The Vintage Teacup Club (2 page)

She knew – her friends and family were always telling her – that she should give herself the weekends to relax, but she couldn’t fight the urge to use the time to get ahead on her business projects. There was always a last-minute rush with weddings. Even after fifteen years in the flower business she hadn’t mastered the art of avoiding eleventh-hour panics – but the meticulous preparation she did ensured that, in her clients’ eyes at least, everything flowed seamlessly.

The sun was warm on her face as she put the computer aside and took another sip of her drink. Pressing down the toes of her black suede pumps she set the swing seat in motion and leaned back. On a spring day, sitting out here was hard to beat. Friends were always surprised when they saw her garden – the layout was simple, with an emphasis on colour, rather than intricate design; the lawn was well kept, with azalias
blooming around the edges. It was a world away from the exotic wedding flowers she often favoured, and a contrast to the way she had furnished the house indoors. But the classic blooms and uncluttered symmetry put her mind at ease. Out here, twenty minutes’ drive from the high street, the only sound was birdsong.

She fiddled with the wide gold bracelet she’d put on to complement her fuchsia dress that morning. Today, even here, surrounded by nature at its loveliest, Maggie felt restless. What was it about weekends? Sometimes the pressure to relax, to just be yourself, felt immense. Why was relaxing so important anyway?

Friday’s meeting had unsettled her, and even two days afterwards her garden couldn’t calm her like it usually did. She was used to doing big events – she’d been arranging flowers for them for years – but even by her standards the Darlington Hall wedding was quite something. When she’d driven through the gates in her convertible VW Beetle that first time, the sight of the stately home had taken her breath away. It was even more impressive than it looked in photos. The house itself was Georgian, with pillars by the door and stables off to the side in a nearby block, and the grounds seemed to spread out for miles around. However, it was the bride, not the place, who had really knocked her for six. Lucy Mackintosh’s wedding vision was an
Alice in Wonderland
theme – with croquet on the lawn
and a Mad Hatter’s tea party laid out next to toadstools. Money, it seemed, wasn’t a big consideration – Lucy was the only daughter of a self-made millionaire, and Maggie knew Lucy’s father was as keen to impress his friends as the bride-to-be was to raise the stakes for the exclusive photo rights.

Hovering in Lucy’s shadow as she led Maggie around her father’s grounds had been the groom-to-be, Jack. In baggy jeans and a pair of scuffed trainers he had looked every bit the fish out of water. But with his chiselled good looks and gentle warmth (neither were lost on Maggie, despite the ten-year age gap) it was easy to see why Lucy had fallen for him.

‘Where do you get your flowers from?’ Jack had asked, looking over at Maggie and then quickly back at his shoes. He seemed genuinely curious.

‘From all over, really, Jack,’ Maggie had replied. ‘Holland are important suppliers, and we get our roses from South America … but I tailor things for each wedding, and with this being the biggest one I’ve handled it’s likely I’ll be sourcing flowers from all over the world. Did you have any specific ideas?’

‘Umm, no, no,’ he stumbled, ‘I’ll leave that to Luce, she’s good with that stuff, not me … I was just wondering, you know – what it’s like to run your own business.’

Beyond the shyness and beneath the sweeping
brown fringe nearly resting on his eyelashes, Maggie wondered if there might just be a budding entrepreneur. As she went to respond, Lucy cut in.

‘What I was thinking is we could have the tea party here, so when the guests arrive they’d be greeted with a cup – from some gorgeous vintage set. Did you get that, Maggie?’ As Lucy span around to face her, the emerald on her necklace glinted in the sun. ‘I mean, where you come in really is that I’d like to see that look echoed with cups filled with flowers all around. I don’t mean shop-bought, I mean proper
bonafide vintage
teacups. God, the wedding planner I started out with didn’t understand my vision on that at all.’ Lucy rolled her eyes and turned to Maggie, fixing her with a stare that ensured her point was crystal clear. ‘Dropped her like a bad habit. But you see things my way, don’t you, Maggie?’ Maggie nodded, then listened as her client continued. ‘You’d be sourcing the crockery, the wicker … Well, let’s just say that I expect the very best … if Bluebelle du Jour don’t wow me then we can’t expect my guests to be impressed either, can we?’

