The Vintage Teacup Club (8 page)

Zoe stared at me across the desk, faint shadows visible under her dark eyes. ‘Well, go on then,’ she said flatly, tipping her head to indicate the other empty desks. Only Gary, Chloe’s manager, was left, tapping away intently on his computer. ‘No prizes for staying late, you know, Jenny. We’re only still here because we have to be.’ She looked back down at the document she was checking, not waiting for a response. It was Zoe’s way of being sort-of-nice. I picked up my gym bag with a goodbye and walked out of the office’s wide glass doors.

Chloe met me in reception, leaning on the counter and switching from towering heels to flats. She was shoving her work shoes into her handbag when I arrived.

‘Jen,’ she said, flexing her feet in the ballerina
pumps as if getting used to the feel of them again. ‘I know we said we’d go to Zumba tonight,’ she caught the suspicious look in my eye and geared up her excuse, ‘but I had to wear these stupid heels for a meeting today and my feet are killing me. Plus it’s such a gorgeous summery evening. How about we go for a drink instead?’

I’d been looking forward to our regular Zumba date, there was nothing like a little booty-shaking to latin rhythms to kick the Monday blues; but Chloe’s wide eyes implored me to let her off the hook just this once. ‘I promise we’ll go next time,’ she said.

‘OK,’ I relented. ‘But I’m going to hold you to that; we’re definitely going on Thursday,’ I said, smiling. ‘I want to be more toned than this for the wedding – even if I do have the corset to hold everything in now.’

‘Fox and Pheasant?’ Chloe suggested, and together we walked out of the air-conditioned
Sussex Living
offices and into the warm evening air. It was only Monday, but the pavement outside the pub opposite, our regular, was already crowded. Charlesworth’s shop and office workers were enjoying the unexpected balminess, white wine spritzers and bottles of Magners in hand. Chloe and I crossed the street and I went into the pub to get a glass of white wine for each of us, while Chloe nabbed an empty bit of bench to sit on.

‘So,’ I said, when I returned from the bar, settling myself on the seat and tucking my unused
gym kit under the table. ‘How was that thirtieth you went to on Saturday?’

‘Ahem, yes …’ Chloe started, wrinkling her nose a little.

I knew that face. ‘Chloe …’ I started, in the schoolmarmish voice that I seemed to adopt whenever we had this conversation.

‘I know, I know.’ She held her hands up. ‘But the men at the party were all such idiots, Jen. It was mainly Nikki’s banker friends down from London. It was like they expected us country girls to leap straight on to hay bales with them at the mere mention of champagne,’ Chloe said, unclipping her hair and raking her hands through her chestnut curls. ‘So when I got a text from Jon at midnight saying come over, I did.’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘He was so lovely when I got there.’

‘Right. Of course he was,’ I said, before I could stop myself.

‘I know, Jen. You don’t need to remind me.’ Chloe looked a little defeated.

Chloe and Jon had been on and off for as long as I’d known her. Jon had swept her off her feet when she met him online dating three years ago, and according to Chloe their first year together had been a dream. From what I’d witnessed, though, he’d spent the following two years breaking all of his promises and breaking
up with her. Then, without fail, just when she was getting back on her feet again, he would decide he wanted her back.

‘He was really apologetic about missing Jo’s wedding,’ Chloe said. ‘And the thing is, he’s not great with weddings anyway, so perhaps it was best he wasn’t there after all, like he said.’ Chloe sipped her wine and smoothed down her peach pleated skirt.

‘Jen,’ Chloe said after a pause, ‘how do you and Dan make it look so easy?’

‘Do we?’ I said, genuinely surprised that she thought that. ‘I’ve no idea, Chlo – because it isn’t, not always. Ask him what it’s like going out with someone who alphabetises his DVDs and “disappears” items of his clothing she isn’t keen on. We have our moments, believe me.’

‘OK, but you don’t have doubts, do you?’ Chloe asked, ‘I mean big ones.’

‘No,’ I replied, mulling it over. ‘Not big ones. I’m pretty sure this time.’ I thought about how different things had been with my ex – I’d had a catalogue of doubts back then. But when I met Dan things just seemed to fall into place, and while it wasn’t all perfect, for the most part loving him felt like a lazy Sunday, not a battle.

