Precious Things (9 page)

‘Five, four, three, two, one . . .' cued the stage assistant, hand flying down. They were live, in front of a studio audience.

‘We're here with Maggie Walsh-Mason from Bonninghams – Maggie's going to tell us about the huge costume auction which reached record sales recently. So Maggie, why do you think the Theatre Archives fetched such astronomical prices?' Penelope Smiley, the true-to-her-name host of
Mornings
, flashed a mouthful of expensive orthodontistry and looked as thrilled as if she'd just been handed an immortality potion. Despite the wide smile, Penelope's forehead and eyes remained completely smooth.

‘Well, Penelope,' answered Maggie, willing herself not to say something stupid – she felt such a fraud, ‘we're seeing a huge interest in vintage clothing lately, and the West End–based outfitters featured some seriously iconic costumes in its archives, released for sale to the public for the very first time. Sir Ian McKellen, Dame Helen Mirren, Cate Blanchett – they've all trodden the boards in some of these exquisitely made pieces.'

The audience murmured with excitement, and Maggie flashed a smile at them. She knew how they felt: it was thrilling to be in such
close proximity to the starry belongings. But more than that, it was the idea of all the lives those old costumes had led, before they'd found themselves in the auction room of Bonninghams. It was the exact opposite of the way she'd grown up in her own household, where everything her parents bought was bland and new.

‘So tell me, why are vintage clothes going through such a boom?' Penelope asked toothily.

‘Well, Penelope, they're just so beautifully made. Take for example these fifties cocktail frocks, they're so flattering on . . .' Maggie kept up a steady stream of talk about the allure of vintage tailoring, gesturing towards a large wooden rack hung with tulle frocks in delicious shades of pastel, and a luxurious collection of mink stoles. Every single item had sold in the Bonninghams sale – right down to the boxes of odd buttons and tortoiseshell buckles – so these items for the segment were all from Maggie's own private collection.

Talking enthusiastically about how the clothes could work in a modern context and how they inspired designers, she showed Penelope the Sergeant Pepper–style red woollen military coat displayed on a Victorian–era dressmaker's dummy. Growing more confident, she even persuaded Penelope to try on one of the minks, and the audience laughed as the bouffant-haired TV host strutted up and down in the glossy fur, doing a catwalk turn on the floor.

‘And what's this?' Penelope asked, slipping off the mink stole and pointing a glossy, red-nailed finger at the coronet draped over the end of the wooden rack.

Maggie saw the item Penelope was pointing at and picked it up, holding it out for the audience to see. ‘This is rather a special piece. We don't quite know where it's from, or what it was made for, but it's about a hundred years old, probably more. All hand-sewn and so exquisite. See how the light catches the diamantes and pearl beads? It must have been very special for someone to spend that amount of time creating it. It looks like a crown, doesn't it?' Maggie could almost feel the audience take a collective breath and lean forward to look at the piece, glittering with dark, dangerous charm in her hands.

She held up the beaded coronet to the huge camera, which moved towards her at speed on its wheeled base. ‘Who would have worn it?' she mused aloud. ‘And what would it have seen?'

Penelope interrupted her thoughts. ‘And why does anyone care?' she asked, frowning
.
Her nose was scrunched up as though the coronet smelled bad, and Maggie felt a strange urge come over her, as if she should somehow protect it.

She paused for a few moments, before gathering her thoughts, and answered quietly. ‘I think people who buy vintage want to own a slice of history, but it's not just that, Penelope. Wearing something with history gives us a connection to the life of the people who owned the piece before – it's a deep, almost tangible connection to the mystery of the object. And these items are so finely made. It's effectively haute couture, but without the massive price tag.'

Penelope was silent for a moment and Maggie realised she'd somehow put a foot wrong.

