From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually (5 page)

I bound up the stairs and open my large wooden jewellery box sitting on the dresser. I really have far too much jewellery, I think, as I lift up a couple of layers. I must give some of the bits I never wear to the charity shop
down the road the next time I have a clear-out. I check some of the little drawers on the side of the box: nope, it’s not in those, either. I wonder if I’ve put it in the drawer with some of the other items that won’t fit in the box?

I pull open my underwear drawer and move my knickers and bras around until I see a little blue velvet box – aha! But on opening the box, I’m surprised to see not the serene white face of a carved cameo looking gracefully back at me, but two beady eyes belonging to a bright shiny dragonfly.

Oh,
that’s
where it’s gone. I’d almost forgotten I’d got this. When I’d been packing up my stuff to move out of our home in Stratford and in with Sean, I’d come across this brooch stuffed at the back of a cupboard. Dad had said to have anything from there I wanted, so I’d taken the brooch and a few other childhood bits. I’d meant to ask him about it at the time, but as always something else had cropped up and it was packed away in my moving boxes with everything else and then forgotten about until I unpacked here in Notting Hill. Jewellery isn’t a topic that regularly comes up in conversation with my father, so I’d never got around to asking him about it.

The brooch is a bright green and blue enamelled dragonfly with very delicate, opalescent wings that are as wide as the dragonfly’s body is long. Unusually, one of its
beady eyes is black, the other navy blue, but they both stare up accusingly at me from the white satin interior of the box as if to complain about the lack of use it has been put to of late.

I wonder if this might be worth taking along?
The necklace is nowhere to be found, and Oscar will be here any minute. Without thinking about it further, I shove the little blue box into my bag and hurry back downstairs to await Oscar and the black cab hooting its horn that will no doubt announce his arrival.

It’s a miserable day outside as we set off together in the taxi. Apart from his issues with contaminating his clothes, the other reason Oscar rarely takes public transport is that he just loves the ambience of arriving in a black cab at the door of wherever he’s travelling to, rather than slumming it on the tube or bus. I’d much rather save my money and use my Oyster card, but I’m quite happy to go along with taking cabs as long as he’s paying, and today, as the rain pelts down the taxi windows, I’m glad we’re not struggling with wet umbrellas along with all the other damp commuters.

‘What will they do if it’s raining?’ I ask Oscar. ‘Will it be cancelled?’ Every
Antiques Roadshow
I’ve ever seen, the sun has always been shining on the experts, who sit happily valuing the public’s knick-knacks and heirlooms while they sit under under
parasols, wearing panama hats and other suitably quaint attire.

‘Oh, I doubt it very much, darling. It takes ages to set these things up. They’ll probably hold it indoors.’

‘But then you won’t get to see the courts and stuff on the show. Isn’t that the whole point of holding it at Wimbledon?’

‘Scarlett, I don’t know, do I? I’m just here to get my jacket valued.’

I smirk. ‘Oscar, you’ve had your hair coloured, cut and coiffed to within an inch of its life; you’ve had a facial, sauna, manicure and goodness knows what else at that beauty salon you go to.
And
you’ve been out and bought a new outfit and shoes, even underwear, knowing you. I can’t believe the only reason you’re going today is to get your jacket valued.
You
want to get on TV.’

Oscar cocks his head on one side. ‘So what if I do? We can’t
all
masquerade as fitness instructors to get our fifteen minutes of fame, now can we? Besides, I’m hoping to get a mention of my shop in if they film me.’

‘You can’t do that; it’s the BBC. That’d be advertising.’

‘Oh, Scarlett, you worry too much. It will all be fine.’

When the taxi drops us off outside the All England Lawn Tennis Club, the rain is lighter but still falling in a drizzly haze as we join the queue to get in. I spot my first panama hat as the steward
on the gate doffs his and informs us where to go in order to get our items valued. He explains that, owing to the weather, the experts are all sitting at tables in a large hall for the time being, but that they hope to extend the Roadshow outside into the grounds later, once the rain has passed. Duly informed, we go through the gates and into the famous grounds of Wimbledon.

Unfortunately, jewellery and clothing valuations are taking place in different areas, so we split up. Oscar hurries off to join the long queue snaking around the hall to get to the expert dealing in antique clothing, while I take one look at the queue for jewellery and decide there’s no way I’m standing in that for the next few hours, dragonfly or no dragonfly. So I set off to take a look around.

