“It wasn’t me!” Julio said indignantly, his body language mimicking his father’s.
“Well, it wasn’t me, either!” I defended myself. “I wouldn’t be that careless!”
And so it went. I blamed Julio, and he blamed me. We never did get to the bottom of it. That was the end of our holidays at Rose Cottage though. The place was damaged beyond repair.
“So you admit that you started the fire at Rose Cottage?” Penney asks. The man has ants in his pants. He keeps pacing up and down, seems unable to sit for longer than ten seconds. His partner, meanwhile, lounges back on my sofa, taking in the stack of fashion magazines on the coffee table and the orderly row of shoes, lined against the wall. These are not all my shoes, by the way, just the ones that don’t fit in the shoe cupboard.
“We never found out for sure,” I say cagily. “It could have been me, but it could equally have been my brother. It was a long time ago and an accident at that. I really can’t see what it has to do with the fire at the caravan park.”
“Except that it’s another unexplained coincidence,” Penney points out.
“Look Isabel, we don’t want to do this, but if we find any more of these little ‘coincidences’, I’m going to have to turn you over to my boss, and she’s not into these cosy little home visits, if you get my drift. She’ll want to question you properly.”
“Down the station,” adds his partner, as if I’m an imbecile.
“Look, I know this looks bad,” I say, in exasperation, “but there’s really nothing more to tell.”
“So this is going to be the last time we’ll need to speak to you then?”
“Yes. Absolutely the last.”
Next morning, I am awoken by the sound of the phone ringing.
Groggily, I reach for it.
“Hello?”
“Isabel? It’s Sonya. Are you OK?”
“Yes, fine. Why?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
“It’s gone half past nine. Are you still in bed?”
“Oh, bollocks!” I glance at my bedside clock. “I must have overslept. Sorry, Sonya – I had trouble getting to sleep last night.”
“You OK?”
“Yes, fine, just had the police sniffing round again last night.”
I don’t know why I told her that, Sonya isn’t exactly the soul of discretion.
“About the fire?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s crazy! They should stop wasting your time and catch some real criminals.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re all right, anyway. I’ll see you at work then.”
“Yeah. I’ll be as quick as I can. Sorry about oversleeping.”
“Not to worry, it’s kind of dead today, anyway.”
I thought she was just trying to make me feel better, but I get a bit of a shock when I walk through the door of Robertson’s an hour later.
“Hey, where is everyone?”
Stu walks out of his office.
“Something’s not right,” he says, pointing out the obvious. “Maybe you should go over to Filbert’s, Isabel and see if it’s quiet there too.”
“I really don’t see how checking out the opposition is going to help,” I object. “Wouldn’t my time be better spent helping with the inventory?” I glance at Sonya for support.
“No, I think they’re up to something,” Stu insists. “Just go and have a look.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Sonya agrees.
I didn’t want Stu to be right, but when I reach Filbert’s, the car park is so packed that I have to drive round in circles for ten minutes before I can get a space. What’s more, their trolley bays are all empty. Meaning either they’ve had a major trolley theft, or every single one of them is in use.
What’s going on here?
That’s when I see the sign: ‘Half price Friday! Everything half price!’
How did I miss this? How did we all miss this?
Why are they doing this? They must be making a massive loss!
But look how many people there are! They’ve taken most of our customers and then some! I fight my way into the store and look around. Shelf stackers work furiously to replenish the stock, but they’re no match for the bargain hungry shoppers, some of whom have taken more than one trolley. I’m tempted to do a little shopping myself.
I follow the crowd towards the checkout. No zombies here. They have fully automated tills, with helpful assistants on hand to advise people on how to use them. All the staff seem ultra smiley and efficient. They must invest a lot more in staff training than we do.
Hey – I wonder if they pay more than Robertson’s?
Boldly, I walk over to the customer service desk.
“Hi, do you have any vacancies?” I ask.
“Yes,” says the smiling assistant. “We’re currently looking for customer service personnel and shelf stackers.”
“What’s the pay like?”
“Very competitive,” says a voice behind me. I turn round and find myself looking at Bernie Greengrass, the store manager. He needs no introduction – his picture is in the local paper just about every week.
“But I’d have thought junior manager would be more suitable for you, Isabel?”
“You know my name?”
“I make it my business to know,” he says with a smile. “If you’re really interested in a position here, just let me know. Our pay and conditions are very generous.”
He hands me his business card.
“Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
“You do that. We have an excellent fast-track programme, and just think – you wouldn’t have to work for that idiot, Stu, any more!”
He flashes a cheeky grin, then he’s gone, his attention diverted as a local TV news crew walks through the door.
I race back to Robertson’s to tell Stu and Sonya all I’ve discovered – well not quite all – I don’t mention Bernie Greengrass’ job offer. Sonya looks riled enough.
“It’s just a stunt,” I reassure her. “They can’t keep that up for long, unless they’re looking to bankrupt themselves.”
“But what else have they got up their sleeves?” she wonders, grasping at her hair with her hands. “Don’t you remember, when Filbert’s first opened, a lot of people said Queensbeach was only big enough for one supermarket. What if they were right?”
“I can’t believe we missed this,” I say, shaking my head. “They must have advertised on the radio and in the papers.”
“Not in the papers I read,” Stu says.
“No, well they probably didn’t advertise in the Beano,” Sonya mutters, flicking through the newspaper stand. “Here it is, front cover of the Queensbeach Echo. No wonder this place is deserted.”
The store is so quiet that Sonya lets me leave early, despite my late start. It makes a pleasant change to get out while it’s still light. I head for the High Street, intending to make a start on my Christmas shopping, but a shimmering green dress immediately catches my eye. It’s in the window of a little boutique I’ve never been in before. Curiously, I push open the door and walk inside.
The predatory eyes of the shop assistant watch as I finger the cool, silky fabric.
“That’s a lovely dress,” she says approvingly. “Would you like to try it on?”
I glance at the price tag. I know I shouldn’t, but I find myself nodding and following her to the fitting room, where it takes less than a minute to shimmy out of my black tailored suit and into the dress.
I admire myself in the communal mirror. The material hugs my figure in all the right places, neither too tight nor too loose.
“Oh, my!” The shop assistant gasps. “It looks like it was made for you!”
I know that they’ll say anything to make a sale, but I can’t help feeling she’s right on this occasion. The colour complements my complexion perfectly, as does the shape.