The Queen of Wishful Thinking

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Oh don’t worry about her, she’s nobody. She can wait,’ said Charlotte, flapping her hand.

  That little show of snobbery needled Lew. Charlotte had been a sales assistant herself once upon a time. Lew hated money snobs. Top of that list was Regina Sheffield. She came from stock that thought cash could buy class and taste, the sort who thought it was okay to treat waiters like crap if they threw a twenty-pound tip at them or bought three-hundred-pound bottles of wine at dinner tables merely to show off when really they couldn’t tell a Lafite Rothschild from a Lambrini.

  Lew raced into the bathroom. It wasn’t that he’d drunk a lot the night before, but that red wine he’d had with his meal didn’t sit well with the large whisky he’d had at home. It could have been much worse because as soon as they walked in, lo and behold, they found their ex-neighbour Tony and his equally boozy wife Liz looking at menus. ‘Come and join us,’ they’d called and though Lew had been about to decline on the grounds of not intruding, Charlotte had heartily accepted the offer on their behalf.

  ‘What are you doing today then?’ Lew asked her, hopping into his trousers.

  ‘I’m going to the gym,’ Charlotte replied. ‘For lunch.’

  ‘There’s a shocker.’ She had platinum plus membership to the most exclusive gym in town, allowing her full access at any time to any of the facilities, fresh towels and a discount in the spa and yet she only ever went there to socialise in the restaurant.

  ‘That reminds me, I’ll need to renew my subscription next month.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t,’ Lew said, expecting exactly the reaction he got. Rushing around like this, the timing was off for this conversation, but he could at least prepare her for a much more detailed conversation to come.

  ‘Whaaat?’ Charlotte froze, iPhone in hand, ready to record her voice memo.

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t. It’s a total waste of money. You don’t even need to be a member to eat in the restaurant. And if you remember we converted one of the bedrooms to a gym. Is it only me that ever uses it?’

  ‘I use it of course but we don’t have the machines that they do there,’ protested Charlotte.

  ‘Like what?’ quizzed Lew, because he knew she didn’t use any of the equipment either upstairs or at the gym.

  ‘The . . . thingys with . . . the weights on . . . I don’t know the names.’

  ‘Charlotte, the overspending has to stop. I’ll talk to you when I get home about it, but I’ve been looking at the visa bills and the direct debits and something is going to have to give, my love.’

  ‘But I like being a member.’

  She liked boasting that she had platinum plus membership, is what she meant.

  ‘Well, I no longer work in the City pulling in a six-figure salary, Charlotte, if you haven’t noticed.’ He hadn’t told her that the shop wasn’t making any profit. Not yet.

  Charlotte’s lip began to do its characteristic little-girl-tantrum curl.

  ‘I’m not exactly suggesting we live off value beans, Charlotte, but I want to ensure that we have enough money to be able to live comfortably for the rest of our hopefully long lives; and we won’t if you continue to throw money away on unnecessary things like luxury gym memberships that you don’t use and whatever “shrink-wraps” are costing four hundred pounds in the spa.’

  Charlotte’s lip was now so curled that it annoyed him to look at it. He wasn’t a mean man, but it had come as a complete shock to see how much she had been frittering away over the years. And he was equally annoyed at himself that he’d let her. He’d felt guilty that she was up in Yorkshire all week, whilst he was down in London for most of it and let her spend, spend, spend to compensate. But he was at home every night now. There was no need to dull any ache of boredom by buying Jimmy Choos and a full range of Crème de la Mer. They were wealthy, but he was hardly in the Getty family league.

  ‘Well, I won’t renew it then,’ said Charlotte with a familiar passive-aggressive sigh, which he wasn’t going to cave in to.

  ‘Good,’ he said, leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  The rain was just starting when he shut the back door behind him. By the time he had driven out of the road, the skies were squeezing the saturated clouds and it was pouring down. He had an image of Bonnie standing outside the shop, drenched to the skin, and nudged the speed limit with his car, anxiety claiming his heartbeat which flagged up as an instant warning. He’d been a hard taskmaster on himself over the years: lots of commuting, early mornings, late nights, figures, targets, responsibilities. Stress had nearly killed him and he’d escaped its grasp once; he might not be so lucky next time. He hated being late for anything and prepared to apologise profusely to Bonnie and then get on with the day.

