George, spotting a coal tit on the windowsill, leapt up from the rug where he’d been feeling sorry for himself and launched himself towards the open window by Alison’s worktop. The bird made a good getaway but the table, just a section of wood balanced on books and paint cans, wobbled and shifted – Alison reached out to stop anything sliding off, her heart racing as she pictured the teacups crashing down, but broad-based and sturdy, they hadn’t even flinched. In the garden, the blossom on her cherry tree quivered from the coal tit’s hasty exit. She’d picked out the cups from an online homeware shop. Totting up prices and calculating the profit margin had put her out of her comfort zone – the figures had made her head spin – but she knew they were cheap and clicked ‘buy’ on twenty items before her head took over. Since last Christmas, when Pete lost his job in communications for the NHS, things had changed; with only one of them working now she had to be practical where the business was concerned.
But this morning she couldn’t see past the fact that these plain teacups weren’t delicate or pretty enough. They’d withstand an earthquake. She glanced from their cheerful matt blue back to her mood board – what she needed were fragile, soft tones that conjured up a different era, when people would make do and mend and a precious set of china would be cared for and cherished. What could be more indulgent than enjoying a bath surrounded by her upcycled teacups – candles with history? The car boot sale teaset she had fallen for was The One, no question – the fact Jenny and Maggie had felt the same only confirmed it. Jenny’s glowing face, the look of love at first sight as she touched the cups, had made her smile in recognition. Nothing else would compare – but it wasn’t hers to use yet. As they’d agreed, Alison would keep looking for similar cups and if she was going to fill the new order she’d received that morning, she’d better find something soon.
Alison knew that there had to be more genuine vintage cups that would delight her customers without breaking the bank, and Charlesworth’s charity shops were the natural place to start her search. Sophie and Holly would be at school all day, if Sophie didn’t get sent home for winding up her teachers again, that was; and Pete, well …
Pete was a trouper. He was dropping the girls off now and wouldn’t be back till at least midday, with his arms full of Sainsbury’s bags, a half-smile on his face, trying to dodge a rogue baguette threatening to poke him in the eye. With his dark eyebrows, untameable brown hair and gangly limbs, Pete was one of those grown-ups who’d never really stopped looking like a guitar-strumming teenager. He still played with his band when they got a local gig, and when he did, Alison caught a glimpse of the eighteen-year-old boy she’d first met. That day Pete had had sun-bleached stubble and tanned skin, just back from interrailing around Europe, and Maggie was wearing a T-shirt and cut-off shorts, sitting out with her friends on the green, enjoying her first summer after O levels. He’d brought his guitar over as dusk drew in and, smiling and half-drunk, played U2’s ‘With or Without You’.
It was about six months ago, twenty-five years into their marriage, that her mind had started to regularly drift elsewhere when she and Pete made love. Last night, as he’d lain beside her, holding her in a loose embrace and beginning to snore softly, she had wondered whether this happened in all marriages, after decades together, or whether she should be doing something about it. Perhaps it was enough that they were still doing it?
Her thoughts were never of other men. During the throes of passion, she’d think of grocery lists and dentist’s appointments, parents’ evenings and invoices. Did that mean there was nothing to feel guilty about, or – and this was what really nagged at her – was it somehow even worse?
Anyway, she thought, drifting back to the present, Pete had the shopping under control, no one needed her right now and she could afford to take some time out of the studio and pop down to the high street. Her friend Jamie at the hospice charity shop would probably be able to help her in her search, and there were a couple of other errands she could run at the same time. She undid her apron and hung it over the chair.
Standing at the hall mirror, tidying her hair and putting on a slick of red lipstick, she considered her reflection for a moment; not too bad for forty-two, she thought. She didn’t go in the sun much nowadays, and pilates kept her pretty toned. She heard George galloping down the corridor towards her. She ruffled his head and slipped a lead onto his broad leather collar, forgiving his earlier impulsiveness in an instant. She glanced first at her beloved red kitten heels – they’d look so perfect with the floral dress – then back to the dog. She opted instead for green battered DM boots; it was a look of sorts. ‘Join me on the hunt, George.’ She unbolted the door and with a backward glance down the hall saw the empty space where Pete’s briefcase used to be. When he had put it away in the hall cupboard at the start of the year, after his redundancy was confirmed, something in him – and perhaps also between them – had shifted.