Lucy was talking through her plans ten to the dozen now, twirling a strand of her immaculately highlighted hair, walking swiftly around the garden, pointing and gesticulating all the while. By the time they arrived back around at the front of the house Maggie was a little out of breath from rushing
to keep up.

‘You have some really original ideas, Lucy,’ Maggie remarked, tactfully, biting her tongue before saying any more, something her years of experience had taught her. She couldn’t help glancing with sympathy at the young man who was about to sign up for a lifetime of not being able to get a word in edgeways. ‘I’ll get onto it right away, challenges like this are my speciality. Just one thing, though …’

She hesitated. God, it went against every instinct she had to admit weakness, especially to someone so clearly used to getting their own way.

‘Your vision is fantastic, like I say, but these are fairly big plans, aren’t they? I mean, you know that I’ll deliver, at Bluebelle we
always
deliver … but things like big toadstools aren’t exactly my speciality – my experience is in the flower business, first and foremost.’

Lucy let out a high-pitched laugh and threw her head back, shaking her hair-envy-inducing mane. Maggie waited for her client to calm down – the laughter didn’t seem very kind – and when she did, Lucy had her hand on Maggie’s arm. ‘Oh no, Maggie, darling.’ Maggie looked down at Lucy’s tanned wrist and pearl bracelet against her own pale Irish skin, conscious of a physical closeness that she hadn’t invited.

‘Jack’s friend Owen is handling all that. He’s a landscape gardener – isn’t that right, Jack?’ Jack nodded and smiled, shifting from one foot to
the other.

‘Yep, that’s right – Owen’s just set up his own company too, you see that’s what got me thinking … But yes, Owen’s a great—’

His fiancée interrupted with a whispered aside to Maggie. ‘Only qualified a year ago so he’s dirt cheap too.’

‘Ahh.’ Maggie said. She didn’t like what Lucy was implying, but her relief was genuine. She’d been wondering how on earth she was going to manage it all by herself. ‘That’s great. Look, I have to head off now, but it’s been wonderful to talk with you today. When I’ve got a few things firmed up perhaps we could schedule in a meeting? So that Owen and I can brief each other – and you – on our plans, I mean. Lucy, Bluebelle du Jour are going to make this day perfect for you. Trust me. Bespoke weddings are what we do best.’

Standing next to Maggie’s car, they’d shaken hands and air-kissed. When Jack’s mouth briefly touched Maggie’s cheek, his stubble brushing against her skin, she had not been able to stifle a smile. He was such a genuine guy. Lucy would have to work hard to train him out of that.

In her garden, Maggie shivered. A cloud was starting to block out the sun, and without a wrap over her pink dress she felt the sudden cold. Gathering up the phone, her Netbook and her empty glass she headed back inside through the French doors of her
two-storey 1920s cottage. Mork, her Burmese cat, snaked his way between her feet before dashing inside ahead of her. There was a Mindy, too, her sister Carrie’s cat from the same litter – Mork had the cushier deal, as Mindy had to endure quite a bit of tail-pulling from toddlers.

Maggie closed the doors carefully behind her and switched on the stereo. Billie Holiday’s soothing tones started to fill the room. The notes started low and wove upwards. They seemed to reach out to each of the magnificent orchids that filled the living room and the adjacent kitchen. Maggie picked up the plant spray and began her daily routine, singing along to the melody and spritzing each orchid in turn. From fragile white petals to delicate pinks and bold purples – each bloom had her full attention for a moment as she assessed its position, movement and colouring, and looked out for any flaws or damage.

Maggie wondered what would happen if she ever took the time to assess her own body in the same detail. At thirty-six she was still looking pretty good … but when she stepped out of the bath each night the steps that followed were hasty. She’d rub on body moisturiser in swift strokes and dodge the view in the wide mirror. She questioned now why she’d ever thought that mirror was a good idea. Linger too long and she knew what she’d see – dimpled skin, thread veins and stretch marks, her life’s adventures mapped out across her
thighs, stomach and bum. She knew how to dress her figure well; in fitted but forgiving jeans, and linen, silk and cottons in cool shades; but the naked truth was another story – wasn’t it for every woman?

