by Jenny Oliver
She looked at his hand over hers, his neatly trimmed fingernails, the smattering of hairs, the tan-line of where his watch usually was, the familiarity of the warmth of his palm.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ she said, ‘I think maybe I’ve been blaming the wrong things for my own unhappiness. And I’m not saying that we won’t have any problems again in our lives but they won’t come from the same place as they have before, for me anyway. And maybe I’ll go to New York for a bit, or we can go or you could come out in the holidays, but I’ll always come back, and maybe I’ll start something completely new ‒ a design arm of Vintage Treasure. God knows. But I feel like I can stop for a minute, and get my breath back.’ Anna glanced up and looked at him, the warm chocolate-brown of his eyes sparkling in the candlelight. The corners of his mouth tipping into the start of a smile which she mirrored, feeling that shyness from earlier creep back in.
Then he pulled his hand away and she sat up straighter, startled, like maybe she’d said something wrong, that he’d processed what she’d said and it wasn’t enough for him. She watched silently as he stood up and went over to the shelf with the books and the cactus and fumbled around at the back of it.
Then he turned back with a tatty brown leather book in his hands. ‘I saved you this,’ he said, holding her long-lost scrapbook out for her.
‘You did…’ she said quietly, unable to quite believe the sight of it, taking it from him with trembling hands. The feel of it between her fingers was like the touch of silk, like a familiarity of unpacking boxes from your childhood and only remembering what the things were once you saw them. Synapses flickering with recognition. The scratch across the front, the frayed pages, the smell of leather and glue. Leafing through all the glamorous shots of Cindy Crawford’s Mexican holiday home, Maria Carey’s walk-in wardrobe and Ivana Trump’s swimming pool and she saw herself with her scissors and Pritt Stick, sitting on the edge of the bed dreaming of a future sparkling with glitter and riches and ambition. She laughed as she turned the pages. ‘It’s horrendous really, isn’t it?’
Seb shrugged. ‘I quite like it. I’d like my initials mosaic-ed in the bottom of my swimming pool.’ He leant across the table to look at some of the gaudy images and then went over to the bucket on the floor to pull out another bottle of wine, ice and water clinking in the make-shift cooler.
As he searched for the corkscrew, Anna flicked back to the beginning of the book and saw where she’d printed her name and phone number so someone could get in touch with her if she lost it, the address of the poky London flat written neatly in fountain pen. She found the first two pages after that were stuck together, the glue melted and crisp, and as she prised them apart they unstuck with a crack.
There, before her, was the first picture she’d stuck in, right at the beginning, right at the start, from the first Hello! in the stack. It wasn’t of ballrooms dripping with chandeliers nor was it of diamond-encrusted dresses and pearls as big as robin’s eggs, it was a torn-out image of a patio, trimmed with olive groves and a setting Tuscan sun. Across the terracotta tiles were rows of trestle tables draped in white cloth and laid with mismatched crockery, lanterns strung up in the trees and wild flowers scattered in old oil cans. Along the centre of the table fairy cakes were tumbling in stacks of multi-coloured pastels, tiered on towering stands, and in the background was a band, the instruments leant up waiting for dancing under a sky twinkling with stars.
She traced the outline of the image with her finger and then closed the book and looked up at Seb.
‘I would put you in my Yeses,’ she said.
He paused mid-pulling of the cork, his mouth quirking up at the sides and his eyes crinkling as he tipped his head and said, ‘I would put you in my Yeses.’
The feeling of her smile then went from the top of her head right down to her toes. She left the book on the table, pulled her sleeves down over her hands and sat back with her feet up on the box and watched him as he poured more white and watched her back.
And then they ate crisps and drank wine and talked about everything and anything and as the evening dipped into a blanket of darkness and all the birds fell silent, and they peered out to look at the glistening cherry tree and watch the last of the tea-lights flicker and fade, she said, ‘This is the most fun I’ve ever had and I’m in the shed.’