  As he sat in a very long queue of traffic waiting for some temporary lights to change, his thoughts wandered back to the previous evening. It had been a lovely surprise to see his old neighbours Tony and Liz. They were full of gossip about the Ortons who had bought The Beeches. Apparently they were wasting no time applying for planning permission for all sorts of things including a swimming pool and a third-storey playroom for the children. The kids were gorgeous, Liz said. Well-behaved and just on the right side of mischievous.

  When they got home, Lew had wanted to make love to his wife. The good company of Tony and Liz had chilled him out, but unfortunately it’d had the opposite effect on Charlotte. She hadn’t needed all those details about children rampaging over The Beeches, she said; it had upset her, although she hadn’t looked very traumatised in the restaurant when she was downing all that Prosecco, thought Lew. Still he didn’t push it and anyway, by the time he had come out of the shower, Charlotte was making snuffly snoring noises into her pillow.

  Eventually the traffic lights changed and Lew rinsed the events of the previous night out of his head and concentrated on getting to the Pot of Gold as quickly as possible. Bonnie was standing hunched under the narrow eave outside the shop which afforded the barest protection from the elements. She had a bright sunshiney-yellow mac on and blue suede ankle boots which had darkened with the rain.

  ‘I am so sorry I’m late,’ Lew said, jogging over. ‘Come on in, quickly.’ He hurriedly opened up the shop door then tapped in the numbers which would deactivate the burglar alarm.

  Bonnie pulled the sodden bottom of her dress away from her legs. ‘The forecast said it would be dry today,’ she said. ‘I think it lied.’ She’d deliberately dressed in the brightest colours that the contents of her wardrobe offered up: the thin yellow mac, her favourite blue boots, her turquoise pinafore dress. She felt bright, excited by the prospect of a new job away from the revolting Ken Grimshaw and being able to see old friends again.

  ‘Anyway, good morning. A belated good morning. Hardly the best indication of a reliable organised boss but I promise you, I slept through my alarm clock for the first time in my life.’

  Bonnie laughed. ‘Ah, no worries,’ she said. The shop was warm and she’d dry out in no time. Ken was too tight to switch on any heating and she was surprised she hadn’t lost the tops of her fingers to frostbite by now.

  Lew shook the wet drops off the dark waves of his hair as he turned on the lights.

  ‘Would you like me to make you a coffee?’ asked Bonnie.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Lew. His throat was parched. Thank goodness he’d refused the brandy that Tony was trying to press on to him, otherwise he would have still been in bed now. ‘Here, let me show you the back office-cum-kitchen-cum-storeroom-cum-staffroom.’

  He pointed out where she could leave her coat and bag securely and where the kettle, cups and fridge were, and the compact washroom. Then he left her to make the coffees whilst he went through the post.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Bonnie, as she arrived at the counter with two mugs of coffee, ‘Would you like me to make some calls to some of the old dealers who might be interested in those empty units? Goldfinger, he’s from Doncaster so probably h
e hasn’t heard about you. Gary Glass is based in York and he’s got some beautiful stuff, and then there’s the Watchman . . .’

  ‘Does everyone in this game have a nickname?’ asked Lew, taking his mug with a thank you.

  ‘More or less,’ grinned Bonnie. ‘And the ones that don’t think they do, do.’

  ‘What’s yours, then?’

  ‘I’m not aware of one,’ she said.

  ‘Make one up in that case,’ urged Lew.

  What would have been hers? Bonnie mused. Unthinking Idiot, probably. Blind Betty, stumbling from one dark place to another, frying pan to fire. One name came to her louder than the others though.

  ‘Bonita Banana, that’s what my dad used to call me. Mum saw the name Bonita on a crate years before I was born and thought it was lovely so she saved it in case she ever had a daughter. She didn’t realise until someone mentioned it at my christening that she’d named me after a firm who exported bananas.’ She smiled.

  ‘And here’s me thinking you were named after Bonnie Langford,’ chuckled Lew.

