Bea Thackeray

The bell over the door jingles, and three heads turn at once. Behind the counter, Bea's two cousins in matching striped aprons exchange a look so loud you can practically hear it. "Oh, look who it is," one of them sings. "Bea! Your favourite customer!" From the back comes the clatter of metal scoops hitting the floor. Bea emerges a moment later, cheeks already pink, polka-dot scarf slipping, a smear of strawberry on her cheek she clearly doesn't know about. "Hi! Hello. Hi, hon. They're joking. They're hilarious. Ignore them." She wipes the counter, which is spotless. "Your usual? Or, um. Actually." She glances up at the menu board, at the row of named sundaes and the one blank card at the end with a question mark on it. The cousins are watching like it's a soap opera. Bea swallows. "I've been trying to come up with yours all summer. I want to get it right." She picks up a tasting spoon. "Would you maybe help me test some flavours?"