He put his arm round her and turned her towards him as he leant back against the old work-bench, and said, ‘Do you think you might want to marry me?’
‘Steady on, I’ve only known you one evening.’ She laughed, liking the feeling of his hands linked behind her waist.
He paused for a moment and then said, ‘Well how about just sex, then? I’ve heard you’ve got some kinky new gold leggings.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t have sex with you without knowing your intentions are honourable.’
‘There you go,’ he said, his hands held out wide as if his point was proved. ‘It’s a win-win situation.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anna woke up early to the sound of birds and maybe the distant rumble of a tractor, but it could have been a lorry on the M3. Her skin felt cooler than it had in months, the sheet that she usually kicked off just the right weight for the morning breeze. It felt though like something was missing, something wasn’t quite as normal. She looked over at the pillow next to her and saw Seb, face relaxed with sleep, his hair all messy and skewiff, his arm flung out over the sheet and she let her hand rest on his wrist while she thought back to the night before, to the day before, and then she reached down and grabbed a big cushion from the floor and snuggled her shoulders back into it and sat, propped up, staring out the window at the bright-blue sky, the birds that she still had no clue what type they were swooping and hovering, at the butterflies and the wisps of morning cloud like streaks of paint, and she realised that in that moment, the only thing that was wrong was that she had the unfamiliar feeling of having nothing to worry about. Her mind, usually as frantic and cluttered as that hideous mess that once stood tangled at the back of Mrs Beedle’s shop, was empty and calm like a big balloon. A wide, cavernous space of nothing except the moment of sitting up in bed, the slow pulse of Seb’s heart under her fingertips, and the disappearing clouds out the window.
The bakery was just opening when Anna arrived in the square, Rachel had just unrolled the awning and laid out the tables and chairs. Anna walked over and followed her back into the shop as she piled hot chocolate croissants and pastries into wooden trays and bowls laid out over the counter.
‘Blimey, you’re here early.’ Rachel said, shocked. ‘Give me a sec to just get the rest of the croissants out the oven.’
Anna pulled up a stool on the edge of the counter and looked around as she waited. It was like walking into heaven. Cool and dark in contrast to the warm summer breeze just picking up outside. The glass counter to her right seemed to sparkle like the casings at Tiffany’s. Blueberries burst out of erratically shaped muffins like ink, glazed apricots sat like half suns on sticky Danish pastries, swirling cinnamon buns were stacked precariously high with a dusting of snowy icing sugar, and raspberries just peeked out of the crisp dough on the drop scones. The shelf below bowed under the weight of jewel coloured candid fruits, sugared almonds, tiers of strawberry creams and white chocolate thins. And then below that held what Anna was looking for, cakes with icing so thick it was like the froth on waves as they crashed. Slices were cut to reveal layer upon layer of sponge, multi-coloured or speckled with walnuts and shavings of carrot. There were dense chocolate gateaux as black as coal and then, her personal favourite, the Victoria Sandwich, two simple buttery tiers that oozed with jam and cream and, on the top, stencil patterns created in the coating of sugar. Her mouth watered at the very sight of it.
‘What can I get you, then?’ Rachel asked, heaping the last of the almond croissants, their centres plump to bursting like little fat bellies, onto a wooden tray.
‘I’ll have an esp
resso and…’ Anna paused, glancing back to the glass counter, ‘It’s probably too early for cake, isn’t it?’
‘Anna…’ Rachel rested her elbows on the counter, ‘It’s never too early for cake.’
Anna scrunched up her nose, thought about it, ummed and ahhed and then said, ‘OK, go on then, the Victoria Sponge.’
‘An excellent choice,’ Rachel laughed as she banged about with the coffee machine behind her and then went to cut a great wedge of cake.
Once everything was laid out beautifully in front of Anna, and Rachel had got herself a cup of tea and a chocolate and almond croissant, she said, ‘Did you hear about Jackie?’
‘With Doug?’
‘The one and only.’ Rachel laughed. ‘He makes her laugh out loud, she says.’