  ‘Nope, a crate of foreign bananas. Apparently she never called me Bonita again after she found out.’

  ‘Apparently?’ Lew questioned the word.

  ‘Mum died when I was two so I couldn’t ask her about it first hand,’ said Bonnie. ‘Dad brought me up by himself. I can’t remember her.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Lew.

  Bonnie shrugged. ‘She was knocked over by an old man who shouldn’t have been driving.’ She stopped herself, not wanting to drag down the mood. ‘I’ve asked a friend of mine to come in and look around. She deals in vintage clothing and goes by the name of Vintage Valerie. If she moves in, lots of other dealers will follow because they tend to gravitate towards each other, like a pack.’

  ‘Spread the word as far as you like and invite them all in to check out the place,’ said Lew. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘Just let me know what you charge so I can go to them with all the information. I’ve left an envelope on the desk in the back room with my bank details and info you might need,’ Bonnie said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lew. ‘I can pay you cash if you’d prefer.’

  ‘I would if that’s possible,’ said Bonnie, nodding her head keenly. That way Stephen wouldn’t know what she earned and she could siphon off a few more pounds for things she needed so she wouldn’t have to go to him cap in hand.

  ‘Then shall I do a bit of dusting?’ she asked.

  ‘Er . . . yeah . . . please.’

  Lew wasn’t used to such efficiency. Vanda might have mooched around with a duster sometimes, but she didn’t make much impact with it. He warned himself not to be taken in so easily though. Bonnie Brookland was a new broom, and he shouldn’t expect any initial level of enthusiasm to last. Then again, Vanda Clegg had been a knackered old brush from the off.

  *

  Vintage Valerie needed no introduction. She swept regally into the Pot of Gold in a long honey-coloured maxi dress with a peacock blue shawl draped beautifully over her shoulders, and a scarlet Gloria Swanson turban on her head complete with feathery plumes. She looked as if she had just walked off a Cecil B. DeMille film set.

  ‘That’s Valerie,’ Bonnie whispered to Lew, out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘I figured,’ he replied.

  As he was about to walk towards her, Bonnie caught his arm. ‘Just let her have a wander first and get a feel for the place by herself.’ She knew that way, Valerie would recognise the same potential she had seen. Valerie wouldn’t be pushed into making up her mind by anyone.

  After fifteen minutes, Lew’s nerves were jangling as he watched Valerie end her slow and silent circuit of his shop. Then she approached the counter and smiled first at Bonnie, then at Lew. She held out a long slim pale hand towards him and introduced herself.

  ‘Vintage Valerie,’ she drawled.

  Lew gave his own hand a drying slide down his trouser leg because he realised it was slightly damp with ridiculous nerves.

  ‘Lewis Harley,’ he replied. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

  Valerie’s head swivelled round to Bonnie. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said. ‘It has appeal. I’ll make a few calls.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that,’ said Bonnie with a satisfied grin.

  ‘Expect some visitors, Mr Harley,’ said Valerie over her shoulder as she glided towards the door like a multicoloured swan.

  ‘Result.’ Bonnie clicked her tongue and winked at Lew, as the doorbell made a cheerful sound like the bell equivalent of a ‘hurray’.

  Bonnie passed a very pleasant and productive first morning in her new job. She’d managed to get in touch with Gary Glass and the Watchman and they promised to come over when they could find a moment to check the place out. They’d both been very grateful for the heads-up and said they’d spread the word. Grimshaw’s was a mess, they’d both said. Gary would be seeing Goldfinger the following morning at the twice-yearly Ribury Fayre and he’d mention it to him as well. They all worked the markets and the car boots and they’d collectively do a better job in advertising than anything the Daily Trumpet could herald. Which, admittedly, wasn’t that hard. Then Bonnie took a call from Valerie who wanted to talk rates with Lew. Then Jackpot rang to ask the same thing and Bonnie knew that if those two were on board, the others would come flocking too – and soon.

  Clock Robin and Starstruck both came in to replenish their stock mid-afternoon and Lew was alerted to how warmly they greeted Bonnie. Starstruck in particular.