She climbed in to her battered Clio and started up the engine. Having two cars was an extravagance really, she supposed, now that Pete wasn’t using the Volvo for work. She ought to find out how much the car cost to run and talk to Pete about whether they really needed it.
The drive to Charlesworth’s pretty, shop-lined high street took less than fifteen minutes, about as long as George would tolerate staying put on the back seat without trying to leap over and join her in the front. She listened to the news on the journey, and when she arrived she opened the door to get George out and tied his lead to the railings outside the hospice charity shop before heading inside.
A jangle rang out as she opened the door. ‘Hello, darling Ali!’ the man behind the counter called over. Jamie was gruff-voiced but kitten-soft in character, a far cry from the quiet blue-rinsed ladies who volunteered on the other days. When he was at work, Forties and Fifties jazz and jive were never off the stereo. Jamie lived his life as if every day was a glittering event, and he didn’t even realise he was the real star, centre stage. He and Alison went way back. They had been swing dancing partners for some years, and when Jamie’s partner Seb had been diagnosed with cancer it was Alison he’d go to when he needed to let his defences down. Two years after Seb’s death Jamie was still pouring his energy into raising money for the hospice that had cared for Seb during his final days. Jamie had transformed the shop into a vintage wonderland. There wasn’t an old Next shirt with yellowed underarms or a dodgy toast rack in sight – he trawled through the donation bags, picking out only the very best, and sometimes even sourcing clothes and bric-a-brac from elsewhere so that the shop glowed with glamour and the promise of a bargain.
‘Hi Jamie,’ Alison said, walking over to him and being welcomed into a warm hug.
‘How are things?’ he asked, pulling back to look her in the eyes.
‘They’re fine,’ she started, hesitating before going on. ‘You know how it is. Sophie, it’s a bit of a battleground there … but the business is going well, really well – in fact I’ve got a bit of catching up to do. Anyway, I could go on, Jamie, but I’m actually on a bit of a mission today. I’ve got a new order for my candles and I need to make this lot dazzling …’
As she talked, she was scanning the shelves – soundtrack LPs, a 1960s Monopoly board, veiled bridal hats, oversized chrome ashtrays on stands, petticoated dresses and bolero jackets. Where did he find this stuff? But not a teaset in sight. Alison’s heart sank.
‘Tea … cups?’ she ventured.
‘Oh, sorry Ali – you know how that stuff is flying off the shelves at the moment. We sold a cracking little set last week but that was all we had.’
‘Darn.’ Ali snapped her fingers. ‘Ah well, I’ll have to be quicker on the draw next time.’ She fiddled with the chunky red beads strung around her neck as she mulled over what to do next. ‘I guess there’s always eBay. That’s got to be worth a shot, no?’
‘Of course, petal.’ Jamie’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. His stubble was grey and his hair was thinning out but he was still one of the most handso
me men in Charlesworth – and in his perfectly cut jeans, a crisp shirt, waistcoat and tan brogues he was the best dressed by a long shot. She stood beside him in her flowery, full-skirted dress and DMs. Ali imagined the sight of the two of them together. Improbable though the pairing was, they worked; and she silently savoured the moment.
‘But where are my manners, Jamie … How have things been for you?’
He laughed and ruffled Alison’s hair. ‘I’m fine, hon, ticking over, more than that actually. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Maybe we could go for coffee next week and I’ll catch you up properly?’
Alison could hear George’s barking through the shop window and it was getting louder. As she turned around she saw him leap out at an elderly lady who’d been trundling along with a walking frame.
‘Oh God, George – GEORGE.’ As she fled the shop, her full skirt whirling, she turned to look back at Jamie, who was starting to laugh. ‘Ooh – but yes, Jamie – absolutely, sounds good, yes, let’s do it – I’ll call you!’
