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Authors: Jenny Colgan
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do with a proper scrubbing out. The wood frontage was painted a kind of fading burgundy but althoughthe building was pretty, the paint was flaking, and the swinging striped sign outside, Hopkins’ Sweets and Confectionery , was gilded but tired-looking. Inside Rosie could just about make out jars of this and that, in a slightly higgledy-piggledy order, and lots of jelly snakes sitting out in a huge dusty box. It didn’t, she thought, look terribly appealing. In fact, to her horror, she realised that it wasn’t open; that it clearly hadn’t been open for a long, long time. Lilian had been fooling everyone for what looked like years.
Rosie winced. This job of hers was going to be even more of a pain in the arse than she had expected.
She shook off her horrible sense of foreboding and decided to follow the flow and see where she ended up.
The cottage and shop sat at the western end of the main street of Lipton, a collection of thatched cottages, a doctor’s surgery, lawyer’s office, dentist, several feed stores, and a clothing store which featured some extraordinary mother-of-the-bride outfits that Rosie, belying her hunger, spent several moments staring at. What type of person could be in need of a huge jade, silver and violet-striped formal jacket with shoulder pads and large paisley flowers embroidered down the front for two hundred and seventy-nine pounds? The clothing shop next door sold jodhpurs, quilted jackets and waterproof trousers. Rosie wondered where the nearest shopping centre was, then figured out it was probably at the other end of that two-hour bus trip.
She mentally ran through her wardrobe. Since she and Gerard had moved in together, she had just got so comfy. Maybe that was why Lilian still dressed so formally; because she had never found anyone she could relax with. A perfectnight for Rosie these days was a takeaway, a bottle of wine and a movie, her head tucked under Gerard’s arm, lying on the sofa they’d bought in Ikea. OK, so Gerard teased her about wearing her old pyjama pants and slippers around the house and asked what had happened to the hot young thing he’d met at the hospital, but this was what contentment looked like. She thought about Lilian’s smart appearance, though, and wondered for an instant if her own approach might just be complacency.
Rosie made a mental note of the right kinds of high-calorie foods to bring back for Lilian. She wondered if she would baulk at eating peanut butter, but it had to be worth a shot. She wandered past a bank, the post office, a large Spar that looked like it stocked just about everything in the world, an electrical store that proudly boasted that it still fixed toasters, a large old-fashioned pub called the Red Lion and, unexpectedly, a chic little restaurant with wooden benches and a chalkboard menu. Streets ran off the main road, all heading upwards out of the valley, with houses dotted more and more sparingly up the hills till you got to the farmland.
There was no doubt about it, Rosie thought, the place was definitely pretty. She popped into the bakery and said a cheery good morning to the woman behind the counter, who smiled back. She looked pink and exhausted. Must have been up early, thought Rosie, wondering if the sweetshop shouldn’t be open early too. There was a queue out the door of children buying doughnuts for the breaktime snack, and men who looked like farm workers and labourers stocking up on pies and sandwiches for lunch. She chose acheese and onion pasty, bought a cup of tea from the vending machine and took it outside. The tea was horrible. Next to the war memorial was a green wooden bench, and from there she had a good view of the little town coming and going around her.
A dapper young man with a briefcase bounced up the steps of the doctor’s surgery with a large set of keys; a rather chubby vicar emerged from the beautiful square-topped Norman church across the road and looked around, confusedly. A postie wearing
Rosie winced. This job of hers was going to be even more of a pain in the arse than she had expected.
She shook off her horrible sense of foreboding and decided to follow the flow and see where she ended up.
The cottage and shop sat at the western end of the main street of Lipton, a collection of thatched cottages, a doctor’s surgery, lawyer’s office, dentist, several feed stores, and a clothing store which featured some extraordinary mother-of-the-bride outfits that Rosie, belying her hunger, spent several moments staring at. What type of person could be in need of a huge jade, silver and violet-striped formal jacket with shoulder pads and large paisley flowers embroidered down the front for two hundred and seventy-nine pounds? The clothing shop next door sold jodhpurs, quilted jackets and waterproof trousers. Rosie wondered where the nearest shopping centre was, then figured out it was probably at the other end of that two-hour bus trip.
She mentally ran through her wardrobe. Since she and Gerard had moved in together, she had just got so comfy. Maybe that was why Lilian still dressed so formally; because she had never found anyone she could relax with. A perfectnight for Rosie these days was a takeaway, a bottle of wine and a movie, her head tucked under Gerard’s arm, lying on the sofa they’d bought in Ikea. OK, so Gerard teased her about wearing her old pyjama pants and slippers around the house and asked what had happened to the hot young thing he’d met at the hospital, but this was what contentment looked like. She thought about Lilian’s smart appearance, though, and wondered for an instant if her own approach might just be complacency.
Rosie made a mental note of the right kinds of high-calorie foods to bring back for Lilian. She wondered if she would baulk at eating peanut butter, but it had to be worth a shot. She wandered past a bank, the post office, a large Spar that looked like it stocked just about everything in the world, an electrical store that proudly boasted that it still fixed toasters, a large old-fashioned pub called the Red Lion and, unexpectedly, a chic little restaurant with wooden benches and a chalkboard menu. Streets ran off the main road, all heading upwards out of the valley, with houses dotted more and more sparingly up the hills till you got to the farmland.
There was no doubt about it, Rosie thought, the place was definitely pretty. She popped into the bakery and said a cheery good morning to the woman behind the counter, who smiled back. She looked pink and exhausted. Must have been up early, thought Rosie, wondering if the sweetshop shouldn’t be open early too. There was a queue out the door of children buying doughnuts for the breaktime snack, and men who looked like farm workers and labourers stocking up on pies and sandwiches for lunch. She chose acheese and onion pasty, bought a cup of tea from the vending machine and took it outside. The tea was horrible. Next to the war memorial was a green wooden bench, and from there she had a good view of the little town coming and going around her.
A dapper young man with a briefcase bounced up the steps of the doctor’s surgery with a large set of keys; a rather chubby vicar emerged from the beautiful square-topped Norman church across the road and looked around, confusedly. A postie wearing
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