The Vintage Teacup Club (6 page)

I nodded, but my mind was foggy. Thinking about Alison being there for her daughters’ weddings had made me realise that however I looked at it, there was going to be a gap at mine.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Alison said. ‘But not just any old stuff, Hol, beautiful things – like the set Granny has at her house.’

‘As much as I’d like to stay here all day,’ said Maggie, again casting a glance at the wall clock, ‘duty calls. I really should get back to the shop.’ She picked up her linen jacket and got to her feet with a smile. ‘It’s been lovely, Alison, thanks a lot for lunch, and sorry I’ve got to dash.’ Catching sight of my empty flapjack tin on the counter, she picked it up and passed it over to me.

‘Yes, thanks Alison,’ I said, taking the tin from Maggie. I thought for a moment about
staying, but realised I couldn’t shift the mood I’d sunk into. I got up to leave. ‘I should really be off too.’

Alison was stroking Holly’s hair absent-mindedly as her daughter chewed on a flapjack. ‘Of course,’ she said, looking up. ‘You’re very welcome. I’ll see you out.’

I cycled back to the flat, pedalling fast down the country lanes, the wind whipping through my hair. While lunch had been nice, I’d been grateful for the excuse to leave Alison’s house; seeing her with her daughters was hard, it had reminded me of what I would never – and could never – have. It would always seem as if there was an empty chair at our wedding.

Thoughts rushed through my mind just like the scenery whizzed by, a blur of green. I knew I was lucky, really lucky. I was going to marry Dan, who I loved to bits, and who made me happy. I also had my dad, and Chris, who were both
amazing.

So why did I feel so empty?

‘Maggie, ah, hello – you’re back!’ Anna called out.

Maggie stepped in through Bluebelle du Jour’s shop doors and her eyes met with chaos. The florist’s was normally immaculate – clear surfaces leading the eye to tastefully arranged flowers against a backdrop of Parisian street signs, framed art nouveau prints and French film posters. Today, though, the counter was overflowing with notes for orders and the shop floor badly needed a sweep – there were petals everywhere. Maggie scolded herself for taking time out for lunch at Alison’s. The state of the shop confirmed all her misgivings about leaving the shop on a Saturday. She couldn’t expect things to be OK without her.

Anna was bright, but she was only
nineteen. Maggie cast an eye over her assistant – dressed in a frilly shop pinny and Nike Air trainers with a flush to her cheeks and her bleached blonde curls spilling out of an untidy bun, she looked even younger. Yes, the customers adored her, but sleek and professional she wasn’t.

‘Yes, hi Anna, here I am,’ Maggie said, picking up a few of the notes on the counter and tidying them into a pile. ‘Wow,’ she continued, ‘it was so quiet earlier this morning, wasn’t it?’

Anna nodded, ‘I know – but the sun came out and, whoosh! All the shoppers came in. We must have sold twenty bunches of tulips, then three of those orchids we’ve had in the window for a while. A lot of freesias and lilies too. Isn’t that great?’

‘Yes,’ Maggie replied, distractedly, and continued with her work, ensuring the orders had been processed properly before filing them away, then greeting the new customers who had stepped into the shop. She was so wrapped up in the moment she failed to notice Anna hovering by her side.

‘Oh, Anna – you’re still here … sorry, take a break.’

She needed support, yes, but she didn’t want Anna getting burnt out with the springtime rush starting. As Anna walked out of the shop door and into the bustling high street, Maggie spotted two young women who were looking at some of the arrangements in the window. She took a deep breath and walked over to
the front of the shop to join them. ‘Ladies, welcome to Bluebelle – what can I help you with today?’

Maggie got back home at seven, after she had finished some paperwork and locked up. There was a postcard on her doormat, a beach scene of St Ives with a cartoon in the corner of a woman eating a Cornish pasty. She flipped the card over and smiled as she saw the familiar signatures at the bottom – Kesha, Dave, and a big handwritten scrawl from their daughter Evie, who’d written her little brother’s name, Oscar, too.

Dear Maggie, So sorry we couldn’t make it over for your birthday. We’re having fun in the sun down in Cornwall and hope to see you soon.

Maggie had been friends with Kesha ever since they were at school together in north London. Along with their friend Sarah, they had been as close as girls got. There had been a time they’d all known what the others ate for lunch and who had a crush on whom – but nowadays it was hard enough just to keep up to date on what jobs they were doing, or when babies were due. Maggie tucked the postcard into the side of the hallway mirror and felt a pang of nostalgia, then went through to the kitchen.

She fixed herself a Pimms, slicing
oranges, mint and lime, and opened the kitchen window. She pulled up a stool and settled at the breakfast bar, and in a linen-bound sketchbook started drawing out some ideas for the Darlington Hall wedding. Would the bride accept a simple bouquet of cornflowers? As much as it irked her to admit it, Lucy’s eyes were a spectacular blue, and cornflowers would set them off perfectly. Maggie did a bird’s-eye view sketch showing which floral displays would go where, and what direction the guests would approach the garden from, to maximise the impact of the flowers. It all began to take shape. She added more details, notes and colour until the pages were full of lively plans. The grand venue and generous budget meant her imagination could run more freely than it had in months. While she’d been daunted by the idea of arranging the non-floral features when Lucy had first mentioned them, she now found she had lots of ideas for those too. She’d be making the landscape gardener’s work easier, she reasoned.