In a jangle of bells Ali was back out in the high street and apologising profusely to a rather dazed-looking lady who was frozen to the spot. ‘Oh, don’t worry, dear,’ she began, still plainly startled. ‘He’s just so, well, big, isn’t he? I’m sure they’re bigger now, than in my day.’ She smoothed down her grey hair, then steadied herself so that she was holding the frame with both hands again.
‘I really am sorry,’ Alison said, quickly casting an eye over the lady to check for any damage. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? He just gets so excited when he’s out.’ Alison hauled George back and shortened his lead. He protested with a bark. So much for the quiet trip out, she thought to herself. She watched the old lady take halting steps away down the street and walked George back to the car. She left him in the back while she ran a few errands – leaving the other charity shops for another day and instead picking up the shampoo and toiletries that she was ashamed to admit she didn’t trust Pete to get right – and then drove back home. She was determined to turn her morning into a productive one by sketching out some new hand-embroidered cushion cover ideas she’d been meaning to get round to.
As she pulled into the wide gravel drive in front of their tumbledown-but-pretty cottage, with its wonky front door frame and peeling paint, her mobile rang. She pulled the handbrake on and fished the phone out of her bag.
‘Hello?’ she answered, turning the engine off with her free hand.
‘Mrs Lovell?’ came the shrill enquiry.
‘Yes, yep, speaking,’ she rearranged herself in her seat. Damn, she’d recognise the headmistress’s voice anywhere.
‘It’s …’ Alison filled in the blank: Sophie. She had set someone’s lab coat alight … was holding a sit-in protest about regulation skirt length … had been caught snogging in class again … Alison pictured her elder daughter – dyed black hair and bangles, that new, defiant expression. They were all plausible scenarios.
The headmistress carried on, ‘Mrs Lovell … it’s Holly.’
Alison let the phone fall away from her ear for a moment. Holly?
‘Sorry, yes, Mrs Brannigan – what is it?’ There was silence on the line for a moment.
‘I think it’s best if you come in to the school so that we can talk this through.’
Chapter 4
Jenny
‘How about Devon?’ I asked Dan, spreading the holiday brochures out between us on our blue and white chequered sofa. He’d brought a pile of them back from the travel agency where he worked and we were spending Saturday morning having a browse through, deciding where to go for our honeymoon.
‘Hmm … Devon,’ Dan said, trying to work out how he felt about it. He pushed down the plunger of the cafetière. ‘We could surf there, right? That could be fun.’ His eyes lit up at the thought.
‘Yes. Or we go for cream teas and gentle strolls along the beach instead?’ I replied, as he passed me a mug of hot coffee. ‘I’m not sure spending the week in wetsuits that smell of wee is the sexiest start to married life.’
Dan laughed. ‘You’d look scorching out in the waves, Jen, even if you do smell odd.’
We’d spent a couple of months after uni travelling in central America and for part of that time we’d learned to surf. The water was so warm over there that I’d been in a bikini. I’d loved every minute, but two months had been enough for me and I’d liked coming home to Dad and Chris. I hadn’t wanted to leave it too long before looking for a job, but Dan had stayed out there and discovered a passion for travel that had been with him ever since – climbing volcanoes, horseriding in the Andes, exploring temples, you name it. He’d brought me back souvenirs, taken photos at every destination. I liked that our cosy living room was filled with small framed prints of our photos; Mexican beaches, cityscapes, sunsets, a journey round the world. He’d written me emails almost every day he was away. I’d read them in the little flat-share I’d found above a shop on Charlesworth High Street, feeling as if I was right there with him.
After eight months Dan’s money had run out and he’d come back. He had been at a loose end for a while until we’d spotted a job at the student travel agency in Brighton. It was perfect for him. He really enjoyed advising people about where to go and what to do when they got there. The cheap flights he got working there were a big bonus too – we’d been on a fantastic trip to visit Dan’s sister Emma in Australia when she was living in Melbourne. In the last couple of years Dan had organised a few trips abroad with the boys, muddy adventures like multi-day hikes and high altitude cycle rides, and I was happy to leave them to it. I loved hearing the stories when he came home, though. A year ago when he’d finally paid off his credit card bill, we’d rented a small but perfectly formed one-bedroom flat on the second floor of a terraced house. And we’ve been here ever since.
