The Vintage Teacup Club (24 page)

‘I’ll explain when I get to yours,’ Maggie said, glancing at her diary, ‘but I think we’ll need a bit longer than we first thought. Is it OK if I come around a bit earlier, say two o’clock?’

‘I’m out on a job in Grayville today, and I get back at half past. That OK?’

‘Great. See you then.’ When they’d said goodbye Maggie hung up and with a spring in her step returned to the shop floor.

‘You look happy,’ Anna said. ‘What’s going on?’ Maggie was dying to tell her, to tell someone, but she didn’t want to tempt fate. She’d have the opportunity to talk it through with Owen, and then, when they had proper confirmation from the
magazine, she’d be able to share the good news.

‘Anna, are you still OK to mind the shop this afternoon? I know it’s a bit hectic, but you seem to have everything under control.’

‘That’s fine, Maggie, no problem at all,’ Anna said, her usual upbeat self. ‘You know what, it’s getting easier – with the practice I mean.’

‘Good,’ Maggie replied. ‘I’ve been hearing great things about you from the customers. In fact I reckon you deserve a bonus for everything you’ve done this past month. A contribution to your car fund, maybe?’

‘Yay!’ Anna said, glowing. She had been saving for a second-hand car since she’d passed her test at the start of the year. Then she narrowed her eyes. ‘Unless you’ve got ulterior motives – are you planning on making me Bluebelle’s newest delivery girl?’

‘Aha! I wasn’t, but there’s an idea …’ Maggie said, laughing.

The drive to Owen’s workshop took Maggie out of town, through trees thick with leaves that met at the top and formed a tunnel of green. She was driving with the top down, a spotted blue and white headscarf keeping her hair more or less in place. The sun had finally come out, shafts of light forcing their way through the foliage, and Maggie wondered how Dylan’s shoot was turning out – the conditions should be just right for taking photos now.

She reached Owen’s address after twenty minutes on
the road, a group of converted stables around a big cobbled courtyard. Maggie parked up next to his truck, and gathering her things, walked towards number three, in the far corner. As she approached the door she peeked in through the windows of the surrounding workshops – a carpenter was hard at work in one and the others looked like artists’ studios. Next door to Owen’s was a room filled with pieces of metal that glinted in the sunlight – as Maggie got closer she saw hand-crafted jewellery laid out inside.

A couple of yards away, Owen’s wooden front door was half-open. When she got there she pushed against it and stepped inside.

‘Hello?’ she called out.

Owen was next to the sink, stacking some tools. Hearing her voice, he turned around, ‘Hi Maggie,’ he said, almost as if they were friends.

He looked different in his own setting. His clothes fit the scene, rather than looking out of place and scruffy like they had at the hall. He seemed more relaxed. Half of the workshop space was filled with garden implements and plants; the other half was a makeshift office, with a computer and a pinboard covered with plans and images. Owen came over to greet her, shaking her hand hello. It was formal, and awkward, but it would have to do.

‘Sorry—’ he said, looking down and seeming to notice his muddy hands for the first time as he pulled
them back. ‘I haven’t had a chance to wash them yet. Why don’t you go through out the back and I’ll bring us both a cuppa.’

He walked ahead of her and opened the glass-paned wooden door on the opposite side of the room. Maggie looked out into a beautiful walled garden – wisteria lined the back wall and jasmine and honeysuckle climbed to their left. Birds flocked to a little bird table by the door. There was a bench made from driftwood and Owen motioned for her to sit there.

‘Take a seat,’ he said.

She sat down and took in the sights and smells of his garden; the jasmine climbing up the pale brick gave out a scent that brought back childhood summers. There was a sculpture in the corner on a plinth too; simple, but pleasing, smooth and white with a hole through the middle. Maggie took her satchel off and put it down beside her, getting the folder out ready to take the notes. She heard the taps running inside as Owen washed his hands and put the kettle on to boil.

He reappeared a couple of minutes later with a tray of tea and a couple of biscuits. He put them down on the driftwood table.

‘This is a little oasis, isn’t it?’ Maggie said.

‘Thank you. I like it out here. It’s calm and quiet.’

Maggie nodded, smiling. Since she’d decided to forget about the Lucy thing, being civil had
started coming more easily.

