‘How sweet,’ she said finally as she looked up and handed the letter back to Dodie. ‘Bittersweet. What an absolutely lovely bit of history. I can see why you were so beguiled by the idea of finding Margaret. And you say you haven’t managed to get any leads from social media yet?’
‘Not from there, but my gran knows someone who knows someone who thinks Margaret’s surname might be Vincent. We’re not entirely sure but I think it might be a lead worth following up. I’m still hoping that more information will come from social media – there’s been a lot of sharing so it’s reaching more and more people.’
‘It’s just the sort of thing to go viral; people love a personal interest story. What about this man who lives at the property now…’ She looked down at a spiral-bound notepad she’d just pulled from a magenta satchel. ‘Edward Willoughby. Rather a romantic name in itself, isn’t it? Like a Jane Austen hero. What about him? Is he still involved in your search?’
Dodie almost reminded her that Mr Willoughby wasn’t quite one of Austen’s heroes, but she didn’t. The way she felt about Ed these days she didn’t want to dwell on the possibility he might not be one of the good guys, either.
‘He has been. But as I said on the phone, he’s not so keen to be in the paper… I did try to talk him round but…’ She shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
Sally waved away the apology. ‘Do you think he’d object to me popping round to see him? Just to ask a few questions. I wouldn’t feature him in any way he wasn’t happy with, of course, but it would be another angle to the story and I do rather like the idea of him being in it.’
‘I suppose anything that makes people take interest has to be good,’ Dodie said, though she was doubtful about asking Ed again. He’d been most emphatic in his refusal of any kind of publicity the night before, although perhaps he’d be more amenable if Sally promised to leave his personal details out of the article. ‘I could ask him again I suppose.’
‘Could you ask him now, darling? I could whizz over there this afternoon. You have a phone number for him, I take it?’
Dodie nodded as she went behind the counter and pulled her phone from the drawer. As she dialled Ed’s number, the door tinkled to announce the arrival of a customer, and while she waited for him to answer, she smiled and nodded at the newcomer, who glanced between Dodie with her phone to her ear and Sally with her pen poised over her notebook, probably wondering just what on earth she’d walked into. The woman took herself over to a wooden chest stuffed with belts, ties, scarves and handbags and began to rummage as Dodie paced the floor, to be met, eventually, by Ed’s answerphone message.
‘Hi, Ed, it’s Dodie. I’ve got Sally with me… the reporter from the Echo. She wants to know if she could possibly have five minutes with you. I know you didn’t particularly want to get involved, but she says it’s just for another angle to the story. She says you don’t have to be in it but she’d like to talk to you if possible anyway. So… if you get this message any time soon… well, if you can let me know either way that would be brilliant… OK… so, bye…’
Sally shot Dodie a coquettish sort of smile as she sat down again. ‘Is he handsome?’ she asked.
Dodie blinked. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it. I suppose so.’
‘I thought he might be…’
Sally’s smile was still in place as she clicked her pen on. Dodie held back a frown as she watched her begin to write. What did she mean by her question? What did it matter if Ed was handsome or not? And what made Sally so sure he would be? Dodie’s attention was diverted momentarily by the customer leaving the shop. It was frustrating to lose a potential sale but perhaps the woman never intended to spend much anyway judging by her beeline for the bargain basement stuff in the chest.
‘So,’ Sally said brightly, ‘tell me a little about yourself – background for the story. I won’t include it all but it’s good to know, helps me give some context.’
Dodie shrugged. ‘There’s not much to tell. I lived in Dorchester for most of my life and moved to Bournemouth six months ago to open this shop.’
‘What made you want to open the shop?’
‘I’ve always been interested in design, fashion and history. A vintage shop seemed like the perfect marriage of the three. I studied fashion and dress history at university… actually, I dropped out of fashion and dress history at university, but I might go back and finish my degree one day. If I have time, of course.’
‘I don’t suppose you get much time now running a shop six days a week.’
‘It tends towards seven, really, by the time I’ve done all the odds and ends I can’t get done in the week while the shop is open.’
‘What made you drop out of university?’
Dodie paused.
‘If you don’t want to tell me then of course, that’s fine,’ Sally added.
Did it matter if Dodie told her? It was nothing to be ashamed of, despite Dodie feeling like a failure at the time.
‘It’s complicated,’ she said. ‘I had some issues with anxiety and depression and I couldn’t concentrate. I’m fine now,’ she added quickly. ‘But at the time I struggled to cope and it seemed sensible to take a breather. I hunkered down with my mum for a year. Strangely, it was the death of my grandad that finally pulled me out of the hole, which most people would think would make things worse still. But it made me realise that life is short and precious and I didn’t want to waste mine any longer.’
‘You’ve certainly turned things around,’ Sally said with an approving glance around the shop. ‘You should be proud of yourself.’
‘It’s nothing to make a fuss about,’ Dodie replied. ‘I’m doing something I love.’
Sally scribbled a series of indecipherable squiggles into her notebook. Dodie supposed it was shorthand, though she’d never seen it in use before. ‘How did you come by this letter?’
Dodie opened her mouth to reply when the sound of her phone ringing came from the desk drawer.