I drew my eyes back from where they’d drifted, to a panoramic photo of Rio we had propped up on the mantelpiece, and returned to more practical considerations.
‘Dan, are you sure you don’t mind?’ I asked, turning to look at him.
‘What, seeing you dressed up like a seal in your wet-suit?’
‘No, don’t be silly, I mean the budgeting. I know this is our honeymoon – but like we said, even if you get us a good deal on flights our cash just isn’t going to stretch that far.’
Dan moved the brochures on to the coffee table, nudging a copy of Brides magazine out of the way. I’d been reading it earlier that morning, but had put it down when I got to yet another feature about mother-of-the-bride outfits. Why were all wedding magazines so obsessed with her role in things? Dan pulled me closer, putting an arm around me. ‘Jen, I thought we’d already talked about this? The money that we have is going to go on our wedding, so that it’s the day you’ve always wanted it to be. We only get married once, after all. We’ll have time further down the line to save and go on another trip.’ With those words, he brought back my smile.
‘And you know what,’ he said, reaching for a brochure about Scottish Highland breaks, ‘I’m into this stuff – there’s so much we haven’t seen that’s close to home. We’re going to have a great time, trust me.’ He flicked open the page and pointed to a little hotel room with a balcony overlooking a vast lake, the scenery lush and green. ‘It does look pretty nice there, doesn’t it?’ I nodded, it did.
‘See,’ he said, holding me closer and kissing the top of my head. I looked up. His warm brown eyes had a way of making my worries disappear. ‘Being with you is adventure enough, Jenny. I mean, quite honestly, it’s downright exhausting sometimes …’ I grabbed a cushion and thwacked him around the head with it. He laughed. ‘Dan Yates, it’s not too late for me to pull out of this marrying-you deal, you know.’
I left Dan doing the laundry and got to Alison’s house just before one, resting my bike up against the wall. The house was built from old grey stone and the front garden was untamed, with long grass that crept over the front wall, and blue and purple wildflowers everywhere I looked. Nat
ure was spilling over into the gravel drive, so the boundaries weren’t clear; it was a world away from the carefully tended window boxes in town. A light rain had started to fall and while I’d been cursing it on the ride over, it brought out the smell of the flowers and made everything fresh. Paint was peeling away from Alison’s window frames and the door frame was a bit wonky, but it all added to the place’s charm.
I’d put a biscuit tin into my bike’s wicker basket before setting out, and at some point along the way it had got jammed. While I was trying to wrestle it free I heard heels on the pathway and a woman’s voice call out. ‘You all right there?’
I turned to see Maggie, serene in indigo jeans, a linen jacket and an amber necklace. Her auburn hair was swept up into a French pleat, highlighting her high cheekbones and the delicate line of her jaw. One hand was holding up a turquoise Japanese parasol, fragile but just perfect for sheltering from the gentle rain. In contrast, my hair was clinging in damp strands to my forehead, I had on the old Reeboks I always wore for cycling and the leggings under my checked shirt dress were splashed with mud. ‘Hi, Maggie,’ I managed, just as the tin came loose from the basket, nearly sending me off-balance. The contrast between us now seemed complete. She smiled kindly at my wobbling and then looked down at the tin I was clutching to my chest. ‘What have you got there?’ she asked. As she put the parasol down she reached out for the brass door knocker and brought it down with a loud thud.
‘Some fuel for our brainstorming session,’ I said.
‘Aha,’ Maggie replied, with a wink, ‘I like your style.’
‘Ladies, welcome!’ Alison said, opening the door wide while trying to hold back a tall grey dog with one arm.
‘Come in, come in.’
I put a protective hand over my tin; bitter experience has taught me not to trust dogs where baked goods are involved. Alison led us down a hallway filled with enticing cooking smells, to the open door of her bright living room. There was a grandfather clock in the corner and generous sofas scattered with patchwork cushions. A teenage girl was stretched out on one of the sofas reading a copy of Twilight, her black hair tied up in a rough top knot, and a younger girl with freckles sat at the other end squashed against her sister’s feet, playing on a small pink games console. She was the first to look up when her mum stepped in to introduce us.
The Vintage Teacup Club Page 3