It’s actually quite difficult to move, let alone wander, the people are packed in so tightly. It’s not a bit like how it looks on TV, with convivial grey-haired experts languishing at big open tables, while people bearing Great-Aunt Maud’s teapot in a carrier bag, a mixture of hope and pound signs in their eyes, shuffle past as slowly as they can behind them so they can get their few seconds of fame on the screen. No; this is much more cut-and-thrust.

As I try to push my way through the crowds to see what’s going on
at the tables, I can hear murmurs of ‘Watch her, she looks shifty’, and ‘I bet she tries to push in in a minute’. People are guarding their place in the queue as closely as they’ll be guarding their antiques later, if they find out they’re worth a few thousand. I soon get fed up of trying to see anything, and step outside again for some fresh air. It’s way too stuffy and overcrowded in there.

I find some seats outside and sit down next to an elderly couple who are drinking tea from a flask and eating sandwiches from a Tupperware box. They look over at me as I take my seat.

‘All done, dear?’ the lady asks. ‘You must have been quick off the mark this morning to get to the front of the queue.’

I’m about to reply when her husband interjects. ‘Don’t be silly, Marg, these young folk don’t get up early. I expect she’s one of the production crew taking a break. Is that right, duck? Do you think you could get me in to meet Fiona Bruce? I quite like her, I do. Marg here prefers that Michael Aspel, who used to present it, but not me. Fiona’s the gal; fine pair of legs on her that filly has.’

‘Desmond!’ Marg admonishes. ‘I’m sure the young lady doesn’t wish to hear about your Fiona Bruce fetish.’

‘Er …’ I smile nervously, ‘actually neither of you are correct. I’m not a member of the
production crew, and I’ve only just arrived myself.’

There’s a sharp intake of breath from both Marg and Desmond. ‘You’ve only just got here?’ Marg looks at me suspiciously. ‘Are you here to nose at other people’s valuables, then? See who’s worth a few pennies? I’ve heard about your type. Gold-diggers, we used to call them.’

‘Oh no, not at all. I’ve brought something to be valued. Look.’ I get the dragonfly out of my bag and show it to them. ‘I just couldn’t be bothered to queue up. It was too hot and crowded inside.’

‘Very nice,’ Desmond says, inspecting the brooch. ‘You should get that seen. It looks like it might be worth a bob or two.’

‘We were outside those gates at six o’clock this morning,’ Marg says proudly. ‘We’d have been the first ones here except for some madwoman and her sister who’d camped overnight with their Cliff Richard collection.’

‘Cliff Richard?’

‘Yes, they’d got records, posters, dolls, the lot. Mad, if you ask me. Their tent was full of the stuff. I’ll bet the whole collection was barely worth the train fare from Inverness.’

‘Why have they come all the way from Inverness to have it valued here? There must have been a closer Roadshow to go to.’

‘It’s the tennis
connection, isn’t it?’ Desmond states, as if this explains everything.

I stare at him blankly.

‘Cliff likes his tennis, doesn’t he? They thought it might be a good omen.’

‘Oh, remember that year when it was rained off all day, Desmond,’ Marg pipes up again, ‘and Cliff led the singing around the Centre Court. That was lovely, that was.’

‘Almost better than the tennis itself, Marg,’ Desmond agrees, and they laugh together in that way couples do who’ve been together a long time and don’t need to explain themselves to each other.

I smile at them both, and wonder if Sean and I will be sitting eating sandwiches and drinking tea from a flask in fifty years’ time. My thoughts are broken by an announcement from inside the hall. ‘Now the rain has ceased falling and blue skies are ahead of us, we will shortly be moving Ceramics outside onto the courts. If you’ll please follow your marshal in an orderly line outside when requested, we would be most grateful.
Please
, no pushing and shoving, and I do
not
want to see any queue-jumping or there will be trouble. Thank you.’

‘Sounds like they’re coming outside,’ Desmond explains unnecessarily. ‘’Bout time; it wouldn’t be a Roadshow if they had to film it all stuck indoors.’