The bottle-blonde presenter pursed her lips. ‘I have to say, I don't get this latest obsession with vintage. Aren't they all just old, worn clothes, if we're being honest?' She scrunched up her nose again and gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Dead people's clothes? That's probably where they came from in the first place,' she said, as though the thought had just occurred to her. She turned to Maggie. ‘Tell me, Ms Walsh-Mason – apart from the costume archives, where
do
all these pieces usually come from?'

Maggie could see the malice in Penelope's eyes, challenging her. The studio was so quiet, she could have heard a pin drop. The camera was trained tightly on her face, and in that instant she knew the interview was in terrible danger of veering off course. This was a big deal for Bonninghams – it would introduce the auction house to a whole new market, and while the viewership wasn't exactly young and hip, there were lots of stay-at-home mums and empty-nesters watching who might be interested in the auctions.

‘Well, we do sell lots of things from deceased estates,' she said slowly. ‘But how else would most of us come into contact with them otherwise, Penelope? Some pieces need a little tender loving care, I'll
grant you, but think about their history . . . It's like an inheritance. I don't know about you,' Maggie said, turning towards the camera and looking passionately into the lens, ‘but I just love the thought of travelling back in time and imagining their past . . . Maybe this item was present at a party when the First World War was announced, or when someone married the love of their life. Can you imagine owning such a piece?' she asked, turning back towards Penelope Smiley. ‘Why, it's nothing short of thrilling. And quite an honour.' Maggie stopped talking. She felt a little winded all of a sudden.

There was complete silence. And then, out of the darkness, she heard the sound of someone clapping. As Maggie wondered what had come over her, to blurt out such a thing, and quite so passionately, the applause from the audience gathered volume and became a deafening roar. It succeeded, for a moment, in drowning out the rushing in her ears.

‘And that's about all we have time for, folks,' gushed Penelope, talking over the applause and beaming at the cameras. ‘Thank you so much for coming in and sharing your, er, knowledge with us, Ms Walsh-Mason. Next up, our beauty segment, where we'll be talking about the mediaeval treatments taking Hollywood by storm. Leeches: better than a cleanse . . .'

The cameras stopped rolling and Penelope's gleaming smile disappeared immediately. Turning abruptly on her six-inch heels, she left Maggie staring at her back as she clipped off backstage. It appeared she had been dismissed.

Still holding the coronet, Maggie tiptoed, embarrassed, over the trailing cords and equipment on her way towards the technician. The tech guy unhooked the small microphone attached to her lapel, while she heard Penelope sing out loudly from the other side of the stage. ‘I know what couture is, don't I, darlings? And it's not that rubbish she brought in.
Quelle
boring!'

Oh hell
, Maggie thought, her stomach sinking.
What am I going to say to Bonningham?
She'd seriously blown the interview.

The thin, disconcertingly skittish producer came over to collect her. ‘I'll show you out,' she said, beckoning for Maggie to follow her. Shame burning her cheeks, Maggie grabbed up her cardigan and bag and tried to keep up with the producer as she led her at a brisk clip back through the rabbit warren of hallways and doors to reception.

‘You know that was great, don't you?' said the young producer, giving her a quick sideways glance, sympathy in her eyes. ‘The audience loved it. But we can't have you on again, I'm sorry. When Penelope gets her back up . . . well, you understand.'

Maggie nodded mutely. The producer opened a door that gave way into the brightly lit lobby. ‘Thanks for coming,' she said, before closing the door in Maggie's face.

Her knees trembling slightly, Maggie made her way out to the car park, where a solitary black cab was waiting in the rank. Thankfully, she didn't have anything to carry with her back to the office now – they'd agreed to courier all her things back to Bonninghams after the segment – apart from the coronet, which she'd tucked away inside her handbag. As long as Penelope didn't chuck them out! Feeling slightly nauseous, Maggie considered whether it was worth calling in sick. Then she realised how obvious it would be that she was trying to hide after the interview.
Better to face the music
, she decided, grabbing the driver's attention with a half-hearted wave and opening the door.

As she leaned over to give the driver the address, Maggie heard a tap on the glass. Glancing up, she found one of the most beautiful men she'd ever seen standing outside her taxi door. He was motioning for her to wind down the window.

