frosting, and so mountainous it completely coats her cheeks when she bites into it.

BOOK: Ice Creams at Carrington’s
6.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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