Tuesdays at the Teacup Club

by Vanessa Greene

  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 – sound-track 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 handsome 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.

  Th
e 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.’