Precious Things (30 page)

It was around 7 pm. Tim and Stella were getting ready upstairs; Pearl had been deposited next door for a sleepover, and Maggie was stringing up fairy lights and the last of the red silk lanterns in the garden. She'd decorated the walls throughout the kitchen and hall with old Chinoiserie posters, and ordered dim sum for all the guests. Maggie thought the decorations set quite the perfect mood for Tim's birthday party – she adored the whole speakeasy vibe she'd created.

An image flitted across her mind as she reached up to hang the last lantern.
Two people, slow-dancing together under the rosy light.
Maggie's hand froze in midair.
As the man lifted the woman's chin to look into her eyes, he bent his head towards her, brushing her lips ever so softly . . .
Maggie blinked away the vision and made herself focus on the lanterns.
Why, oh why, was Michael coming tonight?
She felt a twinge of uncertainty.

Maggie hadn't meant for it to happen, but when they'd met for dinner, she'd been rambling on about the party and – she still wasn't quite sure how it had happened – he'd just kind of invited himself. ‘I'd
love to come,' he'd said, ‘and see your home. Is it just as fascinating as you?' She knew it was wrong, but there was something in the way he had looked at her . . . Maggie caught her breath.
Stop it
, she told herself sternly.
Just stop it
.

Fitting the last lantern on a brass hook, she made her way down from the ladder.

At that moment Tim stepped outside. He looked around the garden in bemusement and gave Maggie an odd grin. ‘Remind me – what's all this got to do with me?' The pants he wore were loose around his waist. Had he lost weight? Maggie wondered. He had mentioned he'd started visiting the gym again.

‘You don't like it?' Maggie asked a little sharply.

‘No, no – I do,' Tim said. ‘Just, isn't it all a bit . . . much?'

‘It's your fortieth!' Maggie said. ‘It's right that things should look special for a change.'

‘But aren't there only a few friends coming over? I'm not sure it's really worth all your effort.'

‘Um,' Maggie hesitated, suddenly nervous. She didn't want to admit to how many people they were expecting. At first, ten had seemed like a good number. Tim was happy with ten. But then she'd realised those people had friends in common, who might be offended if they weren't invited, and then there was Tim's family to consider . . . and Rachel and John – they were still together, somehow – not to mention some of Tim's work colleagues. That made almost fifty guests – who would be arriving at any moment.

‘Ah,' said Tim, frowning slightly. ‘It's not just a few, is it?' He looked down at his simple white T-shirt and blue jeans, then buried his hands inside his pockets. ‘Should I go change then?'

Maggie smiled, choosing to ignore the tired resignation in his voice. ‘Yep – how about your blue suit?' she suggested brightly.

‘All right. Suit it is,' Tim said, turning on his heel and trudging back upstairs.

As she scrambled up the ladder again to make a final adjustment, Maggie could feel the skirt of her frock riding dangerously high. She
pulled at its short hemline and fretted. The dress would just have to do – it was too late to change now.

Maggie had spied the sparkly little number in a chic boutique off Ladbroke Grove the previous week and had splashed out on a whim. Cut in a loose-fitting tank style, the thin black shift had a high neckline and sat well above the knees. Sequins covered the front in a jagged harlequin print, and Maggie had planned to wear the dress with her trusty black ballet flats. But when Stella arrived home just after six – too late to help with the party set-up, but just in time for the festivities – she walked past Maggie's open bedroom door as she was about to slide into her shoes.

She looked Maggie up and down with a critical gaze, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a pair of very high, very gorgeous dove-grey booties clutched in her fist.

‘Um. Why don't you try these?' Stella asked, thrusting the boots towards her.

They were made from a beautiful buttery-soft suede, and Maggie noted how much nicer they were than her stepdaughter's usual clumpy black footwear. Maggie's head filled with questions, but she bent down to try them on and realised that Stella was right: flat soles wouldn't work at all, not with this dress. Arching her feet in the expensive heels, Maggie felt a pleasant sensation come over her. She felt sexy and just a bit gorgeous . . . She checked herself out in the full-length mirror for a moment, watching as the sequins caught the light.
Not bad at all
, she thought,
for a mother knocking on forty.
Stella smiled, almost shyly, in the mirror's reflection. For a moment, Maggie felt all the stress Stella had put them through over the past few months dissipate, and was overcome with a wave of love and warmth for her stepdaughter.

‘Hang on a sec – what about this?' Stella then asked. She leaned over to grab the coronet which was draped over the corner of the dresser. ‘Do you remember that dress we were looking at in the V&A? And the headpiece? Hang on, sit down.' Stella propelled Maggie firmly into the chair in front of her dressing table. ‘Face me,' she commanded.

Easing the coronet onto Maggie's head, she fixed it in place just above her forehead. Stella tightened the ribbons slightly, tying them in a bow, then stepped back. ‘You can look now,' she said.

Maggie swivelled around. The dark coronet sat like a tiara, sequins glinting and shimmering in the light, and seemed to give her a strange, otherworldly beauty. When Maggie turned to look over her shoulder, she could see the black grosgrain ribbons trailing down her back where the dress cut away. Maggie let out a gasp of pleasure.
I look beautiful
, she thought with wonder.

‘See, I told you it would work,' said Stella smugly.