‘Where is your sculpture from? It looks like a Barbara Hepworth,’ Maggie said; the bold Cornish sculptor had always been one of her favourites. She turned to Owen and saw that his gaze was on her, not the sculpture.

‘It’s a copy,’ he said, with a smile. ‘My grandfather used to live down in Carbis Bay in Cornwall near her during the war. He admired her sculptures and modelled some of his own on hers. When he died he left this one to me.’

‘Copy or not, it’s beautiful,’ Maggie responded. ‘All I got when my granddad died was a stuffed squirrel and a carriage clock,’ she laughed. His eyes were still on hers, steady, and she realised her laugh had come out sounding nervous.

‘So what’s with the hurry today?’ Owen asked. ‘I mean, I know you wanted to see the tunnel model, and we can look at that in a minute – but on the phone it sounded like there was something else you wanted to talk about?’ Owen pulled up a wooden chair to sit opposite her.

‘Yes. It’s good news,’ Maggie said, sitting up straight. ‘Lucy called me this morning and told me that
It Girl
magazine really like the concepts – particularly the rabbit hole – and they want an exclusive.’ Maggie smiled. ‘You know it’s just what Lucy’s been hoping for, and obviously it’s going to be great publicity for both
our businesses.’

Owen looked completely unmoved. In fact if anything Maggie thought maybe she saw his face fall a little. ‘Great publicity?’ he said, raising an eyebrow as he spoke.

‘Yes,’ Maggie said. ‘I mean I’ve been waiting for something like this for ages, some high-profile exposure. And the same would be the case for you. I mean I don’t want to jump the gun, but if this all goes smoothly it could be life-changing.’

‘Well, that’s great for you, Maggie,’ Owen said dully. ‘But not all of us want life-changing.’ His expression was cold.

‘I like my life,’ he went on, the arrogance Maggie had first seen coming back in an instant. ‘And my business, just as they are. You know weddings aren’t my thing. I don’t need an exclusive photo deal with a glossy magazine to promote my business, especially when I’m doing something I would never usually do – I normally get landscaping work by word of mouth and that’s how I like it.’ He shook his head as if he were struggling to comprehend where she was coming from.

‘We might be creating floral croquet hoops for this event, but my day-to-day work is no frills, environmentally conscious gardening. Hard, honest, work; not just frilly self-promotion. I doubt a bunch of
It Girl
-reading wannabes are going to be interested in what I do. And even if they are, I can’t imagine they’ll be the kind of people I want to be generating new business
with.’

Maggie realised she’d been holding her breath as he talked. She slowly let it go and took a moment before responding.

‘Owen, look, I see your point,’ she said, trying hard to be diplomatic, ‘but I still think this could be an ideal opportunity for both of us. How can you just dismiss all of the readers of a magazine like that, especially when they’re likely to have money to spend?’

‘Maggie. In my view it’s about how a business grows, not just how big. I’ve always intended to build things slowly, stay true to the values I started this out with.’

‘And that’s how I work too,’ Maggie countered, feeling suddenly defensive.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Maggie. Are your flowers even fairtrade?’

‘Yes,’ Maggie replied, hesitantly. ‘I mean, I think so. Or if not, they will be …’ she stumbled. Anna had been talking about it lately and she was sure she’d put it on a list of things to look into.

Owen continued, ‘Jack told me you’re flying in roses from South America. Have you thought about the carbon footprint this wedding is going to have?’

‘No … to be honest … I mean Lucy gave me her outline and this is how I—’ Maggie said, then stopped for a moment to compose herself, taking a deep breath. ‘Owen, I know how to plan wedding
flowers, I’ve been doing it for years, and I’ve had no complaints at all from Lucy or Jack about my ideas.’

‘I’m not disputing that,’ Owen said, staring down at the ground now, ‘but the more I think about it, the more I wonder if this wedding is the right project for me. It just seems like ethical considerations aren’t even coming into the decisions. Our priorities aren’t the same.’

Maggie felt a rush of indignation, and her cheeks flamed.

‘How can you just assume that?’ she said, furious. ‘I understand that you’re focused on your own work, but shouldn’t you at least get to know other people properly before you make judgements?’

