Precious Things (24 page)

‘I don't think I've ever heard of him,' Maggie said. She was flummoxed. How many hands had her coronet passed through over the years? A supermodel had owned it once, and now a famous painter. Maggie was amazed that she'd been able to trace it back at all, and through such fascinating connections.

‘Did he tell you why he was getting rid of it?' Maggie asked. ‘Anything you can remember, anything you can tell me? It would really help.'

‘No . . . He often bought pieces from me – props, he said, for his paintings – but that was the only time he ever gave me anything to sell. Didn't even want any money for it. Told me to do with it as I pleased. I had the feeling he wanted it gone.'

Maggie took a deep breath – it was something to go on, at least. She was sure she could find out more about this Christian Hunt character. She had a colleague at Bonninghams who was an art expert. Maggie was sure he'd know all about the painter, especially if he had once been famous.

‘I kept it for a while,' Lily said in a sad voice, collecting herself. ‘But it had too many memories . . . the young girl came, and I thought she . . . she looked like . . . anyway, I gave it to her . . .' She trailed off.

Maggie was sure the old woman had many enthralling stories to share, anecdotes about her many years at Portobello and the finds she'd made, but she knew she didn't have the time to ask. She glanced at the clock above the walnut cabinet and started at the time; it was almost 3 pm. Forget the tube, she would have to catch a cab back to work and give Francesca a call along the way.

‘Thank you so much, Lily, I really appreciate your time. It's been very useful,' Maggie said, readying herself to leave, and wishing again that she didn't have to. There was something wonderful about the old woman, something warm and inviting, which made her want to draw close.

‘Before you go, darling, have a look in that chest over there, third shelf down. Yes, that's the one,' she said as Maggie stepped over to a small chest with brass fittings.

‘Shall I open it?' she asked.

‘Yes, yes,' said the old woman.

Maggie pulled out the only item stored inside the box, and looked up at Lily, delighted.

‘For you, darling. For visiting, and for my chocolates. Something else I've held on to for far too long. Take it, take it.'

It was a small wooden toy, a little carved thing no larger than a mouse, of a ballerina set atop a tiny pedestal. Maggie had seen these before, many years ago when she was a child. She looked for the button beneath the pedestal's base and pushed it in. The ballerina stood for a moment, in the act of a pirouette, before crumpling quickly to her feet. Maggie smiled impulsively and leaned over to give Lily a parting kiss.

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘I'll treasure it.'

‘Do, darling. And take care,' said Lily, giving Maggie's hand one last, final squeeze before she waved both her and Spencer goodbye.

It was just after six and Maggie knew that she ought to be getting home. Michael's auction had taken most of the day and she was feeling bone-tired, her back aching from all the hours spent on her feet with barely a moment's break. But the estate wasn't far from Basingstoke – Maggie hadn't realised how close she would be to her parents' house when Michael had first given her the address. It seemed strange to head back to the motorway without visiting, even if she just flew in for a cup of tea. The whole detour would only take an hour or so, she told herself, and besides, when had she last caught up with them? Months ago, it seemed. Valerie hadn't returned her calls in ages, apart from the short, terse message left on her voicemail a few weeks ago. But when Maggie
had
called her back, her mother hadn't answered. Maggie couldn't understand it. As far as she knew, she hadn't said or done anything to make her mother go off in one of her moods.

Although exhausted from the day's efforts, Maggie found herself on a surprising high. Being in such close proximity to Michael all day had left her feeling buoyant. She'd let herself quietly out of the house at four-thirty that morning in a bid to beat the traffic on the motorway, and had arrived at the estate even before the crew. She'd spent a chilly half-hour in the car outside the sprawling country manor, dealing with emails and hoping the car's battery wouldn't go flat as she kept the engine running for its heat. The mechanic had managed to fix her car, but Maggie knew it was on its last legs, held together by rust and rubberbands.

The team from Bonninghams had arrived around six, and she'd briefed them before going on to meet the family. She'd worked all day, and now her voice was hoarse. Lunch had consisted of a few slices of cold corned beef slathered with pickles and a side of rye bread, prepared by an elderly housekeeper, but she'd gratefully wolfed it down in the short break between lots. Along with two tepid cups of tea, it was all she'd eaten and drunk the entire day. But the result had been worth it. She'd managed to generate a fortune for the Mastersons and secure some brilliant publicity for Bonninghams in the process – a journalist and cameraman had shadowed her most of the day, telling her the auction result might end up on the evening's news.

Most importantly, Michael had been thrilled to bits.

‘To you, Ms Walsh-Mason!' he'd said, passing her a glass of Dom Perignon and catching his father's eye over her shoulder. ‘See, Dad? I told you. She's the best.'

He'd walked her out to her horrible beaten-up car, and lingered with her there for a few moments in the cool air, teasing her about her newly acquired Greta Garbo–esque voice. Maggie had felt momentarily dizzy when he'd leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. Had she imagined it, or had Michael seemed about to do more? But the welcome light above the manor door had clicked on and flooded them both with cold fluorescent light, as the cameraman exited with the last of his equipment. The moment – if there had been a moment – was lost.