‘It's Maggie, right?' he said with a smile, extending both arms inside to grip hers in a double-handed shake.

The man was watching her in an amused sort of way, deep dimples forming in his olive-skinned face. The grin not only reached his eyes, but seemed to set them alight. Maggie blushed. He reminded her of a young Gregory Peck, his suit like something her father had worn, many years ago (when he was much younger and slimmer, of course). Even his short, side-parted hair seemed modelled on a character from
an Ayn Rand novel. His grey suit was impeccably cut and the crisp white cuffs were threaded with heavy platinum links. Maggie felt a twinge of embarrassment about the tiny hole under the right armpit of her sequinned cardigan, and jammed her arm down by her side in the back of the cab. She smiled up at him uncertainly.

‘Y-yes . . . Can I help you?' she asked, eyes casting about the deserted parking lot, still convinced he had her mistaken for someone else.

‘My name's Michael Masterson – I'm a producer for Channel 4. I just saw your segment. It was brilliant,' he said.

‘Uh, thanks,' Maggie said, heart sinking. Was he having her on? It was pretty clear to anyone watching that she'd stuffed up royally. Surely any fool would have noticed how much Penelope had disliked her?

‘No, seriously – Smiley's always like that. Hates female guests. Especially the pretty ones.' The last comment was delivered with a twinkle of his deep green eyes.
They're almost emerald, really
, Maggie thought, feeling her face turn pink again. She twisted the citrine cocktail ring on her left hand absent-mindedly.

‘I've started the meter,' said the taxi driver brusquely, looking at Maggie in the rear-vision mirror.

‘Oh! Of course – that's fine,' she said quickly, before turning back to Michael and allowing him a small smile.

‘You really love antiques, don't you?' he said. ‘I mean, that dress you're wearing, genuine sixties, isn't it? Really suits you. And your enthusiasm just naturally comes across. Look, this sounds rather forward, I know,' he bent down to look directly into her eyes, ‘but would you mind meeting up with me one day soon? My uncle died recently and left me an estate full of old stuff I don't want and have no idea what to do with. Some of it's worth quite a lot, but I can't be bothered selling it myself. I was going to put it in storage for a while, or pass it on to my father to deal with. But then I heard you speak . . .' He flashed Maggie a crooked grin, and she felt a flutter in her stomach.

‘Uh, s-sure,' she stuttered.

He leaned through the window to offer her his business card. ‘Are you heading back to your office now? Send me an email when you arrive – it's on the back.'

Maggie turned over the creamy white card in her hands. Black embossed.
Nice
, she thought.

‘Could you come meet me soon, at my apartment? I don't have anything stored there but I do have some photos, and a list of everything I need to sell . . . There's quite a lot, actually.'

In your home?
Maggie thought, her stomach doing a little flip. ‘Sure,' she said again, her voice coming out a full octave higher than usual. ‘I will.'

‘Brilliant,' said Michael, smiling broadly. ‘See you then.' He slapped the roof of the taxi with his palm and strode back into the building, an obvious master in anyone's universe.

What an entirely surprising morning
, Maggie thought, feeling bewildered.
And maybe not a complete loss, after all.
Maggie's heart beat faster at the thought she might be able to salvage something from the total disaster of her television appearance.

As the taxi pulled out of the private car park onto the busy B-road, Maggie cast her mind over the events of the morning.

‘Damn!' she exclaimed loudly, startling the turbaned driver in his seat. She'd just remembered: she still hadn't called to let Tim know about Stella.

With a sigh, she dug out her phone and dialled the number. God, she was dreading the conversation she had coming next.

It was a few days after the television appearance, and Maggie was steeling herself for yet another difficult conversation about Stella. Apparently her stepdaughter had been skipping school again. The principal was requesting they come in for a meeting to discuss her ‘options', as he put it, emphasising that they should meet soon – tonight, if possible.