‘Good,’ Chloe said, cheering up. ‘Because as it happens I’ve had some really good ideas for your
hen night, so we can’t have you bailing out now.’

I smiled. ‘Not a chance.’

Hearing his voice was the hardest part, but it definitely helped that Dylan had picked up a stupid-sounding transatlantic twang.

‘Hey, Maggie,’ he said, as soon as she answered the phone. ‘So where are you living now?’ he asked her, once they’d exchanged a few pleasantries. ‘And what about work, did you start up on your own like you always wanted to?’

Maggie was sitting on the edge of her sofa, her bare feet pressed into the soft rug and a glass of wine on the table next to her. It was eleven pm and rain was battering against the French windows. The hot weather had broken earlier that evening and the storm was still going strong. The branches of her apple tree knocked against the glass. Maggie had been trying not to watch the
phone since replying to Dylan at the weekend, but from time to time her eyes would drift over to it, wondering if and when he would call.

‘Yes,’ Maggie answered, trying to keep the tone of her voice even and steady. ‘I did move. I’m down in Sussex now actually, in an old market town.’ She was grateful that her voice came out sounding calmer than she felt.

‘Ah, right, Sussex,’ he said. ‘Nice. But I bet country living hasn’t knocked the city girl out of you yet.’

‘Look,’ Maggie cut in, steeling herself. ‘Let’s not mess around, Dylan. Why was it that you wanted to speak to me?’

They fell silent.

‘OK, Maggie, you’re right,’ Dylan said at last. ‘To the point.’ She heard him take a deep breath. ‘I never meant for it to be so long before we spoke again, but like I said, I needed some time completely apart.’

Maggie took a sip of her wine and listened.

‘I’ve been living in New York for the past three years. With my international client list it was easy enough to set up a studio over there. I’ve been photographing everything from car adverts to book covers. I know you always thought I let my work take over, but I suppose there were just some things I needed to do.’

Each word about Dylan’s success was like a stab to her
chest.

‘I’ve got an apartment in Brooklyn,’ Dylan continued. ‘And the city is amazing, there’s a real buzz here. I wake up each morning and can’t wait to get started.’

Hooray for you, Maggie thought. Her thoughts flicked to the adored wedding ring she’d put away in a box a few summers before. Dylan had put so much energy into his career back then that it had felt to Maggie as if there hadn’t been any left for their marriage. And now she had to listen to Dylan celebrating all he’d achieved without her? Really?

‘But the truth is it doesn’t feel right anymore, Maggie.’ Dylan’s voice softened. ‘None of it does. I don’t want a bachelor lifestyle. I want what the two of us had together. Every woman I meet, every flower arrangement I see, every flash of red hair in the street reminds me of you.’

Oh. Maggie took a gulp of wine this time.

‘I’m ready for something more,’ Dylan continued. ‘Something I wasn’t ready for when we broke up. I know you never wanted for us to get divorced – I made that happen and Maggie, I’m so, so sorry.’

Maggie mustered up a hesitant ‘OK’, although it really wasn’t.

‘Maggie, look, this is how it is. I’m coming to London at the end of next week. I want for us to talk face to face. Please hear me out. Will you? I hope that what we had is worth that?’

Dylan’s words hung in the
air.

‘Let me think about it,’ Maggie said.

*

The morning sun streamed in through Maggie’s white muslin curtains as she woke to Mork mewing gently for food. She felt as if she’d hardly slept, the storm had been battering at the windows till the early morning and Dylan’s words had been going around and around in her head. Barely moving from the position she was in, she lazily reached out a hand to stroke the cat and caught sight of her alarm clock. The numbers glared, reprimanding her. Five past ten. Oh, darn it. She was due at Darlington Hall in twenty-five minutes and it would take her at least that just to drive there.

She’d been in a daze when she’d finally gone to bed last night and now she realised she must have forgotten to set the alarm. She got to her feet quickly and pulled her satin dressing gown off the hook and around her. Sweeping Mork up in her arms she headed downstairs, poured him out some cat biscuits and grabbed a glass of water. Where had she put those sketches again? She found her linen notebook on the breakfast bar and some other loose pages she’d made sketches on, and put them in her leather satchel alongside her Netbook, BlackBerry and diary.