Anna made a face. Thought of the antagonism between her and Jackie from the moment she’d arrived back and then the realisation that she wouldn’t be where she was without her, would never have taken Razzmatazz to London, would probably never have started on the journey of sweeping up her past if it hadn’t been for her foray onto Tinder. ‘I’m pleased,’ she said with a nod, ‘I’ll be interested to see how it turns out,’ she added, thinking that she actually, genuinely, would. And knowing she would most probably be around to see it play out.
‘Won’t we all.’ Rachel laughed and took a bite of croissant, then added, with her mouthful, ‘So, Anna, while it’s a pleasure to have you here so early, I’m assuming this isn’t just a friendly visit.’
Anna shook her head, her mouth stuffed full of light, fluffy sponge. When she finally swallowed, she said, ‘I’m going to need a lot of cake.’
Walking over to Vintage Treasure, Anna checked her eBay account on her phone. The 3G was crap in Nettleton so she had to sit on a bench and wait while it loaded. The sheepdog lifted its head as she sat down and then put it down again, just a little closer to her flip-flop. She pushed back her first thought of whether it had fleas, and instead gave it a little tap on the head, with just one finger, which she wiped on her top afterwards. It was a start, and the dog didn’t seem to care either way.
Her account loaded.
Six people watching.
Seeing as she’d only put it up an hour and half ago, that couldn’t be half bad.
She thought of her beautiful Vera Wang wedding dress, of how she’d snatched it from Mr Mallory’s hands on the first night, unpacking it at Primrose Cottage, how she’d hung it with such reverence at the back of the wardrobe, the dress-bag zipped up tight. She thought of standing in Selfridges and the assistant buttoning up all the tiny pearl buttons at the back and putting her hand to her mouth in a gasp as Anna had turned around and, while she probably did that with everyone, Anna had felt like a princess.
But of all the possessions that she had left, it was the only one actually worth anything. And what was the point of being a princess in off-white Vera Wang if the ball was full of all the people you didn’t want to be there?
Ooh, seven people watching.
Mrs Beedle was in the garden, sunning herself while reading an antiques magazine and drinking stewed tea.
‘Someone said you were leaving to go to New York,’ she said as she heard Anna step outside on the cracked cobblestones.
‘I’ve had an offer. I don’t know if I’m going to take it,’ Anna said, swallowing, wishing she’d told her herself.
Mrs Beedle turned her head to look at her, ‘If you do go, there are some wonderful flea markets. It could be your first buying trip. I don’t want you to get any old crap though, if I can’t sell it it’ll be coming out of your pay packet.’
Anna laughed, leant against the doorjamb and plucked a sprig of lavender that was poking round the French windows. ‘And if I don’t go?’
Mrs Beedle took a sip of her tea, the marmalade cat winding its way round her ankles, ‘I was thinking France. Hire a van. I haven’t had any good French furniture for a while now and they love it here.’ She paused and scooped up the cat, then said, all innocent, ‘Your father’s going with the lovely Hermione. I thought maybe we could all go together?’
Anna bit down on the start of her smile, ‘If I’m going on buying trips, Mrs Beedle, I’m going to have to start earning more than £6.50 an hour.’
The old woman nodded, her bouffant grey hairdo bobbing, ‘I’m sure we could come up with some kind of agreement. But I mean, if you’re going to be swanning off to New York all the time it can’t be fifty-fifty.’
‘Oh no, I’d never expect fifty-fifty,’ Anna shook her head, watched Mrs Beedle raise a brow at the hint of mocking in her tone.
‘We’ll think of something. But,’ she pushed herself up off the chair, ‘In the meantime there’s work to do, while you’ve been off to London with your auditions I’ve sold half the bloody shop, so you need to get back to,’ she waved a hand, ‘Whatever it is that you do that makes people buy all my bloody crap.’
Anna laughed, twirling the purple flower between her fingers. ‘Mrs Beedle, do you think there’s any chance I might borrow quite a lot of the chairs and those teacups out the back?’