While she wasn’t the easiest woman to get on with, Lucy had a knack for party planning, and she was business-minded. She’d made it clear that she wanted to use the wedding to raise her profile and bring in some more modelling work, and she’d hinted that with a bold enough floral concept some of that same publicity could come Maggie’s way too. Maggie’s spirits had leapt at this; while she was generally
down-to-earth in her aspirations, she knew that getting a few key mentions in the right glossies could be transformative for Bluebelle du Jour. If she could hook a couple of A-list clients, or better yet another investor, she’d be one step closer to her dream of setting up a London branch. Maggie’s heart might now be in Charlesworth, but she was increasingly aware that her friends and family weren’t. Having a shop in the city would not only mean expanding the business; it would also allow her to spend more time with her mum and sister Carrie, her niece Maisy, and to keep in touch with Kesha and Sarah. And if she was being really honest, success on that scale would also prove that her dad had been wrong in declaring, before he died, that she was wasting her time and her language degree by setting up the business. She’d always been the apple of his eye, and ever since that day she had been determined to demonstrate that setting up on her own had been the right move.

Maggie finished up her final sketch, and got some pesto, spaghetti and pine nuts together for supper. As she waited for the pasta water to boil she wandered into the living room, Pimms in hand. She flicked through the DVDs on her shelf –
Gone with the Wind
,
Casablanca
,
It’s a Wonderful Life –
but she didn’t feel like watching any of them. Except maybe … right at the bottom were a few Eighties classics she’d hidden away before her
last dinner party …
Pretty in Pink
,
The Breakfast Club
,
St Elmo’s Fire
. She pulled out the last one; Rob Lowe might cheer her up just a little bit. She put the movie on top of the TV to watch with her meal.

There was something on her mind, and she couldn’t put off dealing with it any longer. With the water still far off boiling, she opened her Netbook, sat on the sofa and scrolled past the last few days’ worth of business emails. There it was: Dylan’s message. She took a deep breath and reread it, thinking this time of what to reply.

To: Maggie Hawthorne

From: Dylan Leonard

Subject: Long time

Dear M,

I know it’s been a really long time, but I’ve been thinking about you lately.

I heard from Andy that you left London a couple of years ago, but he didn’t know where you’d gone.

How are you?

Can we talk?

Dylan

Maggie felt
a lurching in the pit of her stomach as she looked at Dylan’s words again. Pimms schmimms. What she needed was a gin.

*

‘Have I interrupted bathtime?’ Maggie asked.

‘No … no … I mean, well, yes, sort of,’ Kesha’s warm voice was a comfort, even if it was nearly drowned out by the sound of splashing water, ‘but it’s great to hear from you, sweetie. How are you? Did you get the postcard?’ she asked.

‘I did, it was a lovely surprise,’ Maggie replied, ‘and Evie’s handwriting – I’m impressed. It’s even better than mine now, Kesh.’

‘Isn’t it? She’s getting really big, Maggie. It’s scary. But anyway, did you have a good birthday?’

‘Yes, lovely thanks,’ Maggie said, and it was sort of true. She’d had a nice massage and had been happy to stay in on her own. ‘But listen Kesh, I’m actually calling about something else,’ Maggie said. ‘It’s Dylan.’

Maggie twirled spaghetti strands around a fork and caught them in her mouth while keeping the phone at her ear. A little bit of pesto hit the leg of her cream satin pyjamas.

‘Damn it,’ she muttered, ‘I mean, not Dylan … but I suppose maybe – yes, damn him too.’

‘Christ, Maggie,’ Kesha said, ‘talk about out of the blue. What did he say?’

‘I don’t know, Kesh … that he was thinking about me, wants to talk.’

‘Too late,’ Kesha said, firmly. ‘Far too late. But it sounds like maybe he’s finally realised what
he’s lost. That’s something.’

Maggie thought about it. Yes, it soothed her still-bruised ego a little that Dylan had got back in touch, but part of her wished he would disappear again, just crawl back underneath whatever stone he’d been under for the past four years.

‘Sort of,’ Maggie said. ‘And at least it’s happened now, when I know I’m finally over him. I guess what I’m wondering is, should I, do you think I should—’

‘Oscar,
stop
that!’ Kesha shouted. ‘Stop splashing Evie in the eye – right now. That’s it, I’m confiscating that water pist— sorry, Maggie. I’m sorry about this – I really am – but I’m going to have to call you back.’

‘OK, sure,’ Maggie said, taking the phone away from her ear as the line went dead. She knew from past experience that Kesha’s call back wouldn’t come tonight, and that, despite her best friend’s good intentions, it probably wouldn’t come at all. She put the receiver down and went upstairs to run a bath.

Maggie had just started watching
St Elmo’s Fire
, on her second gin and tonic, when she remembered she’d left the bath running.

‘Oh
bugger
,’ Maggie said, pressing pause and leaving Demi Moore and her crimped hair frozen in time. Maggie dashed out of the living room and up the stairs to turn off the taps and take the plug out. She’d caught it just before the water spilled over the
sides. At least she hadn’t lit any candles yet – perhaps tonight wasn’t the night for that. She sat down on the edge of the bath as she waited for the water to drain away, and spotted her BlackBerry on the bathroom shelf. Drying her hands and picking it up, she scrolled down to Dylan’s email, hit ‘reply’, and started to tap out her response.

Dylan,

I’m not sure why you’re writing to me, now, after so long. But if you really want to talk, you can call me one evening next week. My number’s at the bottom of this email.

Maggie

No kiss.

Before she
could stop herself, she pressed send.