Precious Things (14 page)

Hearing her mother's mobile flip to voicemail again, Maggie hung up the bedside phone with a sigh.

She stood up and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. ‘No, no, no,' she said, pulling the white shirt over her head and throwing it onto a pile of clothes on her bed. She stood in front of her wardrobe clad only in knickers, bra, heels and a dissatisfied frown. Flicking through her clothes hangers, she felt her heart sink. Over the years, she'd composed a sort of uniform for herself, ranging from vintage frocks for summer to pencil skirts and beaded cashmere sweaters for winter, or a jacket over skinny jeans. It was all fine for work, and day to day Maggie just wore what she wanted. On her better days she even felt she had a kind of vintage boho chic thing going on, but on the morning of her visit to Michael's apartment, somehow nothing felt quite smart enough. When Maggie thought about what to wear today, she felt a distinct twinge of shame about her second-hand clothes: worn, patched, mended and occasionally even a tiny bit moth-eaten.

She heard fast, heavy footsteps on the stairs and Tim appeared in the doorway.

‘Quick,' he said, breathing heavily. ‘Keys. Where?' In the next breath he registered she was standing in the middle of the bedroom wearing next to nothing. ‘Why hello there, gorgeous . . .' and lunged at her, sweeping her into a hug. Laughing, they toppled together onto the bed, his familiar solid weight pinning her down.

‘God, you smell amazing,' he said, nuzzling into her neck. ‘Mmm, I like you like this. Why not just wear this to work?'

‘Idiot,' Maggie laughed, swatting at him and wishing he would get a haircut. And go to the gym, perhaps. ‘Get off me. I've got an important meeting. Keys are on the chest of drawers.'

He rolled off her and got to his feet. ‘You look lovely whatever you wear,' he said, looking down at her. ‘You know you do. Deliciously bonkable.'

‘Thank you,' said Maggie, pushing hair back from her face. ‘But I'm sure I don't. I just feel so ordinary sometimes, like a Second-hand Rose . . .'

But he'd already snatched up his keys and was heading back down the stairs, waving as he went. ‘See you tonight,' he called, and over the clatter of his feet on the stairs, she heard Pearl's frustrated call: ‘
Come on
, Daddy!' followed by a bang as the front door closed. Gosh, she'd barely even seen Pearl in days and had been surprised to notice her height this morning. She was starting to look like a proper little girl, all vestiges of her babyhood melting away. Maggie missed the sweet, chubby baby she'd once been.

Maggie rolled over on the bed and buried her face into the pillow. She was quite sure that she should not be worrying about what Michael Masterson thought of her outfit. Some part of her wondered what it would be like if he, rather than Tim, was standing in the doorway watching her in her bra and undies. Would he want to ravish her as well? She checked herself; her thoughts were taking a worrisome tack.
What's happening to me?
Maggie wondered. She'd never so much as looked sideways at another man since she'd been married to Tim, and now she couldn't stop thinking about Michael's eyes and that faintly appraising, almost predatory gaze. Maggie shivered.

She stood up and examined her wardrobe again. It was years since she'd bought anything brand new. Her current look was something she'd hit upon in her late twenties, around the time she'd started working at Bonninghams, and she hadn't thought much about it since. It just always seemed to work, and she didn't have the budget to indulge, like her friend Rachel, in designer labels. But now,
as Maggie looked over her wardrobe with freshly assessing eyes, she wondered whether her clothes made her look a bit shambolic – just a bit Miss Havisham-ish.

She started making a shopping wish list in her mind: black jeans, fitted silk dress, button-down shirts and a tailored jacket – all brand new. She'd need to be much more upmarket, much more conservative and classic now she was head auctioneer. She needed to prove to Bonningham that he'd made the right decision about her . . . She, Maggie Walsh-Mason, was going places! But it had been ages since she'd worn anything as traditional as a suit to work. Maggie had actually gone into Joseph quickly one lunchtime last week to try on some suits, just for an idea, and told herself not to look at the price tags. But they'd all felt a little tight and restrictive, and she'd felt self-conscious. A bit like playing at sexy secretary. Maggie had a momentary flash of herself in one of those suits, taking off a pair of black-framed glasses, and casually pulling out a hair clip to let her hair tumble down.
Why, Miss Walsh-Mason, I didn't realise – you're beautiful . . .
Maggie shook her head.
Idiot.