‘The way I see it, we all have a responsibility, Maggie … but if it’s your dream to be in a magazine …’ Owen said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘What do you know about my dreams?’ Maggie got to her feet and picked her satchel back up again. ‘Nothing, Owen.’ She fixed him with a glare. ‘You’re self-righteous and snobby and—’

The words she’d wanted to say disappeared as Lucy’s emerald pendant flashed across her mind. She tried to push the image away and remain professional.

‘And what, Maggie?’ Owen taunted her. ‘What else am I, seeing as you know me so well?’

‘It’s just … How
dare
you take the moral high ground with me,’ Maggie hissed. ‘You may want to pull out
of the wedding, but I’m pretty sure your reasons have nothing to do with any of this.’

‘Oh, really?’ Owen said, both eyebrows going up this time.

‘Yes, really,’ Maggie said. ‘I saw Lucy’s necklace in your car, Owen.’

He was silent for a while, looking down at the ground, and then shook his head.

‘Look, Maggie, I’m not keeping you here,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You’re the one who came dashing around, worried that if you didn’t you’d miss catching a few accounts from WAGs and
Big Brother
rejects.’ The vitriol was really flowing now. ‘Do what you like. But obviously there is no way you’re using any of my ideas without me.’

Maggie turned her back on him and walked back into the workshop, the hopes she’d had for the Darlington Hall wedding in tatters. As she left, she looked over her shoulder and shouted, ‘You can be the one to tell Lucy then, that her fairytale wedding – or whatever it really is – is
off
.’

Maggie put her foot down hard on the accelerator on the way back to her house. From what Lucy had told her, it was the rabbit hole idea that had interested
It Girl
most and without it the deal might well fall through. She imagined Owen would be calling
Lucy right now, telling her he’d changed his mind, or that Maggie was impossible, and they’d have to find another highly skilled landscape gardener to replace him at short notice. She saw her dream of a shop in London slipping out of her grasp. She didn’t want to think about it anymore, what she needed was a gin and tonic in the comfort of her home, and for Dylan to tell her that everything was going to be OK.

She parked up in the drive and let herself into the house. There was music playing; Dylan must have left the setting on timer by accident this morning, the automatic lights and sound were supposed to deter burglars when the two of them were out of the house. As she set her bag down in the living room though, her heart stopped. There was soil in the pale carpet, and following the trail she saw that her delicate gold birdcage had fallen to the floor and the pink orchid inside it was lying on the carpet, the stem broken. Most of the earth in the pot had spilled out and the petals were broken and bent.

Her first instinct was to call the police, but something stopped her. What could she even say to them, other than there was a broken plant on her living room floor? She’d had an upsetting day, and she needed to be rational. Accidents happened, and perhaps the hook she’d put up on the wall hadn’t been strong enough to hold the birdcage after all.

She put the damaged flower in its pot
up on the counter by the sink. It was then she heard a noise upstairs, as if someone had dropped something. Tip-toeing, she walked over to the stairs and tentatively crept up them. Was that noise coming from her study? That was where most of the things of value were kept, including the jewellery she’d inherited from her grandmother.

As she reached the landing, a woman’s laugh rang out. Her bedroom door was open and as she stepped forward, Maggie took in the scene. Dylan lay in bed, naked, his hair ruffled, just as she’d left him this morning. In a cruel parody of the moment she’d left, a blonde woman was standing by the side of the bed, wrapped in a pale blue towel that Dylan was trying to wrestle off her.

‘Maggie – oh, crap, Maggie,’ Dylan said, hurriedly getting back into his boxers. The woman with him looked awkward, and pulled the towel – one of Maggie’s from the en suite – more tightly around her.

Maggie stood still. ‘So it’s you …’ she said. It suddenly clicked. She addressed the woman, ‘You must be Sam.’

The blonde nodded, ‘Yes,’ she said, with the trace of an American accent. Maggie’s eyes flicked for a split-second to the print on her bedroom wall, the one Dylan had taken of his own studio, to confirm her suspicions. There in the foreground was the same woman, glossy blonde hair and her face
half-hidden under a floppy seventies hat; a picture within a picture, her photo pinned to Dylan’s studio wall. This woman had been in Maggie’s bedroom all along.

‘I’ll get my things,’ Sam said, lowering her head and hurriedly gathering up her clothes from around the room before ducking out into the landing to put them on. Maggie ignored her completely, her eyes firmly fixed on Dylan’s. They were both silent until Maggie finally heard the front door slam.