Over the phone, Tim sounded gruff with disappointment. ‘I'm sorry, but I can't make it this evening,' he said. ‘We have another meeting about the council development, and Greg's asked me to stay back late to help him with these drawings.' She could hear the tension in his voice.

Maggie hesitated. Her work hours were becoming less and less manageable . . . God knew where she'd find the time to iron out this mess with Stella, but she did want to help.

‘Don't worry, I'll go,' Maggie said, wondering what she would say to Bonningham. She'd always loved being home earlier than Tim, so she could spend time with Pearl or prepare dinner with the girls, but a lot had changed since she'd taken over as head auctioneer.

Before Stella had moved in, she had been only a small presence in their lives – the daughter Tim had left behind so long ago after a failed relationship with her mother. Tim had met Louisa at university and had fallen hard for the wild, crazy girl who danced all night in bare feet. When she found out she was pregnant, Louisa stopped going to classes. Things settled down for a bit after the baby was born, but when Stella was two or three months old, Louisa left Tim to care for
her while she went out with old university friends. It was only when he found the empty baggie filled with the dregs of white powder, fallen down beside the feeding chair in Stella's room, and the astonishing quantity of pills in her makeup purse, that Tim realised Louisa was taking drugs, and not just recreationally. What if Stella had found it or gotten sick? It could have killed her. He started to lose trust in Louisa after that.

In desperation, Tim turned to Louisa's parents, hoping they could convince her to stop. But it only made things worse. After Louisa dried out in an expensive rehab facility (funded by her parents), they set her up in a small flat nearby so they could keep a close eye on her and the baby, and for whatever reasons of their own, actively discouraged Tim from visiting. Shortly after, Tim had been offered a job in London. That was fifteen years ago. Stella had been living with her mother up north ever since, and only visited once or twice a year, for a few days at a time. Tim found it hard to wrangle much more.

‘I tried, Maggie,' Tim told her when they first met, the pain in his voice so raw. ‘I tried so hard. But they wanted nothing to do with me. They never did think I was good enough. Not rich or good-looking enough for their precious daughter. And I didn't want Louisa hating me – that's the last thing I wanted for Stella, growing up thinking the worst of her father. It seemed better to go along with their plans at the time, but now I barely see her . . . It's my greatest regret.'

Then Stella had mysteriously turned up that day six or so long months ago and turned their lives upside down. She refused to say why, and with Louisa professing not to know either, Maggie and Tim had simply assumed the worst. That she'd run into trouble with one of her mother's boyfriends, perhaps, or fallen in with the wrong crowd at school. The thought of what she might have been through helped Maggie deal with Stella's abominable rudeness. But she had no real idea why Stella had chosen to come and live with them. She knew one thing, though – this behaviour had to stop. Maggie felt desperate about the effect Stella and Tim's arguments were having on Pearl – the screaming matches (Stella screaming, Tim trying his damnedest not to rise to it but
eventually failing, miserably) – and on her relationship with Tim. Pearl seemed to be waking in the middle of the night a lot lately, complaining of nightmares, but Maggie wasn't sure if the two issues were connected.

She rubbed at her locket. It was exactly what she'd spent the first half of her life trying to avoid . . . all this
drama.
It was bad enough having had to grow up in a house as toxic as hers had been, with her mother playing some histrionic form of early English martyr in the kitchen every night and her father getting messily drunk in the living room, but Maggie sure as hell didn't want it in her house now, or to have Pearl growing up around it.

‘Maggie, are you there?' She realised Tim was still on the line, speaking to her.

‘Yes, yes, it's no problem,' she told him. ‘I'll do it.'

‘Thanks, plum – I really appreciate it,' Tim said gratefully. ‘Maybe you can talk some sense into her. Everything I say only seems to make her more angry.'

‘That's not true. You can tell she loves you, really. She's just at that difficult age . . . I'm sure she'll settle down soon,' Maggie said, but she didn't quite believe her own words. Stella was going down a bad path, and Maggie felt that despite their love and care, they just weren't getting through to her.

