Perhaps he should have factored in a visit to his mum. It’s been a couple of years since he last saw her – way too long, really. However, even though his stepfather is an old man now, bald as an egg and somehow shrunken into himself, he’s still Pete and his mum still fusses around him and apparently, he can do no wrong.
On Shane’s last visit, the fridge had housed a miserly sliced white loaf and several teacups containing unidentifiable leftovers. He’d concocted a fib about popping out to see an old schoolfriend, and with his old buddy sitting invisibly beside him, he’d necked three large whiskies in The Grey Mare. Back at his mum’s, he’d packed up his records that had been put away in the attic and left at the crack of dawn the next morning.
They are passing a record shop now and, although Shane feels the pull of it, he manages to resist.
‘Shane?’ Josie touches his arm and points across the street. ‘How about checking that out?’
The Sweet Jar, the candy-striped sign reads. ‘Just another sweet shop,’ Shane says.
‘No, it’s The Sweet Jar Hotel,’ she corrects him. ‘Look – “hotel” is in tiny letters underneath.’
‘So it’s a sweet-themed hotel?’ Shane pulls up his jacket hood as the rain comes on again, with almost comical force.
‘Looks like it,’ Josie says. So they hurry across the road towards what looks like two Victorian terraced houses knocked together, and exchange a quick smile as they step into the reception area. It’s a sherbet explosion: pink curtains, pistachio rugs and vases of frothy peach blooms. There are dishes of cellophane-wrapped boiled sweets on the reception desk, on a couple of low side tables and even on the windowsill.
They wait expectantly. The sound of voices and the clink of crockery drifts out from another room, and Josie whispers, ‘It’s setting my teeth on edge.’
‘I can feel a diabetic coma coming on,’ Shane remarks, and she sniggers. They wait some more, and he eyes the bell on the reception desk. As if to prove that she is unintimidated by it, Josie gives it a decisive ding.
The sound of clacking footsteps grows louder. ‘Oh, hello. I’m so sorry!’ A young woman with glossy dark curls clamped under a rigid polka dot hairband has appeared, hot-cheeked and looking a little harassed. ‘We’re short-staffed today. How can I help you?’
‘We were wondering if you have any rooms,’ Josie says.
‘A twin room,’ Shane blurts out, louder than is strictly necessary.
‘Hmmm, let’s see…’ The woman presses her lips together and peers at a computer screen. ‘We just have a double, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh.’ Shane frowns and turns to Josie.
‘Are you sure?’ she asks the receptionist.
‘Yes, sorry. For one night, is it?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Shane replies. She tells them the price – it’s surprisingly low – and turns back to her computer as if to allow them a moment.
Shane looks at Josie, who seems to be weighing up what to do. He doesn’t want anything to spoil today, as it’s been wonderful for him. For one thing, it’s chimed in with his love of history (there’s nothing he couldn’t tell you about liquorice production now!). But more than that, he’s loved just wandering around with Josie with no particular plan.
He still has her down as a spiritual type. He’d hovered, bemused, as she enthused at the market over tinkling wind chimes and dreamcatchers and fridge magnets bearing various affirmations. Stuff he still thinks – rather old-fashionedly – as ‘new age’. Despite the procession of hippies who come into his shop, he doesn’t know the first thing about that world. In contrast, Shane battles with what Elaine teasingly refers to as ‘old-age stuff’: that rogue eyebrow hair, his cricked shoulder from lugging instruments around, and the peculiar clicking sensation coming from his left knee from time to time.
However, despite the joys of Josie’s company, he now is overcome with an urge to lie down – even briefly – on something springy and comfortable, in an actual heated building. Plus, it’s still bucketing it down out there, and the thought of further hoofing around town makes him sag a little.
How big is the bed? he wants to ask. Surely it’s huge, as seems to be the norm in hotels these days. But what are its precise dimensions? Could she show them a scale plan? Shane inhales the scent of synthetic strawberry, which he assumes is coming from the nearby reed diffuser, and looks at Josie. ‘What d’you think?’ he asks.
She pulls a not-ideal-is-it? face. ‘I guess it’ll be all right for one night. I mean, it’ll be nice to have a break from the van.’
‘I think so too,’ Shane remarks.
‘You’d like to take it, then?’ the woman asks pleasantly.
‘Yes please,’ Josie says. Minutes later the receptionist is trotting up a short flight of stairs, each one painted in a different pastel colour, with Shane and Josie following in her wake.
As they pass along the corridor, Shane exchanges an amused glance with Josie. The rooms, too, are all sweet-themed. The Humbug Snug. The Dolly Mixture Den. The Parma Violet Suite. What’s ours going to be? Shane muses.
‘Just along here,’ the woman trills, rounding the corner in clicky heels. She stops at the last door in the corridor and beams expectantly. ‘Here we are. I have to say, it’s my favourite room. You’re very lucky, as couples often request it specially.’
Shane senses his chest tightening and realises his back teeth are clenched together. He looks at Josie, seeing her healthy flush fade, as the woman swipes a key card and opens the door to The Love Heart Boudoir.
27
