by Jane Casey
‘Mum, are you OK?’
Instead of answering me, she swayed and I ran across the studio to support her. As I reached her she seemed to come back to herself.
‘Don’t be silly, Jess. I’m fine.’ She blinked a couple of times, very quickly, and obviously made a huge effort to seem composed. ‘Will, did you say?’
‘Henderson.’ He was looking wary.
‘I should have known who you are.’ She tried to smile. ‘You look just like your father.’
‘So I’m told.’ From the expression on Will’s face it was absolutely the wrong thing to say to him. He turned to me. ‘I’d better go.’
‘I’m sure I’ll see you around.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ He nodded to Mum. ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Tennant.’
‘And you,’ she said automatically. She watched him as he walked past her, and kept looking at the empty doorway after he’d gone.
‘Mum. Come back.’
‘What?’ She glanced at me for a second. ‘Oh. I’m fine.’
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I sort of have,’ she said softly, then shook her head. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. It’s time to go. Unless you want to stay for dinner.’
‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ I said, clutching my stomach, where Petra’s scone was staging a sit-in.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Not as such.’
‘We have an open invitation to the house, so you can come back if you want.’ She gave the studio the briefest of glances, then turned away. ‘For now, I think we should leave. I don’t want us to outstay our welcome on our first visit.’
I wasn’t actually sure that was possible given how pleased Tilly had been to see Mum again, but I let it go. Mum had had enough, and in truth, so had I. I followed her obediently, single file along the muddy path that cut through the unkempt lawn, the rain tapping on my head, and tried to ignore the tingle between my shoulder blades that told me I was being watched.
6
THE NEXT DAY I got a job.
It was all Tilly’s idea, really. Work had not featured in my plans for the summer, and when my aunt turned up early the following morning with a strange old woman in tow, I wasn’t inclined to be enthusiastic. Tilly didn’t seem to notice.
‘Jess, I wanted you to meet Sylvia Burman. She runs a charity shop in the village and she’s looking for someone to help her.’
‘Three mornings a week,’ Sylvia said. ‘I don’t open every day.’ She was dressed in a shapeless cardigan and skirt. The cardigan was held together halfway down her front with a safety pin, having lost most of the buttons during its long life. Her outfit involved several different shades of brown, all drab but all managing to clash with the others. Her hair was white and long, pinned to the back of her head with a tortoiseshell skewer that wasn’t quite up to the job. She had a tiny, wispy voice that matched her appearance.
I tried to think of a way to say no without causing any offence. ‘Oh. I’m not sure—’
Tilly ignored me. ‘Sylvia mentioned she was looking for someone to work with her and I thought you might find it interesting.’
‘Really?’ I tried to catch Mum’s eye. Help.
Either she misread the signals I was trying to send her or she was determined to ruin my summer. ‘It’s not a bad idea, Jess. Good experience for you.’
‘Of what?’ I snapped.
‘Dealing with people. Retail. That sort of thing.’
I was about to explode but Sylvia got in first. ‘Of course, I can’t pay you a lot. It is a small charity – I founded it myself – and most of the income is from the shop.’
This was getting better and better. ‘What sort of charity is it?’
‘Owls.’
‘Owls?’
‘Rare owls.’ She looked like an owl herself, I thought, with her big eyes blinking behind thick-lensed glasses. ‘I fund a breeding programme for them.’
‘That sounds very . . . worthy.’ And not particularly appealing. Owls were fine – I quite liked them, if anything – but worrying about their sex lives wasn’t going to get me out of bed in the morning. I gathered myself together to say no, and had got as far as opening my mouth when Sylvia happened to mention exactly how much she was prepared to pay me. ‘Not a lot’ in Port Sentinel meant a good deal more money than I had ever earned before.
‘Is that per week?’
‘Per day.’
‘Mornings only.’ I couldn’t believe it. There had to be a catch.
‘I say mornings but I should be more specific. About three hours altogether. I usually open between nine and one, but you don’t have to be there too early.’ She blinked again. ‘We don’t get many visitors before ten or so.’