As she'd slid into her car, Maggie had wished that her life was more like today every day. Appearing to sense her thoughts, Michael had tapped against the window and she'd wound it down. ‘Lunch soon . . . or dinner?' he had asked, giving her an inviting smile.

Her cheeks were still glowing when she turned into the cul-de-sac where her parents lived, and parked in the empty driveway. Where was her father this evening? His car wasn't in its usual spot.

She sent a quick text to Tim, telling him she would be back late, then walked up the pebble-dash path towards the front door. Lights glowed inside and, feeling tentative all of a sudden, Maggie lifted up
her hand and rapped. Then she remembered the bell. She pressed it quickly, wondering if anyone was home.

‘I heard you knock! There's no need to ring the blasted bell as well,' she heard from somewhere inside the house. Maggie flinched. The cloud nine she was on seemed to all but plummet to earth at the sound of her mother's voice. A shadow darkened the opaque glass door panels as the latch clicked open.

‘Oh! Margaret,' her mother said. ‘What are you doing here?' She moved to look over Maggie's shoulder, as if expecting someone else.

‘I – I'm sorry, Mum, I was just passing by and thought I'd pop in.' She wished her mother looked a little more pleased to see her. Maggie noted her mother's cardigan, slightly pilled at the edges, and the familiar worn gold bracelet, looser now than ever on her mother's thin wrist. Had she lost more weight? That couldn't be good.

‘I thought you were busy with that job of yours – I'm surprised you've found the time,' her mother said sharply, pulling the cardigan tighter around her.

‘Well, I was nearby,' said Maggie, trying to keep her voice light. ‘But I won't stay long if you have plans.'

‘Plans?' Her mother's voice was sour. ‘When has anyone ever considered
my
plans before?' she asked, with a bitter little laugh.

Maggie stifled a sigh. ‘Can I come in?' she asked, wondering if it was such a good idea.

‘By all means,' said Valerie, stepping aside and giving an ironic, queenly wave. ‘Thank you for gracing my humble abode, Your Highness.'

Maggie went into the sitting room as her mother closed the front door behind her. The thirty-inch television screen was on, showing the evening news. The room was set up exactly as it had been for as long as Maggie could remember. The china cabinets, the glass ashtray on the mock-Danish coffee table, the overstuffed sofa and armchairs . . . Everything there, in its place. Except, that is, for her father's stereo and record collection, which appeared to be missing from the wall
unit. Maggie looked at the empty shelf where they'd once sat, and back at her mother's face. ‘Where . . .?' she started.

Valerie seemed to frown harder, the lines around her mouth growing deeper. ‘He's gone. Tea?' she said brusquely, turning away.

‘But—' Maggie felt dumbstruck. After all the years of arguments, and the times she'd begged her mother to leave him . . . Why now, and what for?

Her mother stopped by the door. ‘Moved in with his latest girlfriend, didn't he? Well, good riddance,' her mother spat out, fumbling to light a cigarette.

Maggie could hardly believe it. She'd never been able to fathom why Valerie had insisted on staying with someone she'd patently disliked for so long, but Maggie had long ago given up on expecting things to be any different. She never thought her father would leave – he'd always seemed too weak for such a move. Another thought hit her then. ‘How long ago?' she asked, wondering again why her mother hadn't returned her calls.

‘Two months,' said her mother. ‘And I don't want to talk about it, Margaret. If you're so curious, why don't you go ask your father? Or that whore he's shacked up with. Sheila, I think her name is. Of course it is,' she muttered, sucking deeply at the cigarette and fidgeting with the gold bracelet around her wrist.

Maggie felt a familiar wave of anxiety sweep over her. She always knew she'd done the right thing by moving away from her family. Being around her mother's deep dissatisfaction over the life she'd chosen and her father's constant drinking had felt like a virtual death. When Maggie was seventeen she'd felt closer to fifty, freighted with anxiety and tension. It was either move away or lose herself down some rabbit hole where she wasn't sure she'd survive. Being stuck in their increasingly desperate rut made her feel like going forward was impossible, and that she'd never experience what it was like to be normal.

And that's what Maggie had wanted most – normal.

In those last years of school, she had just been able to see a small crack of light on her horizon. The hope of going away to university and studying fine arts had made her quiver with anticipation.
Summoning up her courage, she had kicked away for all she was worth, and taken the first leap into her future. And look what she'd found when she did – a delicious, beautiful life – although at the moment it seemed to be spoiling right before her eyes, like a feast in a Dutch vanitas painting. It was enough, but also not enough. There was more to grab hold of, she knew, if only she could reach it . . .