From the hall, a
burly-looking woman marches out carrying a megaphone. ‘Follow me, everyone,’ she calls to the bizarre line of people shuffling along behind her. They range in height, age and size, but they all carry the seemingly obligatory Roadshow accessory of a carrier bag filled with their own unique ‘antique’ waiting to be valued by an expert.

Over the next few minutes, I sit companionably with Marg and Desmond and watch while more queues are marched outside by Matilda (as we nickname her) and her megaphone, and we have fun guessing what her ‘queueies’ have in their bags as they pass by.

Suddenly Desmond goes very quiet.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask him as his face takes on a deathly shade of white.

Desmond lifts a bony hand and points limply into the distance. ‘It’s her,’ he whispers so I can barely hear him.

I’m about to ask who, but as I look in the direction he’s pointing I see exactly what the problem is. Fiona Bruce, presenter of the
Antiques Roadshow
, has been released from the confines of whatever VIP room she’s been holed up in. She has the sun behind her as she walks across the tarmac, and she does look somewhat goddess-like as she glides towards us.

‘Fiona!’ I call, before I know what I’m doing.

She turns her head
away from the small entourage of TV types that surround her and looks in my direction.

‘This gentleman here,’ I say, pointing at Desmond, ‘is a huge fan of yours. I wonder if you’ve got a moment?’

And surprisingly, she has.

I leave Desmond sitting next to Fiona looking as red as the tomatoes in the cheese-and-tomato sandwiches that Marg is trying to tempt Fiona to take from her Tupperware tub, and wander over to the courts.

The queues are just as long now they’re outside, but instead of curling around in great snakelike twists, they stretch the length of the famous grass courts as the experts position themselves at tables underneath large sunshades that will double as umbrellas, should the weather turn inclement again. I look around me, seeing the infamous Centre Court entrance through which many a hopeful player has passed over the years. Next to it stand bronze busts of some of the household names that have graced these hallowed courts. It’s quite exciting just being here at Wimbledon; I don’t really mind if I get my brooch valued or not after all, it’s worth it just to see all this for real instead of on a TV screen.

I notice there’s a ladies’ toilet open next to the entrance to Centre Court. I’ve been busting to go since Marg and Desmond persuaded me into taking some tea from their flask, so I climb the steps leading up to it.

Incredibly, the toilet is quiet,
so I select an empty cubicle and go inside. Just as I’m finishing up, I hear someone else come in and take the cubicle next to mine.

I flush the toilet and go outside to wash my hands. I’m about to dry them when I hear a shout from the cubicle.

‘Damn and blast it!’

I turn and look at the door but there’s no sound, so I pull a paper towel down.

‘You’ve
got
to be kidding me.’

‘Is everything all right?’ I enquire politely at the door while I dry off my hands.

‘Oh, is someone out there?’

‘Yes, I’m just drying my hands.’ I say unnecessarily. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Hardly, I’ve just gone to pull my zip up and I’ve only gone and bust the blasted thing.’

‘Oh dear, is there anything I can do to help?’

The bolt on the door shoots back and I’m surprised to see a face I recognise staring back at me from the cubicle. I haven’t seen many
Antiques Roadshow
s, but I’ve seen enough to recognise this lady’s face. She’s one of their experts, known for her slightly outlandish dress sense, and today is no exception. She’s wearing a red velvet 1970s-style jumpsuit with black patent boots and a large black belt to match, and the zip in question, rather than being just a simple trouser zip like I’d imagine it to be, is one that runs the full length of the
garment from her neck to just below her waist.

‘See,’ she says, trying to pull it. ‘It won’t come any farther up than my bra. I can’t possibly appear on TV like this!’

‘Don’t they have alternative wardrobe options for you?’ I ask hopefully, picturing a large truck filled with rails of garments hanging in it for the experts to choose from.

‘Sweetie, this is the
Antiques Roadshow
, not
The X Factor
. The only spare wardrobe they might have here is likely to be a hundred years old and made out of wood.’

‘Oh, right. What are you going to do, then?’

‘I really don’t know. We’re miles from the nearest decent boutique here – I’m proverbially buggered.’

I think for a moment.

‘What size are you?’ I ask, looking her up and down.

‘Twelve, on a good day – why?’

I nod. ‘I thought so. That’s good! And what antiques do you specialise in again?’

‘All sorts, but I mainly do jewellery here on the Roadshow. Why is this relevant?’