‘What sort of thing would I have to do?’
‘A bit of everything, I suppose.’ She looked wistful. ‘It’s just that it’s all getting beyond me. The fetching and carrying, I mean. And I like the company in the shop. There are days when it’s very quiet indeed.’
I could imagine. I didn’t think the residents of Port Sentinel would be that keen on owls. Or charity shops, for that matter. The more I thought about it, the more I felt it wasn’t the sort of place where it was fun to be poor. I could do with having some cash. I swapped my dubious expression for an employee-of-the-year smile.
‘I’d love to work for you.’
‘Really?’ Sylvia clasped her hands together. ‘That’s wonderful. Can you start today?’
‘Today?’
‘Of course she can,’ Mum said cheerfully. ‘We didn’t have any plans, did we, Jess?’
‘No, but—’ But I’d like some time to get used to the idea.
‘Wonderful,’ Sylvia said again. She turned to Tilly. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you suggested it, Matilda. She’s perfect.’
‘I’m still in my pyjamas,’ I pointed out. ‘I’m not exactly ready for work.’
‘Just come to the shop when you’re dressed, dear.’ I was pretty sure that was as close as Sylvia ever came to cracking the whip.
‘Where is it?’
‘Silly me. Of course, you don’t know it.’ Sylvia gave a little giggle. ‘It’s halfway down Fore Street, just beside the bakery. You can’t miss it. It’s called Fine Feathers.’
It was almost half past ten before Fine Feathers’ newest employee made it to work, slinking down Fore Street while doing my best to be invisible. I was still getting more than my fair share of double takes from strangers, but I was starting to get used to it; I’d perfected my no-you-don’t-know-me glare. It was more that I really didn’t want to meet anyone I knew, especially since I’d made an enemy of roughly half the people I’d met so far in Port Sentinel. Natasha, for one, would make a big deal out of my new job; I could practically hear her already. Even I had to admit there was something slightly ridiculous about a charity shop devoted to owls, and I didn’t feel any more enthusiastic when I found it.
It was in a brilliant location, right at the heart of the shopping area, but the bay window was dusty and the window display was half-hearted. A mannequin that was missing both hands lolled awkwardly on a wicker chair, her wig sliding off her head. The grey dress she was wearing looked as if it had come directly from Sylvia’s own wardrobe. A couple of handbags sagged at the mannequin’s chipped feet, along with a pair of lurid vases and a woeful hat. Most of the window was taken up with faded pictures of owls. It was impossible to see inside the shop from the street, no matter how hard I peered through the window. Forget not having many customers before ten – I was surprised anyone was ever tempted to open the door. Not having any choice about it myself, I took a deep breath and went in.
Things didn’t get much better once I was inside the shop. Even before the bell had stopped jangling my nose was itching and my eyes were streaming. Dust and mothballs made a fairly potent combination, it turned out, and I answered Sylvia’s enthusiastic greeting with a barrage of sneezes.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll
get used to it.’ She began making her way towards me, skirting stacks of full bin liners that took up most of the space. ‘These are all donations. I haven’t had a chance to unpack them yet.’
‘I’m sure you’re run off your feet.’ I looked around as my eyes became accustomed to the light – or rather the lack of it. The impression of total chaos wasn’t completely fair – there were shelves at the back of the shop loaded with bric-a-brac and books, and racks of clothes lurked on either side of me. There was even a changing room, though the curtain was hanging off the rail and the mirror was grey with dust. As I started to turn away I half saw a figure in the back room, standing against the wall, watching me, and my heart took off at a gallop. There was that feeling again – pure fear, ballooning out of nowhere. I refused to acknowledge it but some part of me knew because of Freya I could be blundering into danger with every step I took, so I was beyond jumpy. And that made me even more determined not to be intimidated. I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans, took a deep breath and faced the figure squarely, meeting her unwavering gaze. It didn’t take me long to realize that this was one staring competition I wasn’t going to win.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ Sylvia was looking concerned.
‘I thought there was someone in the back room, but it’s just a mannequin.’
