Tuesdays at the Teacup Club (6 page)

‘Two hundred bunches of cornflowers – yes, two hundred, ten blooms in each bunch.’ Maggie Hawthorne rested the phone against
her shoulder, tipping her head slightly as she tied her auburn hair back with a band.

‘And I’ll also need a lot of wicker … Oh, you know a good supplier – great! It’s for giant croquet hoops, woven round with
marguerites … and matching oversized mallets. Yes, I know, but this isn’t an ordinary wedding – OK, I do know it’s Sunday
…’ she breathed out slowly, trying to stay patient. ‘Shall I send you an email and you can look at it tomorrow? Right, no,
no, I understand. Let’s speak then.’

Maggie sat back in her garden swing seat, settled her gin and tonic on the side table and brought her Netbook
onto her lap. She tapped out an email to the Dutch supplier with the key points from last Friday’s meeting with her new clients,
Lucy and Jack. Finding the teaset yesterday at the car boot had sparked off a lot of ideas and she could now picture exactly
how the wedding would look. She just wanted to get started. But although she had the whole of today stretching in front of
her, empty time, it seemed she’d have to wait for the start of the working week until she could get the details she needed.

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 out-fits
”? 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.

‘Tangfastic?’ I reached for the bag on my desk and offered it up to Zoe. She peered into the bag and pulled out a sugar-frosted
ring and some cherries.

‘Mmm,’ she said, chewing, her heavily lined eyes squinting a little at the sourness. ‘I’d forgotten how good these are.’

I pushed my chair back and straightened out my red skirt. ‘I think it’s time for a tea. Fancy one?’

‘Why not,’ Zoe replied, reaching past me to retrieve a couple of sugary cola bottles before sitting down at her desk and turning
her back.

As I waited for the kettle to boil, I unfolded the little list I’d drafted over breakfast that morning while Dan was in the
shower.

The kettle clicked off and I filled two mugs. That reminded me, at least I was starting to make headway with one of the most
important things: the teacups.

Despite the shaky start, my weekend bargain hunt had actually worked out quite well. After asking the stallholder to put
a hold on the teaset, Maggie the willowy redhead, Alison the retro-styled brunette, and yours truly had ducked into the refreshments
tent. With 99 Flakes in hand, we’d talked through our plans for the crockery. I told them about my wedding in August, the
vintage tea party theme, and my plans to collect enough teacups for all the guests to drink out of.

Alison had loved the idea; Maggie nodded along positively too, but a wedding reception at the old school house can’t have
seemed much cop compared to the lavish do at Darlington Hall she was arranging flowers for.
Alison wanted the set for a different reason – to make the gorgeous teacup candles I’d seen for sale in the boutiques in town.
It was Maggie who came up with a solution to our predicament. It was a very English agreement; we’d buy the forget-me-not
teaset together, and take it in turns to use it.

I’d have the teaset for my wedding first, then Maggie would use the cups for her
Alice in Wonderland
garden. She’d then pass the tea things on to Alison, who’d keep the cups to turn into candles. All in all, it wasn’t a bad
compromise. And it was more than just that – we decided we would join forces, scouring charity shops and auction sites, to
find more teacups that we could all use. An hour later, a little untidier for ice-cream drips, we were handing over a tenner
each to the stall owner with smiles on our faces and each other’s phone numbers noted down. Alison had offered to store our
finds in her studio, and we arranged to meet for lunch at hers next Saturday to catch up.

Dan had laughed when I’d first mooted the tea party theme. ‘I always thought weddings were supposed to be about getting drunk?’
he’d said, only half-serious, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the edges. But once I’d put together the scrapbook to show
him what I had in mind he seemed to warm to the concept. Though perhaps that was because I was blocking the screen when he
was in the middle of playing Grand Theft Auto.
Eventually he put the controller down and pulled me on to the sofa for a hug. ‘Jen,’ he’d said, holding me close. (He was
wearing that old Rolling Stones T-shirt – the one I could have sworn I’d chucked out.) ‘I couldn’t care less what people are
drinking, or eating, or wearing. This is going to be the most important day of my life because I get to marry
you
. That’s what makes it the big one for me.’ He’d then pinned me down and covered me in playful kisses in a way that was both
rough and tender, his stubble leaving patches that felt pleasantly raw – it was a bit like being mauled by a koala. Once I’d
stopped laughing I held him close to calm him down again, and also because I loved taking in the smell of him, even in that
old T-shirt – it said home to me in a way no other smell could. He was a little chunkier now than when we’d met, but it suited
him. I kissed him on the mouth and pulled him close.

Dan had made me smile every day since we first got together at uni. We’d both lived on campus back then and he and his friends
used to play football on the grass in front of my flat in halls when I was writing essays. One July day, when the ball hit
the window above my desk particularly hard, he’d come close to the glass, mouthed ‘sorry’, and smiled. As our eyes met my
heart was thudding in my chest. I couldn’t focus at all on what I was writing for the rest of the afternoon. When his friends
started getting their stuff together to go, he came back
over to my window, gave me a wink, and stuck a piece of paper to the pane: ‘Dan’ it said, and then he’d written his phone
number. After a few ciders at the union bar with my flatmate the following evening, I’d got up the courage to call him. And
the rest? Well, the two of us have been hard to separate ever since.