Maggie hung up and tried to concentrate on work, but her attention kept wandering. Why couldn't she seem to fix things with her own mother – surely she hadn't been as challenging as Stella when she was a teenager? She and Kate had occasionally skived off school together, and there had been the usual experiments with drinking, but there was nothing like the icy dramatic silences or screaming arguments that Maggie and Tim had been having with Stella. Jean, Kate's mother, simply wouldn't have tolerated it. Maggie smiled as she thought about Jean's quiet, steady warmth. Jean's answer to most problems with Kate or Maggie was to put on the kettle and sit quietly at the kitchen table with them until somehow everything poured out. Inquisition by stealth, Maggie and Kate had always agreed, and Don was as gentle and supportive a father as anyone could ever ask for.

Maggie's parents had never understood why she had all but moved in with Kate's family during her last year of school. Instead, they blamed her for never being around, and were cold and distant with her. Maggie's mother was the worst; her war of attrition always had the effect of making Maggie feel small and ashamed, as though she were the real reason for their rotten marriage, not her father's affairs. She felt like she was always trying to make it up to them, by checking in regularly. But they didn't seem to care. It was like they were working to steadily erase her from their memories.

Just then, Zac appeared in her office doorway.

‘A woman to see you, Maggie. Says she saw you on the telly,' he said, and then disappeared.

‘Zac, wait—' she called, but he was already gone. The finer details of who precisely was waiting for her, and why they wanted to see her was apparently information Zac didn't find necessary to pass on. With a sigh, Maggie got up from her desk and stretched her arms above her head. It hadn't been a bad thing, that TV spot, even if Bonningham hadn't been too impressed by her making an enemy of Penelope Smiley. She'd already been contacted by ten or so people since the segment had aired, and some had even supplied her with promising leads for future sales.

Stepping out onto the auction room floor, Maggie saw the woman immediately. Petite and dark, with jet-black cropped hair, she was as out of place on the auction floor as a Japanese slipper orchid in a garden full of weeds . . .
We really have to get some new stock in
, thought Maggie, weaving her way across the floor towards her. Everything looked so shabby, somehow, beside this woman's understated but classic style.

Standing tentatively by the antique irons and trivets, she wore a strange look on her face, as though she wasn't really there in that moment but somewhere else entirely, somewhere far away. Whereas everyone else on the floor was wandering about casually, this woman looked somehow fragile and preoccupied, as though she was holding herself very tightly together. In her fifties or so –
a very well-preserved fifty
, Maggie thought – the woman snapped to with a small smile when she saw her approach. She had almost the bluest eyes Maggie had ever seen.

‘I haven't come across one of these in years,' the woman said, reaching out to touch the black surface of the stove-top iron. There was an accent to her voice that Maggie couldn't quite place. ‘They used to be everywhere – remember? So lovely.'

‘I know,' said Maggie, smiling. She liked this woman already.

She studied the woman more closely and realised, on second thought, that she must be at least sixty. Didn't they say you got the face you deserved around that age? This woman looked like she'd spent her early years relaxing on a deckchair in Portofino under a vast sun umbrella, and her later years being waited on hand and foot by a team of manservants. There was something decadent, almost regal about her creamy white décolletage and handsome, makeup-free face: like she'd spent her childhood fed a diet of strawberries and cream scattered with blanched almonds. Her clothes were sleek and modern, very Jil Sander, and Maggie could tell they were expensive. Her handbag alone probably cost more than Maggie's monthly salary, even though there were no discernible labels on it.

‘Hello, sorry, I don't know your name, my assistant . . .' Maggie trailed off, looking at the woman expectantly. ‘I'm Maggie Walsh-Mason, can I help you with something?'

‘Oh yes – I'm sorry,' said the woman, hands fluttering to her chest. ‘Francesca Yeshov. I just had to meet you, when I saw the . . .' She paused, and seemed to be willing herself to slow down. ‘Where to start? The thing is, I just recently put my mother in a nursing home – she has dementia unfortunately, and my father died years ago.'