But knowing she'd done the right thing – the only thing she could have done – didn't make it any easier. Maggie's relationship with her mother seemed to go from bad to worse. Now though, noticing how pinched her mother's face looked, how old and diminished, Maggie felt a wave of sympathy. Surely her parents hadn't planned for a rotten marriage. They must once have hoped for the best, even when Valerie had fallen pregnant. But why hadn't her mother even called to let her know about the split, and why hadn't either of them said anything? She was still their daughter, after all.

Maggie stepped closer and ventured to give her mother a quick hug. She felt the thin, bony shoulders jerk back in surprise, before stiffening like a board. Valerie pulled away.

‘Sorry,' muttered Maggie, letting her arms fall to her sides. Her mother turned on her heel, and walked off into the kitchen, leaving Maggie standing there.

Returning with two mugs of plain tea, Valerie placed one on the table next to Maggie. Maggie perched on the edge of a chair, uncertain.

She leaned forward. ‘Mum,' she asked, ‘why didn't you . . . When were you going to say something?'

‘What?' her mother asked sharply. ‘Why on earth would I, Margaret?'

‘Because . . .' Maggie took a deep breath, ‘you're still my mother . . . I care about you.'

‘Do you?' Valerie asked, sitting forward, eyes narrowing as she met Maggie's gaze.

Maggie looked down at her lap.

‘I know I can't rely on you, Margaret,' her mother said, face almost seeming to soften for a moment. ‘You know, when I had you I thought
I had a companion for life. I knew that no matter what your father did or what anyone said, you would always be my girl.' She frowned and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘But you turned out to be as little comfort to me as everyone else. Do you know, my parents cut me off when I married your father? I was set to inherit a fortune, but oh no, not when I chose him.' She laughed bitterly. ‘And I was foolish enough to think I could change him.'

‘Yes, Mum,' said Maggie. ‘You've told me this before, but—'

‘Then you seemed to idolise everything he did. It was always all about you and Daddy, never you and me. You were his little girl, his princess.' Valerie's expression hardened. ‘But you found out, just like me, that he was no good, didn't you?' Her expression as she looked at Maggie was knowing and spiteful.

Maggie swallowed, feeling a little sick. Valerie was right, she
had
adored her father, for a long time, although as she grew up, she'd come to realise what a feeble, ineffectual man he was. The turning point came in her final year at school, and even now she didn't like to recall that night. Her father had come home late, tie askew, stumbling drunk again. Her mother had been asleep in bed, having taken some of the Valium Maggie knew she kept hidden on the top shelf of her bathroom cabinet, behind the sunscreen and nail polish remover. Maggie had been up late studying, so she'd made her father drink some water, then made him a coffee, and then at his insistence had sat with him on the sofa, smelling the sour scent of whisky and cigarettes on his breath.

Bruce had been rambling and slurring. ‘Your mother won't have anything to do with me, Maggie. She's a cold fish, in every department . . . Don't grow up like her, will you?' he'd said groggily, rubbing her leg in a way that made her feel awkward and uncomfortable. He'd trailed away into wet mutters. His head had tilted back and he'd slowly slid sideways on the couch, until his skull was resting heavily on her knees. She'd sat there, frozen, not sure what to do, her heart full of pity and disgust and sadness. Sometimes she felt sorry for him, having to put up with her mother's patent unhappiness, but then the thought
of him with all those women, the way he continually betrayed them, repulsed her. After what felt like an age, Maggie realised he'd fallen asleep. He was quietly snoring in her lap. Lifting the dead weight of his head from her thighs, she had draped her father with a blanket and gone to bed, unable to stop herself from lying awake until morning, feeling the emotions tumble around inside her. She'd known with certainty then that she had to leave, get far away from the both of them, as soon as possible.

Maggie snapped back to attention as she realised her mother was still talking.

‘. . . and then I found out about his women. You remember – you know what it did to me. My entire life has been one sorry mistake after another, Margaret. I gave him everything, and look where it's got me! Wait until Sheila finds out for herself, and she will . . .' Her mother almost seemed to have forgotten that Maggie was there.

Every bone in Maggie's body told her that Valerie needed help and that she should reach out and take her hand, try to calm her down, but something in her tense, upright pose warned Maggie from drawing too close again.

She desperately tried to change the subject. ‘Mum, why don't you focus on the good things? Like Pearl, your granddaughter. You're always welcome to come stay with us. And now that Dad's gone, perhaps you could come up to London more often. I'm sure Pearl and Stella would love to spend some time with you.'

‘What?' said her mother, frowning deeply. ‘What good would that do, Margaret? That won't change anything. You're just like Bruce, you really are . . . It's all about you, isn't it?'

All of a sudden, something snapped inside Maggie – this wasn't fair! What had she done to deserve her mother's disdain? Apart from get caught in the crossfire?

‘Me? You're kidding, aren't you? When is anything ever about anyone other than
you
?' Maggie asked. ‘Or Dad? When was the last time either of you actually gave a toss about
me
?' Maggie knew she should hold her tongue, but couldn't seem to stop herself.