There was definitely no time for a shower. No time at all. But could she really face turning up at Darlington Hall in this state? She ran upstairs, switched the shower on to warm up and tied her hair back in a pink sequinned scrunchie her niece Maisy had left on the
side the last time she’d visited. She washed in a zingy grapefruit shower gel that made her feel a whole lot more ready to face the world. Back in her bedroom she peeked out of her window – after the storm there were pure blue skies and sunshine. She chose a pale green silk dress with Chinese-style fastening at the top and brown leather gladiator sandals. She pulled on her chunky gold bracelet and headed downstairs, satchel in hand. She got into her Beetle and looked down at the clock. Ten twenty-five. Argh.

As the gravel crunched under her tyres she saw there was another vehicle already pulled up at Darlington House – a battered pick-up truck with gardening tools in the back. She parked next to it, hopped out and walked, as fast as was dignified, up to the front door of the house. The bell rang grandly and Lucy opened the door.

‘I’m so sorry, Lucy,’ Maggie began. Lucy looked her up and down, unimpressed.

‘Look,’ Lucy began, ‘you’ve missed the pastries and we’ve started already, but come in. We’re in the drawing room.’ Maggie followed her through to a sunny room furnished with a chaise longue and a rocking horse. Two dark red velvet sofas faced each other in the far corner next to the French windows, and Maggie saw Jack and another guy with dark hair – presumably his friend, the landscape gardener – sitting together on one. Maggie
walked with Lucy and took a seat beside her on the other sofa. ‘Maggie, this is Owen, Owen, Maggie.’ Owen looked like he was in his late twenties. He was lounging back in a scruffy checked shirt and khaki combats as if he had no need to make an effort even at a manor house. When Maggie shook his hand, his dark eyes met hers, but he didn’t smile. His gaze was so steady that it unsettled her. Looking away, she noticed that Lucy’s father, Jeremy Mackintosh, was out on the terrace, pacing up and down and talking on his phone.

‘Owen’s put together some really good designs here,’ Lucy began, pointing to some papers on the coffee table. ‘He’s planned out where to put the mushrooms and which way the guests will walk.’

Maggie opened her satchel and produced her linen notebook and sketches. ‘Ah, that sounds interesting …’ she said, not looking over. ‘Lucy, there’s something I wanted to show you both too.’

Maggie put her designs on the other half of the table and opened out her sketchbook. She ensured she had all of Lucy and Jack’s attention before she spoke. She glanced at Owen too, but got the sense he couldn’t care less about what she had to say. It didn’t help when his gaze drifted away from her designs towards the garden, where Lucy’s dad was standing. Maggie pointed at her first drawing. ‘I thought we could have the
guests walking from this main door –’ she pointed to the drawing room door, ‘down the steps to hit the display like—’

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Lucy said. ‘I much prefer what Owen’s done here, with the lakeside rose display and the candlelit area by the herb garden, don’t you Jack?’

Jack nodded, then caught Maggie’s eye and stopped.

‘I like them both, to be honest, Luce. They’re just different.’

Maggie carried on, regardless. ‘But you see what I’ve done here with the wicker hula hoops will make the display a really interactive—’

‘Wicker hula hoops?’ Owen said, laughing as he turned back to the table and looking at Maggie straight on, his dark eyes resting on hers again. ‘Really?’

OK, perhaps that had been a step too far, Maggie reflected, but was there any need to be rude?

‘Didn’t you say I’m doing the garden and she’s handling the flowers, Jack?’ Owen continued. ‘I thought that was what we agreed?’

Maggie seethed, a flush of frustration and fury coming to her cheeks. She glared at him in disbelief.

‘Actually we did say that, didn’t we Maggie?’ Lucy said.

OK, so they had, but after their first meeting she’d realised she was more than capable of doing some of the designing herself. She shouldn’t have been so daunted by it. Now Owen was acting as if she was treading on his toes, when it was just as much her event to organise. She
wanted the wedding to fit with the Bluebelle brand, and if Owen started to take over too much she knew she could risk compromising that.