That would account for the dark circles under the woman's eyes. Maggie gave Francesca a sympathetic smile, assuming she wanted to talk to her about selling off some of her mother's old things. ‘I'm sorry to hear that, it must be very hard.'

‘It is . . .' said the woman, trailing off. ‘But that's not why I'm here.' She stopped to take a deep breath. ‘I know it sounds odd, but some time ago, actually a long time ago, I know I
had
that thing you were showing to the cameras the other day, the headpiece, or crown – what did you call it? You must think I'm mad, but I recognised it immediately . . . It
was like a thunderbolt, seeing it there on the television like that, and I just had to find you to ask, what do you know about it? Where did it come from?'

‘I'm sorry, I . . .' Maggie was taken aback by the questions and searching intensity in the woman's eyes. She knew the coronet was handmade, and although it was in a style Maggie recognised, she knew it was original, a real one-of-a-kind.

Francesca saw the confusion on Maggie's face. ‘Sorry, let me explain,' she said, taking another breath. ‘I grew up in Italy but my parents were Russian – adoptive parents, that is. They were always quite open about the fact that I'd been adopted. They told me my parents were friends of theirs who died when I was little. My mother has been becoming increasingly disconnected lately but she said something odd to me. I don't have a proper birth certificate, you see – I think back then it was fairly informal – and I always believed them when they told me my parents died long ago. But Mama said something about my father – my real father – a couple of months back, and I got the sense he had still been alive when I was a teenager, and even in my twenties . . . I couldn't quite work out why they had lied to me.'

Maggie had no idea where this was leading, but she could tell the woman was distressed – it was written all over her face.

‘My parents looked after me very well – they were successful businesspeople and owned properties all over Europe. The art world was just one of their interests . . . I run the businesses now.'

Francesca seemed to be trying to clarify something. Maggie wasn't sure why she was being given this information but she waited patiently.

‘Anyway, I'm sure you're not interested in all that . . . It's just . . . This has never happened to me before, but it was like a past life or something hit me when I saw that . . . that thing . . . What did you call it?'

‘A coronet,' said Maggie.

‘Yes, the coronet.' The woman nodded emphatically. ‘I feel, actually, I just
know
now, that it has something to do with where I'm from . . . originally, I mean.'

Maggie took a sharp involuntary breath and felt a chill go down her spine. She'd had a couple of moments like this herself. It was strange and inexplicable, but every now and again, when she held an object, it was as though she could feel its history (and sometimes even its power, the very weight of that past) running through her fingers. She'd even looked it up once on Google and had been fascinated to find there were various articles on the subject. People referred to it as a strange ‘charge': the idea that owners actually imparted something of themselves, or the extreme emotions they were feeling at a certain time, to an object. It had all sounded a bit woo-woo and so she'd stopped reading about it and told herself not to be so silly, but occasionally the feeling just came back to her like déjà vu.

‘Please, I'm not sure if it will make any difference, but where did you find it?' Francesca asked.

‘It was in a job lot I bought from here – rubbish, really. I'm not sure where it came from,' Maggie said truthfully. Francesca turned away, the slump of her shoulders showing her disappointment.

‘But I . . .' said Maggie, hesitating.

Francesca turned back hopefully, and as Maggie looked into her dark, pleading eyes, she knew immediately that she would help her. She wasn't sure why, exactly, but she felt somehow compelled to. Surely she could find out something more, or at least try to give the woman some of the answers she deserved.

And there was something else, too. Imagine what it must be like for Francesca, being brought up by people other than her own parents. And how would Maggie feel, if she missed Pearl's childhood? Or her whole life! All the ups and downs, all the firsts, all the years that followed and the moments to be cherished . . . She felt a pain in her chest even imagining it. Maggie took a deep breath. ‘I don't know how much I'll be able to find out. But I'll do my best.'