She peered at the figure. ‘Oh yes. She should be in the window.’
The fair-haired mannequin’s face was damaged, the plaster flaking away so she only had one eye. If her counterpart in the window hadn’t been maimed too, I might have thought Sylvia had retired her on aesthetic grounds. But then Sylvia didn’t seem the type to care about appearances.
‘I’m just not very organized, I’m afraid. I haven’t had any help in the shop for months. No one seems to want to work any more.’
And most of the young people in Port Sentinel had more than enough money without having to spend their time in a dark, filthy junk shop, unlike me. According to Tilly, Sylvia was exceptionally wealthy and could easily afford to pay me, so I didn’t have to feel guilty about taking her money. But if I was going to take it, I was determined to earn it.
I squared my shoulders and smiled. ‘Well, I’m here now. Let’s see how much I can get done this morning. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Where do you want to start?’ Sylvia’s hands were fluttering. I’d already noted that was a sign she was stressing out.
‘I was thinking I might unpack the bags first – just to make some room – and then I could do a bit of tidying, maybe?’ And give the place a good clean while I was at it.
‘That sounds perfect.’ More fluttering. ‘I could make us a cup of tea.’
‘Yes please,’ I said, resolving to find some way to throw mine away. I wasn’t going to consume anything in Fine Feathers until I’d made sure to bleach every mug, and I’d be bringing my own milk. Maybe my own tea bags too, I reflected. You couldn’t be too careful. I was willing to bet Sylvia’s were antiques.
Unaware of what I was thinking, she twittered off to the back room to find the kettle and I picked up the bag nearest me. As I hefted it by the knot, the plastic gave way and the contents fell to the floor.
‘Oh, perfect.’
I bent down to pick everything up, starting with a shoe that had slid under the nearest rack of clothes. Nude patent leather, slightly scuffed sole, very high heel. It looked as if it had only been worn once. I turned it over to check the label inside, more from habit than anything else, and stopped dead.
Louis Vuitton.
‘You’re kidding.’ I scrabbled in the heap of clothes at my feet, looking for the other shoe. It would be too cruel if the one I’d found was a singleton, but it would make more sense than someone voluntarily giving away expensive designer footwear that was practically new.
The other shoe turned up in the middle of a tangle of jumpers that proved to be cashmere and incredibly soft. One had a tiny hole in the sleeve; the rest looked unworn. And there was another pair of heels in red leather – very strappy sandals made by Salvatore Ferragamo.
Sylvia crept back, carrying a tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits on it. ‘Is everything all right?’
I was sitting on the floor surrounded by designer clothes. My mind was officially broken. ‘It’s just the stuff – the stuff people give you—’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ She slid the tray onto the cash desk. ‘I do worry about it, but beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s amazing. It’s all such high quality. And there’s nothing wrong with any of it, really.’
‘Oh. That’s good.’
‘Didn’t you realize?’ I held up a top. ‘This is a Marc Jacobs. That dress is from Whistles – which, OK, it is a high street shop but still, expensive. Those trousers are Stella McCartney. Paul McCartney’s daughter,’ I added, not seeing even a hint of name-recognition and trying to come up with a cultural reference old enough for her. ‘You know. The Beatles.’
‘I don’t pay much attention to fashion, dear. But people are very generous. And it’s all in a very good cause, you see.’ She held up a spoon. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thanks.’ I was unpicking the knot on the next bag, half expecting to find it full of unwearable dross. The first one had to be beginner’s luck. I took out a crumpled white blazer with a lipstick stain on the lapel – much more like the usual charity-shop thing. Except for the Ralph Lauren label inside it.
Before I could delve any further, the bell above the door jangled and I twisted round to see Darcy standing behind me. Today her hair was in two fat plaits and she was wearing a pale pink dress with stripy leggings. Just to make sure she didn’t look too sweet, her eye make-up was pretty close to what the well-dressed panda was wearing this summer and her nails were painted black. She looked thrilled to see me and I found myself smiling back, wanting to like her in spite of Petra’s concerns and Will’s warning. In fact, given Will’s hostility to her I should really have been on her side. Instead of sleeping I’d spent quite a bit of the previous night deciding I didn’t trust him – not at all – so arguably I should do the opposite of whatever he suggested. Which meant being nice to Darcy. I pushed the doubt to the back of my mind where it could stay until I’d formed my own opinion.