She wondered if she was even attractive any more . . . Although Tim joked about being up for it, how often did they actually go through with it? Sometimes, it felt like they were more like brother and sister than man and wife . . . The words
I love you
tended to lose their meaning when you used them to sign off all phone conversations.

She chewed a fingernail and considered her clothes again. Maybe jeans, with one of Tim's striped shirts? And perhaps some heels to smarten it up. She brightened up a bit. That might work.

A few minutes later, she was standing in front of her mirror again, looking at herself dubiously. Stella walked past the open doorway on her way downstairs, and out of the corner of her eye, Maggie saw her do a bit of a double-take.

‘What?' asked Maggie, waiting for the sneer she felt sure was coming.

Stella leaned against the doorway, a brightly decorated backpack over her shoulder. Her wrists were looped over with multiple strands of friendship bracelets, threaded through with semi-precious stones and colourful beads. ‘It's just a bit . . .' Her nose crinkled. ‘It's not really you, is it?'

Maggie swung back to look at herself in the mirror again. ‘God, you're right. I look so preppy!'

Stella shrugged and turned to go. ‘It's just that the jeans and shirt combo is a bit boring on you. You usually look more quirky . . . I like your clothes.'

Maggie stared at her in surprise. ‘Really?'

Stella turned back and offered her a crooked smile. ‘Yeah, course.'

‘Oh, well, thank you,' said Maggie a bit awkwardly.

‘Well, gotta go.' Her stepdaughter turned again to leave, hoisting her bag onto her back.

Without thinking, Maggie put out a hand. ‘Uh, Stella . . . Can you help? I'm just in a bit of a tizz this morning. Can you give me a hand working out what to wear?'

Stella came cautiously into the room. ‘Really? You're asking me?'

Maggie nodded. Stella had the lanky limbs and Bambi-like grace of a fashion model herself, which was why Maggie had thought of her before meeting Ulrika. Things had thawed a little between them since she had given Stella the magazine, thank goodness. Although, as per usual, Stella had barely registered the gift or thanked her. When it came to clothes though, Stella always looked so casually cool in the ensembles she threw together. Most of Stella's outfits were firmly rooted in the disaffected teenagers' uniform of Gothic black matched with Doc Martens, but it was not unknown for her to emerge from the cesspit of her room wearing amazing get-ups, including, once, the short fuchsia kimono Tim had bought Maggie on a recent work trip to Tokyo, complete with two chopsticks holding her tresses in place, over a long black singlet that barely covered the tops of her legs. Or the other day, when Maggie had seen her leaving the house sporting the antique embroidered silk shawl – the one that was normally draped
over the dining room sideboard – slung casually around her neck with a camisole and a pair of denim cut-offs, slashed very short. She just had an instinctive eye for fashion. That's why Maggie had given her the old
Vogue
magazine. She suspected Stella secretly loved it, even if she'd rather die than admit it.

Stella stepped forward to the wardrobe, flicking through Maggie's hangers, her lips pursed in concentration.

‘I know,' she said suddenly, snapping her fingers. ‘I bought a dress in a charity shop the other weekend. I thought I might chop it off, it's a bit long for me, but you might like it. The colour would suit you.'

She disappeared into her room and came back holding a floral 1940s tea dress, in shades of mauve and teal, delicately patterned with tiny white daisies and with discreetly padded shoulders.

‘Oh, it's so pretty,' said Maggie, charmed. ‘What a find. Are you sure?'

‘Sure,' Stella shrugged. ‘It's a bit big for me to be honest. Besides, I do borrow a bit from you . . .'