‘You know, you're very good at this,' Maggie said, turning around to kiss her lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you.' But something was gnawing at her . . . She thought it might be wiser not to mention anything but she couldn't help herself. ‘Where did you get the shoes from?' she asked.

In that split second, Stella looked alarmed, and Maggie knew the answer with absolute certainty: they weren't hers. Instinctively Maggie went to touch the locket on her chest, before she remembered that her locket had been safely put away in her bedside drawer.

‘They're Tracey's,' Stella said quickly, but Maggie could tell she was lying.

She lifted one foot from the floor to confirm her suspicions and saw the telltale red sole. Christian Louboutins. There was no way a schoolgirl could afford these shoes.

‘Tracey from school Tracey?' Maggie asked, knowing she should stop. ‘Really?'

‘Yes! What are you saying?' cried Stella. ‘You think I stole them, don't you? Well I bloody well didn't. I was going to wear them myself, but I thought they'd go better with
your
dress. And you think I shoplifted them? Fuck you,' she shouted, her eyes glittering with tears, before running out of the room.

God
, Maggie thought,
what have I done?
Their relationship had been gradually improving lately, and she'd even felt that Stella had started to trust her enough to maybe, just maybe, open up to her
about what had happened with her mother. Now all those months of progress were ruined . . . But she knew Stella couldn't afford the boots; what kind of parent would she be if she suspected her child of stealing and didn't say anything? She took the boots off, and swapped them for a simple pair of black leather heels that she hadn't worn since Pearl was born.

Standing outside in the garden now, Maggie looked around and checked that all the jobs on her list had been done. She was as ready as she'd ever be, but she still felt weirdly off-kilter.
I'll be fine
, she told herself.
A few drinks and things will seem better, Tim will relax, and I'll smooth things over with Stella.
And everything else was perfection: tea lights flickered on the small bar tables on loan from the auction house, and her 1940s silk lanterns threw a flattering blush over the entire garden. It looked magical.

Maggie selected an old Nina Simone track on the iPod and drew a deep breath. The first bars of her favourite song, ‘Feeling Good', wafted out from the speakers, soothing her.
Okay I'm ready now
, she thought.

And just on cue, the doorbell rang.

It was ten past nine and the party was in full swing.

Kate had been the first friend to arrive. When she'd gone to answer the door, it had taken Maggie a full second or two to register the younger woman standing beside her on the front step, at least ten years Kate's junior.

‘This is Lola,' Kate said. ‘My girlfriend.'

‘Oh, hi!' said Maggie, thinking of her lunch with Kate the month before, when Kate had been gushing about her new relationship. It was obvious; Kate was smitten with her. Maggie tried not to stare at the curvaceous, dark-haired woman in the beautiful brocade vintage dress, but thought how glamorous Lola looked. She was not at all what Maggie would have expected.

Arriving in the backyard, Maggie led them over to Tim's parents – the only other guests who'd arrived on time. ‘This is Kate. Kate's one of my oldest friends, and this is . . . Lola.' Maggie felt so glad they were here and that Kate seemed happy . . . Rubbing her shoulder affectionately, Maggie looked around for a drinks tray. Realising she had nothing to offer, she scurried off into the kitchen, returning with champagne.

As each of their guests arrived, passing through the skinny terrace and out to the backyard, Maggie buzzed around, trying to make everyone feel welcome. But she was still feeling distracted and on edge, with a growing alarm at the number of people who had come. As she chattered away, she realised she was keeping an eye out for one person in particular . . . Michael. Where was he? Why hadn't he arrived yet? Tim was more subdued than usual and they'd barely exchanged more than a few words with each other all evening.

Finding a wooden chopstick, Maggie rapped at the side of her champagne flute – so hard that the glass broke. It tinkled to the ground, and the gathering fell suddenly silent. It wasn't quite the start she was looking for. Laughing to cover her embarrassment, Maggie grabbed a replacement and plastered a wide smile across her face. She cleared her throat.

‘Thank you so much for coming, everyone,' she said, noticing Rachel and John standing on the back step, John's lips set in a tight line. Clocking the body language between them, Maggie felt even more rattled than ever. She shifted her gaze to a stony-faced Tim.

‘Tim and I are delighted you could make it,' she said, feeling glad, for a moment, that Michael still hadn't arrived.

‘Don't worry, I'm only going to say a few words,' Maggie said, speaking quickly now and trembling with nerves. ‘Tim, we've gathered here for you because we love you. You're a wonderful husband and father, and you're my best friend. You're also a bit of all right, as they say . . .' There was a polite titter, and despite registering Tim's withdrawn expression, Maggie soldiered on. ‘Most importantly, you love us in return. Happy birthday, babe.' A wave of
embarrassment washed over her but finally, people seemed to relax. Maggie could almost hear the collective sigh of relief.

She raised her flute. ‘To Tim,' she called out.

‘To Tim!' everyone chorused, raising their own glasses. As Maggie took a sip, she sensed a sudden shift in the air. Through the crowd she caught a glimpse of Michael, making his way towards the front, and felt a frisson of excitement inside her. From the heads that turned in his wake, it was obvious many of the female guests had noticed Michael's arrival as well.

Maggie's heart began to pound. She felt brighter for a moment, and conscious of herself in the short, sparkly dress with the crown on her head. She drew herself up straighter and felt her stomach tighten. Michael flashed her a disarming grin.