The Vintage Summer Wedding. Jenny Oliver

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СКАЧАТЬ any more. Not when they’re grown up.’ He raised a brow like she was one of his pupils.

      ‘God, I bet she’s loving this.’ Anna said, picking up her glasses and sliding them on to over her eyes. ‘Me back here with my tail between my legs. I bet that means Jackie’s somewhere about the place as well.’

      ‘Of course she is, Anna, she’s a teacher at the school, she helped me get the job.’ Seb shook his head at her like she was mad, as Anna started to breathe in too quickly.

      ‘Oh great, that’s all I need. Come on, we have to leave.’

      ‘Anna, stop it. This is ridiculous, you’re being ridiculous. You’re going to see people you used to know.’

      And they’ll think, stupid Anna, now it’s our turn to laugh at her, she thought. They’ll think, what’s Seb doing with her? Have you heard, she lost all their cash? Spending outside her means. Running off to London, we all knew it was doomed. Never made it though, did she? Very few do, it’s a tough industry to break into. Did you hear she lost her job as well? Tough times though, isn’t it? Or the time to cut loose dead wood?

      ‘I can’t sit here.’ She started to push her chair away.

      ‘Anna!’ Seb raised his voice just a touch. ‘Anna, calm down. Sit down.’

      ‘No, I’ll see you later. Have a good first day,’ she said, grabbing her bag from where she’d slung it over the back of the chair and marching away in the direction of Vintage Treasure. She heard him sigh but couldn’t turn round. She caught sight of her reflection in the window of the old gift shop, Presents 4 You, and tried to regain some of her infamous poise. Her eye caught a T-shirt draped over a stack of gift boxes, on it read Paris, Milan, New York, Nettleton. In their dreams, she thought, in their dreams. Who would ever want to end up back here?

      ‘How do you like your tea?’ A woman’s voice called as soon as the bell over the door of Vintage Treasure chimed.

      ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Anna said, her eyes pained by the catastrophe of objects piled around the place.

      ‘That’s not what I asked.’

      She heard a clinking of teaspoons and the air-tight pop of the lid coming off a tea caddy, and made a face to herself at the woman’s tone.

      Contemplating describing her love of Lapsang Souchong, her dislike of semi-skimmed milk and her tolerance for normal tea as long as it wasn’t too strong, she thought it easier to reply, ‘I just have it white.’

      There was no answer, so Anna carried on her journey into the dingy Aladdin’s Cave, just relieved to be out of the scorching heat and the gossiping voices that seemed to lace the air. Inside, dust swirled in the beams of sunlight that forced their way through the dirty windows and shone like spotlights on such delights as a taxidermy crow, its claw positioned on an egg, a crack across the left-hand corner of the glass box, a dark-green chaise lounge, the back studded with emerald buttons and a gold scroll along the black lacquered edges. A looming welsh dresser stacked full of plates and cups and a line of Toby jugs with ugly faces and massive noses.

      If there was one thing Anna hated, it was antiques. Anything that wasn’t new, anything with money off, anything that had to be haggled for or marked down.

      All it did was remind her of being wrapped up against the cold, having her mittens hanging from her coat sleeves, her dad bundling her up at five in the morning in the passenger seat of his van, a flask of hot chocolate and a half-stale donut wrapped in a napkin that she ate with shaking hands as he scrapped the ice off the inside and outside of the window of his Ford Transit before trundling off to Ardingly, Newark or some other massive antique market. She had inherited her mother’s intolerance of the cold. The fiery Spanish blood that coursed through her veins wasn’t inclined to enjoy shivering in snow-crisp fields, her fingers losing their feeling, her damp lips freezing in the early morning frost as she trudged past other people’s mouldy, damp crap for sale on wonky trestle tables.

      As she edged her way through the maze of a shop, a woman bumbled out of the back room with a plate of Gingernuts and two mugs of stewed tea clanking together, their surfaces advertising various antique markets and fairs.

      ‘I made you one anyway,’ she said, pushing her glasses up her nose with her upper arm as she pushed the tea onto the glass counter.

      Mrs Beedle. How could Anna have forgotten? Huge, dressed in a smock that could have doubled as a tent, round glasses like an owl, white shirt with a Peter Pan collar, red T-Bar shoes like Annie wore in the film, a million bracelets clanging up her wrist and pockets bursting with tape measures, pencils, bits of paper and tissues. Her greying hair pulled back into an Anne of Green Gables style do, the front pushed forward like a mini-beehive and a bun held with kirby grips.

      ‘Anna Whitehall, now look at you.’ She leant her bulk against the counter, took out her hanky and wiped her brow. ‘Still as much of a pain in the arse as you always were, I imagine.’

      ‘Hello, Mrs Beedle,’ she said, running a finger along the brass-counter edge.

      Mrs Beedle narrowed her eyes as if she could see straight inside her. ‘Mmm, yes,’ she murmured.

      Anna licked her lips under the scrutiny of her gaze.

      ‘Now, remember, I’m doing your father a favour, I don’t want you here. Got that?’ She took a slurp of tea. ‘And why he wants you here, I have no idea.’

      Anna didn’t say anything, just pushed her shoulders back a bit further.

      ‘To my mind, you’re a jumped-up, spoilt brat who’s caused more harm than good. But, I’ll tolerate you. As long as there’s none of your London crap, or—’ She picked up a Gingernut, ‘Any of that attitude.’

      ‘I’m not sixteen any more, Mrs Beedle.’ Anna said with a half sneer, her hand on her hip.

      Mrs Beedle’s lip quivered in a mocking smile. ‘That’s exactly the attitude I’m referring to.’ She dunked her biscuit into her tea and sucked some of the liquid off it, before saying, ‘So what can you do?’

      Anna thought back to the Opera House. She was very good at mingling at parties, casually introducing people, she could calm down an over-wrought star with aplomb, she could conjure a masterful quote out of thin air for any production, she could throw a pragmatic response into a heated meeting. And her desk was impeccable, perfect, spotless. A place for everything and everything in its place, her mother would say. ‘I’m very organised,’ she said in the end.

      Mrs Beedle snorted. Then, clicking her fingers in a gesture that meant for Anna to follow, she pulled back the curtain behind her to reveal Anna’s worst nightmare. A stockroom filled with stacks and stacks of crap, piled sky-high like the legacy of a dead hoarder.

      Anna swallowed. She had imagined spending most of the day sitting behind the desk reading Grazia. ‘What do I do with it?’

      ‘You organise it.’ Mrs Beedle laughed, backing out so that Anna was left alone in the damp-smelling dumping ground and settling herself down in the big orange armchair next to the desk, a thin marmalade cat appearing and twirling through her legs. ‘I’ve been meaning to do it for yonks.’

      Anna opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs Beedle cut her off. ‘You know, I think I might actually enjoy this more than I thought I would.’

      There СКАЧАТЬ