‘Ah, well, yes,' said Maggie, thinking of her kimono, not to mention the tan leather boots Stella had worn out the other day, which Maggie had found scuffed and shoved behind the sofa in the study. She decided not to mention them.

Stella had the good grace to blush a bit. ‘And,' she continued, ‘I'd wear it with this. I think this is kinda cool.' She reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a cerise bouclé coat that had caught Maggie's eye from the seventy percent–off rack in House of Fraser when she'd been walking past the week before last. Because saving for the house renovation was a priority, Maggie usually avoided regular shopping altogether. Somehow it didn't feel so decadent buying things second-hand, and she could just about justify the coat as it was on sale.

Maggie slipped the frock over her head and held her breath as she did up the zip at the side.

‘Perfect,' said Stella, her head on one side. ‘Fits like a glove. Okay, gotta go. Good luck with your day.'

‘Thanks so much,' said Maggie, looking at herself in the mirror, suddenly feeling pretty and, more importantly, like herself again. The dress was cut so well as to highlight her best features – the toned arms and shoulders, and her curves – while skimming over her least favourite bits – bottom, thighs, belly. She slipped on a pair of raspberry ballet slippers and then the coat.
Perfect
, she thought. The colours in her outfit made her feel zingy and womanly.

Sliding out a drawer containing all her jewellery, Maggie rummaged around looking for an Art Deco jade ring she thought would go well with the colours of the dress and the coat. She'd managed to compile a wonderful collection of costume jewellery and accessories over the years. ‘Ah, got you,' she murmured, sliding the delicate gold band on her finger and looking at it, pleased. She went to close the drawer, and then paused for a moment on seeing the coronet, sitting in its nest of pink tissue paper. It was so lovely.

Maggie ran a finger over the glittering diamantes, delicate beading and the slightly spiky sequins, wondering again what Ulrika had seemed so put off by . . . ‘Ouch,' she said, as a particularly sharp spike pricked her finger. She sucked her finger thoughtfully as she looked at the piece.
What if I wore it as a choker
?
That would be stunning. Could I wear it now?
Maggie took it out of the drawer and held it up against her neck.
Dare I?
she thought, wondering if she'd look utterly ridiculous. After all, she was going to a work meeting, not heading out on the town. But impulsively she crossed over to the mirror and held it up close to her neck. She'd wear it like this, she thought suddenly, with a long black column dress, her hair piled on top of her head, curls just pulling loose around her face.

Yes
, thought Maggie, taking a sudden inward breath, looking at her reflection. The coronet sparkled softly against her skin, catching the light and reflecting it up towards her face. The dark diamantes glinted and winked, somehow transforming her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling and dilated, and her lips parted.
She looked
, she thought to herself,
quite lovely.
Like a woman in love.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text, startling her. A little shocked, she stepped away from the mirror and fumbled with the coronet, her fingers trembling slightly. Laying it carefully on her dressing table, Maggie saw the time on her phone and, ignoring the text, swore under her breath. Moving fast now, she applied her makeup, then grabbed her phone, keys and bag, and flicked off the light, ready for her day.

Walking from the tube towards the address Michael had given her, Maggie checked the time again, and saw with relief she still had ten minutes or so until the meeting. This early in the morning, Knightsbridge was still waking up, and the streets were quiet and empty. This was an elegant slice of London that she loved. It wasn't quite
Breakfast at Tiffany's
or Fifth Avenue, but Maggie, clutching her takeaway coffee from the station, still felt a little thrill.
Me and Audrey, yearning for beauty
, she thought.

Glancing at her phone, she remembered the message she'd ignored earlier and tapped on the screen to read it. It was a note from Emma, a new assistant, who'd gone down to Devon to check on a promising deceased estate, and claimed to have found the haul of a lifetime – another vintage shop shutting its doors and looking to sell off its collection of nineteenth and twentieth century fashion. Maggie felt a twinge of sadness that it wasn't
her
sourcing the clothes for Bonninghams. She just didn't get the opportunity to work on the smaller sales any more – not now that her job had changed.