‘Hey.’ She knelt down beside me. ‘I bumped into Hugo just now. He told me you were working here.’
‘Did he, indeed.’ I was surprised. I hadn’t thought Hugo was the gossipy type.
‘It’s a genius idea. Really. You’ll get to see everything first, before it even goes on the racks. You have your pick of everything.’ Darcy leaned across to root through the bag that was in front of me. ‘Oh my God. Are these shoes alligator-skin?’
‘I don’t know. I hope not.’ I took them out of her hands and slung them back in the bag. Sylvia was safely out of earshot, but I dropped my voice anyway, not wanting to hurt her feelings. ‘If this is such a great place to work, how come Sylvia couldn’t persuade anyone to help her?’
Darcy rolled her eyes. ‘She’s mad. It’s too much trouble to keep her happy. Hello, Miss Burman.’ She waved at her and got a confused stare in return. ‘Besides, it’s more fun to shop here than to actually work.’
‘You shock me.’
‘It’s not that bad. You’ll make it fun. And you really will be able to dress well, you know. You’ll get a staff discount and everything.’
‘I’m not sure high fashion mixes that well with my current style.’ I looked down at my T-shirt and frayed jeans. ‘I don’t think heels and a Ralph Lauren blazer would work with this.’
Darcy wrinkled her nose. ‘Maybe it’s time for an image change.’
‘Maybe it’s time I did some work.’ Sylvia wasn’t what you’d call scary but I didn’t want to disappoint Tilly by getting the sack on my first day. I went back to sorting through donations. ‘I still can’t believe how expensive all this stuff was when it was new.’
‘Welcome to Port Sentin
el.’ She rummaged in the bag again, finding a strapless top. ‘Do you think this would fit me?’
The truthful answer was no. ‘Maybe. But do you want it to?’
‘Not really.’
‘Do people in Port Sentinel really care about owls or something?’
‘Owls?’ Darcy looked bewildered. ‘Oh. You mean Sylvia’s charity?’
‘The reason for the shop’s existence.’
‘No need to be sarky. No, owls aren’t big around here. But fashion is. And you don’t want to be seen to get two years out of your designer clothes. Everyone makes it a mission to get rid of last season’s stuff.’
‘That’s so wasteful.’
She shrugged. ‘Get used to it. Anyway, this is the only charity shop in town. The others couldn’t afford the rent and closed down. Sylvia is loaded so she was able to afford the overheads and now she gets everything that’s going.’
‘I’d have thought the shop would be packed. You’re the only customer we’ve had all morning.’
‘Not surprising, is it? Most of the locals wouldn’t buy anything here in case someone spotted them wearing out-of-date second-hand clothes. Imagine if the previous owner saw you in the boots she’d thrown away.’ She waggled a black suede ankle boot at me. The toecap was covered with gold studs. It was sort of luxury punk, and quite hideous.
‘Those would be hard to miss,’ I agreed.
‘And out-of-towners don’t always risk it. It’s not the most appealing shop on the street.’ Darcy’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Sylvia does the window displays herself, you know.’
‘How do you know all this? About the shop, and the rent, and the customers?’
She bit her lip. ‘Oh damn. I wasn’t supposed to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
I don’t think Darcy wanted to go on, but she just couldn’t help answering. ‘Freya worked here the year before last. She did Saturdays – Sylvia didn’t bother to open up during the week because it was the low season and there were no customers at all. I used to help out now and then.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ I had found a box full of hangers and began putting clothes on the racks with a little bit more force than was strictly necessary. ‘Everyone seems determined to make me into Freya’s understudy. If I just kept my mouth shut and learned to paint it would be like she’d never left.’