‘Do you want to get that?’ Sally asked.
‘They’ll probably leave an answerphone message if it’s important.’
‘But it might be Mr Willoughby,’ Sally reminded her. ‘In which case it would be helpful for me to know before I leave you today.’
‘Oh… of course.’ Dodie leapt up and dashed to retrieve the phone before it rang off. When she’d left the message for him earlier, she hadn’t really expected Ed to call back given her request and his previous refusals. But it was him on the line.
‘Hey, Dodie… Sorry about before, my phone was out of charge. What is it you need from me? The reporter wants to come and see me? Did you tell her I didn’t want to be in the paper?’
‘Yeah, I did. But she thinks it would be a good angle to include your involvement – make the story more appealing.’ Dodie glanced up, feeling awkward about having this conversation with Sally present. Though the journalist was busy checking emails on her own phone as Dodie talked, it was obvious she was listening to Dodie’s end of the discussion. ‘She’s here now… I suppose you could have a quick word on the phone? I mean, say no if you really don’t want to but it might be enough for now…?’
There was a heavy sigh of resignation on the line. ‘OK. A quick word on the phone but nothing more – no photos, no namecheck, no visiting me here. And I’m only doing this much because I know it’s important to you.’
Dodie nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. ‘I’ll put her on the line now,’ she said, handing her mobile to Sally.
Whatever powers Sally Chandra had, Dodie was convinced she could make a lot more money bottling it for sale than she could as a journalist. After a ten-minute chat with Ed, he’d agreed to let her go to his house for a quick interview and, after she’d collected Dodie’s story, she hopped into her car and went straight over. How Sally had managed to change his mind was a mystery when he’d been so adamant with Dodie that he would not get involved in any publicity. In fact, when he sent Dodie a text just after closing time to let her know he’d sp
oken to Sally and allowed his name to go into the article, Dodie was shocked to learn that he’d eventually relented and given Sally permission to get a photo of him standing outside his house too.
Confused as Dodie was by this change of heart, she was hopeful too that the story would reach further than her own efforts in tracking down Margaret or George now that the local paper was involved. She was excited by the prospect, though a little part of her was sad too that the adventure might soon be over. Because, strangely, while she had more than enough to fill her every waking hour, she’d rather enjoyed the quest and it had taken up so much of her time lately it had become a huge part of her life, something that would leave a hole when she didn’t have it any more.
Ryan was due at the flat in less than twenty minutes, but Dodie was still pottering around in the shop cleaning shelving that contained a selection of old vinyl and eight-tracks. A departure from her usual stock, it had been part of the auction that had also brought the letter into her life and when the lot had come up she hadn’t been able to resist making a bid, fuelled in part by a desire to own the entire collection of Monkees albums contained in it. After winning it and taking delivery, she’d gone through the rest and sorted others she wanted to keep, including the best of Manfred Mann, a Bing Crosby Christmas collection and two Dusty Springfield albums, until there was barely anything left. What was left was now out on display in the shop, though there hadn’t been much customer interest in it as yet.
Sometimes, Dodie had to wonder at her own business acumen. If she was going to buy in stock based purely on her desire to listen to cheesy old records, she’d be out of business by the end of the year. She’d also have to buy an actual record player to listen to the ones she’d got, but that was a problem for another day. Ryan would roll his eyes and tell her it was all shit, of course, before trying to explain why she ought to be listening to 50 Cent or Puff Daddy or P Diddy or whatever. It was just one of the many glaringly obvious differences in their personalities, and though people always said opposites attract, they probably didn’t mean a couple whose oppositeness was so apparent that they might as well be different species. Still, Dodie reminded herself as she slapped the cleaning cloth onto the shelf and scrubbed vigorously, Ryan had a lot of qualities that made the awful rap music and the disparaging remarks about her taste worth putting up with. He was decent looking, had a steady job, was good at DIY, sensible with money… And her mum liked him a lot, and that was not to be sniffed at because her mum hardly ever liked anyone.
A tap at the shop window interrupted her musings. Her head flicked up and her hand flew to her chest, sending water sloshing over the side of the bucket as she dropped her cloth in fright. It was Ryan, grinning at her. Drying her hands and trying to get her breathing back to normal, she went to unlock the door.
‘You’re early,’ she said as he stepped in. ‘I’m not ready yet.’
‘Ready for what?’ he asked.
‘For anything. I’m not changed, not freshened up, not done my hair…’
‘You’re fine as you are,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to go far anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about getting changed. Especially as I’ll only be taking your clothes off again in about half an hour…’
‘It’s good to see romance isn’t dead,’ she replied, arching an eyebrow.
‘You want me to serenade you first? Dodie, Dodie, how I love your bountiful, bootylicious booty…’
‘Yeah, enough thanks,’ Dodie interrupted. ‘And are you saying my butt is big?’
‘No, it’s just the right size for my hands,’ he said, grabbing her behind as he followed her to the shelving. Dodie slapped him away.
‘Sod off, Ryan!’ she squeaked. ‘If you want something to fit in your hands you can grab hold of this cleaning cloth and help me!’
His disapproving gaze went to the bucket. ‘You’re kidding me, right? I’ve done a day at work already.’