The orchids, however – young and old, perfect and flawed – were all beautiful to her. She stepped up on a little wooden stool and spritzed her favourite of all – a bright pink bloom that she’d placed in a gilt birdcage she’d bought years ago in Islington. Maggie was a London girl. She’d lived just off Camden Passage once, the cobbled street that every weekend became an antiques heaven. Back then, she’d been learning the ropes at a friend’s flower shop nearby and singing with a band in bars and clubs most evenings. With time things had changed though, and apart from the birdcage, very little from her previous life had come with her to the Charlesworth house.

Maggie’s mind snapped back to the music playing – the iPod plugged into her stereo was flicking through the Bs, from Billie Holiday to Blondie, and something told her that her orchids weren’t going to respond as well to ‘Atomic’ as they did to ‘Summertime’. She chose one of her favourite Aretha songs instead. As she put the iPod down, a memory nagged at her; there’d been a day when half of her music collection had been quite different; once upon a time her flowers had listened to the Strokes and old Led Zeppelin tracks, whether they
liked it or not. She forced the thought away – that had been a lifetime ago, and each month that passed she felt more distant from the woman she’d been back then. She’d thrown away the photos; her early thirties weren’t a time she needed to revisit. Bluebelle du Jour, exhausting as it could sometimes be, kept her busy and energised, and Charlesworth had really begun to feel like home. The best thing of all was that she had complete control over everything in her life, from the timing of her breakfast coffee to the way her flowers framed the lawn. When she plumped her cushions they stayed that way. Maggie had worked hard to find the balance she had now – and while it looked like Lucy Mackintosh was going to be a tough customer, it would take far more than her demands to unsettle that.

She bent over her Netbook one last time, unable to resist checking if the supplier had been able to reply to her message after all.

There was a new email, but not the one she’d been expecting. From:
Dylan Leonard
. Maggie sat down in her wicker chair, to steady herself. A cool chill rushed over her skin. Christ, she thought. Some things just
won’t stay buried.

‘“
A Vintage Affair … retro accessories, mother-of-the-bride outfits
”? What’s this, eh, Jenny?’

Oh crap. I looked up from my screen to clock my boss Zoe leaning down over me, our faces nearly touching. The eyebrow she’d raised had disappeared under her blunt-cut black fringe. I’d watched her go out for a cigarette five minutes ago but must have missed her come back in, darn it. I clicked to minimise the wedding fair website, silently cursing the open-plan layout in our office. I took in a lungful of the familiar cloud of tobacco and Chanel that clung to Zoe.

‘Sorry, Zoe …’ I said, turning to face her again. Why did she always manage to rumble me like
this? ‘I’ve finished the stationery order, so I was just …’ My sentence trailed off when I realised she had a wry smile on her face.

‘Oh chill out, Jenny,’ she said dismissively, standing back up to her full height. ‘I’m only teasing.’ She smoothed an untidy strand of her shiny hair back into place. ‘God knows you give enough of your life to this place. Focus on marrying whoever this man is who’s been keeping you sane.’

And
breathe
. It was a good mood day.

Zoe was the advertising manager, and her look was hard-edged, all
Pulp Fiction
hair and tailored trouser suits that gave her a terrifying sleek silhouette. She was notorious for her steely front while keeping the ad sales guys in line and the unpredictable, fierce temper that could leave even the MD trembling. But sometimes, like today, I caught a hint of something more human about her.

The pressure had been on at our magazine,
Sussex Living
, to start generating more cash through advertising – the lifeblood of the regional glossy – and with another sales target approaching most of us were tiptoeing past the advertising department – and
especially
around Zoe. Somehow, to date I’d dodged the bullets. As an office manager I wasn’t closely involved in ad sales, and I certainly wasn’t a threat. I also had a little ammunition of my
own: a while back Zoe had drunkenly confessed to me about sleeping with Ryan, the nineteen-year-old post boy, after a night out. I’d never dream of using it against her, but she didn’t know that. I noticed that he still gave her a wink when dropping off her letters in the morning and more than once I’d seen her shrink behind her computer screen. Although Ryan
had
proven his initiative by speeding around the office in a swivel chair – halving his delivery time – he was still just the teenage postboy and shagging him wasn’t something you’d really want to shout about.