Mrs Beedle paused and narrowed her eyes.
‘It’s for maybe, you know, something maybe to do with the wedding,’ she said, feeling her cheeks go pink.
‘Anna, my darling,’ Mrs Beedle smiled, ‘If in some way this brings your father into the picture, you can have whatever the hell you like. Try and sell them while you’re at it.’ She laughed and shrugged and ambled off out the back to make another cup of tea.
By the weekend, Anna had ten bids on the dress and fifteen people were watching. She had become obsessed with the app, refreshing it every couple of minutes just to see if anything had changed. While the bids were creeping up, she would still be short of cash. Philippe had said that he could source her the wine from a friend’s vineyard in the Dordogne and the champagne straight from the heart of the region, but it was still going to cost. And also, now the Vera Wang was going, she needed something to wear. Luckily the headmaster at Seb’s school had said that if he didn’t see the school trestle tables leaving the building, he wouldn’t know that they were gone. And Billy and Clara’s mum, she discovered when this time she stopped her in the pub to congratulate rather than chastise her, happened to work at The Rose Hotel and would happily sneak a whole bundle of white tablecloths out if she needed them.
Anna had arranged to meet Hermione outside Philippe’s bistro at Saturday lunchtime. She rushed out the shop late to find Hermione lounging back languidly on her little wooden chair, sipping a chilled glass of rosé and conversing with the waitress in fluent French. Her eyes were masked by huge black sunglasses and her hair had been shorn into a platinum crop.
‘Look at you!’ Anna shook her head. ‘This is a very glam new look.’
Hermione shrugged a bony shoulder and threw the menu down on the table. ‘I’m experimenting. I thought it was time for a change. You were doing all this putting the past behind you malarkey and I didn’t want to be left out.’ She raked a hand through the cropped layers and turned to look at herself in the bistro window. ‘Do you think it’s all right? Your dad said I look like a cabin boy.’
Anna held up a hand, ‘He’s an idiot. You look amazing.’
Hermione sucked in her cheeks and glanced at herself from different angles, ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. And you look marvellous, too, darling. Very pinched cheeks and rosy glow.’
‘Yeah, I feel better.’
‘Good. And you’re talking to Lucinda about possibilities in New York? If you go for a month or so, I’ll come out and visit. I haven’t been this year and I need to get some more cranberry bubble bath from Saks, mine’s got about an inch left.’
Anna rolled her eyes and as she sat down, poured herself a glass of rosé and they enjoyed a perfect lunch of perfect food, crumbling chunks of blue cheese on endives dribbled with mustard dressing, flaky salmon and sugar snap peas that burst in the mouth with a crunch, followed by warm chocolate fondant that popped when cut
with a spoon, oozing thick, melted chocolate out over the plate.
‘It’s not really as bad here as I always thought it was.’ Hermione said, sitting back and patting her lips with a napkin. ‘It has some plusses.’
‘It has a couple.’ Anna agreed.
‘Not least its proximity to London.’ Hermione guffawed a laugh and then drained the last of her wine. ‘I have something for you.’
‘You do?’ Anna frowned. ‘What?’
‘Don’t sound so suspicious. It’s a gift.’
The last gift Hermione had given her was when they were sixteen and she’d pushed a condom into her hand and thrust her in the direction of where Luke Lloyd was standing by a chestnut tree in the park.
Anna watched as Hermione leant down to get something out of her bag and, then unable to find it amidst all the rubbish in there, hoisted it up on her lap and did a proper Mary Poppins-style search as things clinked and bashed and papers went flying. ‘It’s here somewhere,’ she muttered, pulling out make-up and magazines. ‘Ah, here!’ she said finally. ‘Here it is.’ In her hand was a crumpled envelope, and she thrust it in Anna’s direction. ‘This is for you.’
Eyes narrowed, unsure about what the hell it was, Anna leant forward and took it tentatively, while Hermione beamed with delight.