That night, as I got into bed beside him, placing the engagement ring we’d scoured Brighton’s South Lanes to find on the night
table, I thought: men don’t always get it, do they? I mean yes, Dan wanted me to be his wife, but did he really get the importance
of beautiful events, memories to treasure in forty years’ time? I wanted a perfect picture on my shelf to remember the perfect
day. The details were part of creating that.

I thought of the empty mantelpiece at Dad’s. As a little girl I used to pick flowers from the garden and put them in a little
vase to fill the space where Mum and Dad’s wedding photo used to be. Dad said he wasn’t bitter about Mum leaving us, and my
brother Chris had found his own way of coping. Me, I’d started putting the flowers there. I was six when she left, but over
time my flower-loving heart hardened. It had toughened a little more each time I walked past other mothers waiting at the
school gates; or when I’d had to summon up all my courage to buy tampons on my own that first time, my cheeks red hot. I had
tried to understand Mum’s reasons,
but I never really managed – leaving just isn’t something mothers are meant to do.

Anyway, I had my own life now, and mine and Dan’s wedding day was going to be just right. I’d make those photo-frame memories,
even if I had to organise some of the things that mattered to me on my own.

‘Hey, dreamer,’ said Chloe, nudging me out of my thoughts and back to the reality of the office. ‘Enough in that kettle for
one more?’

‘Hello!’ I said, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘For you, chief bridesmaid, anything,’ I laughed, getting another mug out of the
cupboard.

Seeing Chloe, even for an instant, was enough to light up the magazine office. When she’d come in on work experience two years
ago, with a glint in her eye and brown ringlets springing in all directions, we’d become friends almost immediately. She’d
been so enthusiastic about the work, taking on even mundane tasks with gusto. The long commute from her village to Charlesworth
didn’t seem to bother her, even though she was getting paid nothing but expenses for the privilege. To look at her bright
eyes after the MD finally offered her a paid role you’d have thought she was coming to work at
Vogue
. Perhaps inevitably, the scales had fallen from her eyes a little since then.

‘How’s your day going, Chlo?’ I asked as I filled her cup.

Her wide, mascaraed eyes met mine – a flash of barely concealed irritation there. ‘Slow start today … Gary’s got me working
out a spreadsheet of his expenses that is taking an age. He said he needs it, but I feel like he’s just monopolising my time;
he knows how much I want to be writing features. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I guess so,’ I said. But I didn’t understand her frustration, not really. The truth was I liked spreadsheets. There was nothing
better, I thought, than creating order from chaos – the only big project I wanted was my wedding. It made me feel happy knowing
everyone in the office had the resources they needed, and reliable, efficient admin systems. Of course I knew that most of
the junior staff couldn’t wait to get stuck in to feature writing, or build up their skills in design and page layout; but
for me the joy of letting someone know that their stack of neon-coloured Post-Its had arrived was sometimes enough.

I did my best to put myself in Chloe’s shoes: she was smart, dedicated, aimed high and anyone could see she’d be more than
capable of overtaking Gary given half a chance. ‘Chloe, you’ll get there – I reckon he’s just testing you, don’t you think?’

‘Yep, you’re probably right,’ she replied. ‘But enough about me, Jen,’ she waved her hand, changing the subject, ‘I’m just
in a Monday mood, you know how it is, brilliant weekend and then reality bites. Cheer me up – how’s Dan? How’s the wedding
planning going?’

It was pathetic really but just the mention of Dan was enough to make me smile. Chloe had always been surprisingly tolerant
of my soppiness. ‘Dan’s great – we spent most of the weekend at home, mainly deciding on the table plan.’

To be honest Dan had done a lot of this on the sofa with his eyes closed – but his company had still meant something and,
well, I was motivated enough for the two of us. He was putting in so many hours at the travel agency at the moment, plus there
was his commute, and when it got to the weekend he just needed to crash. That Sunday I’d happily stuck Post-It notes labelled
with people’s names on to paper plates and then shuffled them around until exes were separated and embarrassing relatives
were out of harm’s way. The invites hadn’t even gone out yet, but with the family politics we both had going on I was getting
an early start; I was not going to leave anything to chance. Dan opened a sleepy eye, nodded and smiled his appreciation at
the end result.

Dan had been working so hard because, as we found out pretty quickly, sugared almonds cost cold hard cash. Even with our salaries
combined the wedding we wanted was going to be a stretch, but he knew how important it all was to me and he was going all
out to do overtime and boost our funds.

I stirred a heaped teaspoon of sugar into Chloe’s tea and as I passed it to her saw she was smiling.

‘It’s great to see you so happy, J,’ she said, taking the mug. ‘You deserve this, you know. And I know your wedding’s going
to be spectacular.’ She pulled me into a warm hug.

As we separated she spotted my to-do list on the counter. ‘White lace basque?’ she exclaimed, then saw her name and looked
up, brow furrowed.

‘Hold on, am I the official wedding-night underwear adviser?’ I watched as a smile spread across her face. ‘Brilliant! You
know I have to say I
hate
white lace, Jen, far too Bunny Girl … but you, Mrs Yates-to-be, are going to look fantastic in this retro corset I spotted
online …’