  ‘Hello lass,’ he said, enveloping her in his noticeably long, weathered arms. ‘You’ve left that shit’ole, have you? What a disgrace. Old Harry will be spinning in his grave.’

  ‘I have, Starstruck,’ said Bonnie. ‘Though my hand was forced, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Nasty bastard that Ken,’ snarled Clock Robin, who was a very tall, skinny angular man with a huge hook nose. He reminded Lew of a crow.

  ‘Never liked him,’ agreed Starstruck, hanging a signed photo of Diana Dors up on the wall. ‘What a lovely woman she was. She used to live next door to my granny in Swindon, you know. Ooh, she wor a warm ’un.’ He chuckled affectionately. ‘She signed this for me just before she tried to crack America. “Starstruck,” she said, “they’re trying to market me as the English Marilyn Monroe.” I said, “Di, you’re far bonnier than her, lass.” She gave me a right big kiss . . . here.’ He touched his lips and his bright grey eyes had a faraway look in them.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone that Starstruck hadn’t met. He always seemed to be in the right place at the right time or was connected to the rich and famous in some way. His mum was born on the same street at the Krays, he’d worked as a cameraman in Pinewood studios, his sister had married a top showbiz agent, he’d been on holiday with Roger Moore. It was as if he’d known that one day his profession would be selling memorabilia and he’d been storing it up for decades like a squirrel. And he could spot a counterfeit from five hundred yards, though goodness knows how. Autographs had been his life, his thing. He was the expert’s expert on signatures; some of the big auction houses even employed his services. It was as if he could psychically identify a person from their writing.

  ‘Nice little spot this,’ said Starstruck, looking around him and waving over at another trader, John Lemon, a man with disproportionately short legs who dealt in silver and was therefore affectionately labelled Long John, though his unit was called ‘Silver Service’. He was adding some more precious pieces to his cabinet. His specialty was exquisite silver trinkets such as pepperettes, sugar shakers, snuff boxes and spoons. ‘All right, John?’ Starstruck called.

  ‘Not bad lad, and yourself?’

  ‘Aye, not bad either.’

  Then Starstruck turned back to Bonnie and leaned in close for confidentiality. ‘I like this bloke,’ he said, cocking his head in Lew’s direction. ‘He’s straight down the line. Like your dad and Harry Grimshaw.’ He dropped his head reverently at the mention of the two men
before continuing. ‘It’s got a lovely feel to it, this place, but it could do with a few more people coming through that door, Bon, do you know what I mean? I’m giving it a chance, but . . .’ The word hung ominously in the air.

  ‘Of course,’ said Bonnie, adding in a conspiratorial tone, ‘It’s not my business to say, but I think you’re about to be working alongside some familiar faces, very soon.’

  Starstruck gave a little delighted gasp but before he could follow that up with any questions, Lew’s cough interrupted them.

  ‘Bonnie, could I borrow you for a moment?’ Bonnie hoped she hadn’t been talking too much and was about to get a telling off. Ken didn’t like her chatting to the dealers. He was paranoid that they were slagging him off, though was it really paranoia when they were?

  ‘The old lady with the white Gulvase came in last night just before I closed up,’ said Lew.

  ‘Oh good.’ Bonnie was glad she had.

  ‘She brought in the full box of stuff. Look at this.’ He unwrapped the Chinese cup and saucer from the protection of the bubble wrap he’d placed around it. ‘I found this incredibly interesting and I’d like to hear what you think.’

  Bonnie took the saucer from him. ‘Blimey. I’m surprised this hasn’t ended up in a bin. Someone must have known what it’s worth to have hung on to it. Oh my . . . it’s got the matching cup too.’ She blew upwards and ruffled the stray hairs which had worked themselves loose from her hairband. ‘You should show these to Jackpot when he comes in to set up. He’ll say the same as me though, that you should send photos of this pair to Christie’s. There are some clever fakes out there but I have a feeling these could be very special.’

  ‘I thought so.’ A thrill tripped down Lew’s spine that she agreed with his assessment. It was wonderful to share such a moment with someone who got that excitement that discovered treasures brought.

  ‘What Jack doesn’t know about ceramics you could write on a postage stamp.’