‘So have I, but I still have to do this.’
‘This is your job, though.’
‘And if you want to spend any time with me then you’ll either help or let me get on so I can finish. Can’t you make yourself useful in the flat… get some supper on the go or something? There’s pizza in the fridge; you could put that in the oven?’
‘I suppose I ought to get used to your kitchen,’ he said slowly. ‘As I’m going to be living here after Christmas. One pizza, coming up!’
Dodie watched him go through to the back, suddenly feeling as if someone had just pushed her from a plane with a cocktail umbrella for a parachute. She’d tried not to think about their impending cohabitation agreement but there was no getting around it – he was moving into the flat in a matter of weeks and there would be a lot more of this. She was about to retrieve her cloth and finish up when her phone bleeped the arrival of a message. It was Ed.
Having second thoughts about the newspaper interview. Don’t know if I want to be mentioned and I don’t want my photo in there.
Dodie held in a groan and turned her phone off. One irritating man was enough to deal with for now.
Ryan had managed to burn the pizza, the only job she’d left him in charge of. But they scraped off the worst of it and ate what they could salvage, filling up on bags of crisps and a giant Dairy Milk bar afterwards. There was no point in being annoyed about it so Dodie grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge for him, opened a bottle of wine for herself and decided that the best thing to take her mind off things was to get tipsy. Perhaps then she’d also be happier broaching the subject of the impending newspaper article. She’d decided that Ed, apart from being annoying as hell, had made a very good point: Ryan did need to know, and if he found out any other way he’d be hurt.
‘So what’s new?’ Ryan asked as he sipped at a can of beer on the sofa, Dodie sitting on the chair across from him. Some game show was on the TV, the newest lottery quiz extravaganza, though they changed so often she could barely keep up with them, and the rules seemed to get more and more elaborate with each new incarnation.
‘Nothing much. Work, work and more work. There’s no time for anything else.’
She put a glass of wine to her lips and turned her gaze back to the television. A couple were leaping around on a bouncy castle trying to snatch travel tickets from a wire suspended above their heads while a gleeful presenter shrieked with fake laughter and the audience egged them on. This would be as good a time as any to mention the newspaper, wouldn’t it? But then she opened her mouth to say something and couldn’t.
‘What exactly is going on here?’ she asked, nodding at the TV.
‘Beats me.’
‘Well, how do they win the prizes?’
‘I think they have to grab them.’
‘They’ve already got loads. Surely that’s it now?’
He shrugged and took a sip of his beer. Dodie couldn’t have cared less one way or the other whether the contestants on the television had won their prizes, so why was she talking about it? Why couldn’t she bring herself to tell Ryan about the letter? About George and Margaret V? About Sally Chandra and the newspaper? About Ed? What was stopping her?
‘So your mate is off to France then?’ Ryan said into her thoughts, his gaze trained on the TV screen.
‘Yeah.’
‘I bet her mum’s impressed.’
‘That’s what I said. She knows what she’s doing, though.’
‘Expect so,’ Ryan said. He pushed himself up from the sofa. ‘Going for a slash. And then maybe we could turn this show off. As you don’t seem that keen on it then perhaps we can do something else…’
Dodie looked up at him and he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
‘There’s a film on BBC Two I wanted to watch,’ she said.
‘God, don’t tell me it’s black and white.’
‘It’s colour.’
‘Are any of the actors still alive?’
Dodie frowned. ‘I know you don’t like old stuff, but I do.’
‘It’s Saturday night! Come o
n, Dodie, this is our night – I don’t get to see you much in the week. Why can’t you record your film and watch it on a night I’m not here?’
She could, and it wouldn’t make a scrap of difference. If anything she’d probably enjoy the film more without Ryan there. But a stubbornness had taken hold and she pursed her lips as she turned away.
‘I’ve been looking forward to it. And I don’t have time to watch stuff in the week.’
‘You just said you don’t do anything all week!’ Ryan snapped. Without waiting for a reply, he left the room, and Dodie could hear him muttering, something about him wondering why he bothered to come and visit at all and that it was like she didn’t want him there. And she had to wonder whether he had a point.
Chapter Eleven
Dodie was still in her pyjamas with her nose in a book about interior design, despite the fact it was gone midday, when the out-of-hours doorbell rang in the shop below. Ryan looked across at her as he lounged in his boxers and a sweatshirt watching catch-up TV.
‘Are you expecting someone?’
‘No,’ Dodie said, feeling vaguely alarmed. Her phone had been switched off for the remainder of the previous evening and she hadn’t turned it on this morning either. Partly because she was just sick of dealing with Ed’s tidal moods, and partly because she was terrified that Ryan would notice the texts coming in. But what if it was Ed at the door? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d turned up unannounced. ‘I’d better check the closed sign is actually up at the door,’ she added, vaulting from the sofa, ‘just in case it’s someone thinking we’re open.’
‘Why would they think that if the door’s locked?’ Ryan called after her, but Dodie had already crossed into the bedroom to pull a long coat over her pyjamas before she went downstairs.
A Very Vintage Christmas: A Heartwarming Christmas Romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 1) Page 13
