The Vintage Girl

by Hester Browne

  Fraser grabbed my hand and Alice’s, and we were suddenly all in a big circle, singing and shaking our crossed arms up and down in time to the music. I had no idea what the words were, but everyone else did, so I just la-la-ed along, not wanting to look too English.

  I closed my eyes and thanked Violet for a wonderful night, in her accessories and in her ballroom, and felt a strange sense of peace sweep over me.

  And then it was all over, and we were all being discreetly evacuated from the room by Mhairi, in a long tartan skirt.

  “Can you believe it’s nearly four in the morning?” Alice demanded as Fraser went off to get her coat. “Last time I was up this late, my head and my body were in different time zones. I should be dead on my feet, but … I’m not.”

  “That’s because you’ve just run the equivalent of a half marathon while drinking champagne,” I said. “It’s how we built an empire. You should go and invade somewhere, quick.”

  The hall had filled up with people shrugging on opera coats and velvet wraps and—rather spoiling the timeless atmosphere—checking that their cabs had arrived.

  “Are you staying here?” She was assessing the piles of unwashed glasses and debris with her unstoppable cluttervision. “There’s going to be some tidying up to be done in the morning.”

  “Committee’s job,” I said. There hadn’t been an announcement, not yet. Robert still hadn’t come out of the ballroom. I wondered if he’d taken Catriona upstairs to propose, with a view of the park in the moonlight. I wondered if he had Violet’s engagement ring at hand.

  The tea cake of gloom returned to my throat.

  “So!” Alice grabbed my arms. “When are you back in London? We need to celebrate properly! With Mum!”

  “You want me there, don’t you? To stop her planning everything.”

  “Yes! When are you back?”

  I let out a long sigh. “I’m leaving after lunch. Max wants me back in the shop, and I’ve done all I can do here with the valuation.”

  “Oh.” Alice sensed the mood and made a commiserating face. “Like that?”

  I nodded. “Complicated. Family stuff.”

  “Sure you don’t want to come back with us? Fraser’s got some amazing scotch for a nightcap.”

  “No. My stuff’s here. I should get to bed. Long drive tomorrow.”

  She looked at me solemnly. “You’re really okay? You would tell me? I mean, I know I’m sometimes a bit … bossy, but I am your sister. I do care.”

  I patted her back. “I know. Go and celebrate your engagement, Mrs. Graham.”

  Alice hugged me. “I’m sorry,” she started, into my hair, but I stopped her.

  “Just go,” I said.

  *

  I lingered by the staircase for as long as I could, not wanting the evening to end; but Robert didn’t appear, and eventually even Ingrid and Duncan came out, and ushered me up to bed.

  I undressed slowly in the silent bedroom, draping the shrug over the back of the dressing-table chair and laying the crystal necklace back in the box. It felt as if the whole room were watching me as I took off the last touches of my Cinderella night, leaving my makeup until last, just in case.

  I had to admit, a tiny part of my brain was willing it to be different. Wishing so hard for that gentle tap on the door, the whispered confession that he’d changed his mind, that my ears were actually straining to hear it.

  I’d started rehearsing my own protestations when I caught my own pajamaed reflection in the mirror, and pulled myself up short.

  This would give me a more painful disappointment hangover in the morning than the champagne would. Robert had given me the one night of fantasy ballroom daydream I’d always wanted. I’d loved it, but now it was over. There would be no tap on my door or knock from the bathroom. Just the faint tick and crack of an old house sitting in an ocean of snow, and then, as dawn broke, the distant cheeps of the birds waking up across the valley.

  My Cinderella night was over. But at least I’d had it. That was more than I’d expected for Valentine’s Day, even in my most delirious daydreaming.

  And the memory of that breath-stopping kiss—that hadn’t even been in my imagination.

  *

  I didn’t hang around in the morning.

  When I came downstairs, slowly, because my head was throbbing to the same pulse as my tattered feet, there were already teams of brisk women in overalls swishing down the main hall and hauling bags of rubbish around.

  I offered to help, but Ingrid wouldn’t hear of it. She was in her velour leisure suit, a pair of large sunglasses fixed to her face.

  “You should set off,” she insisted, forcing a bacon sandwich into my hand. There was a lot of breakfast left. “Aileen says the roads have been cleared, but it’ll still take you twice as long to get to the motorway. And there’s more snow forecast for this afternoon.”

  “If you’re sure …”

  “I’m sure.” Ingrid raised her sunglasses; underneath, she looked shattered but happy. “Drive safely, and come back next year.”

  “Really?”

  She smiled. “Once you’re on the guest list for the Kettlesheer ball, you never leave.”

  *

  I listened to Ella Fitzgerald singing songs from the Cole Porter songbook on the car stereo all the way home to try to cling to the faded glamour of Kettlesheer as long as I could; but in the cold gray light of London, it felt even more like a dream than it had in the freezing Borders air.

  Twenty-eight

  My post-ball, post-Kettlesheer, post-romantic-hallucination melancholy lingered like a bad cold you can’t shake off, or even enjoy indulging in bed with cocoa and DVDs.

  Max didn’t help. I could tell he was of two minds about me and my contribution to his business by the way he kept offering to make me coffee one minute, then quacking on about the outrageous price of skim milk the next.

  In the short term, my silver photograph frames and “house-clearance knickknackery” had done a roaring trade over the Valentine’s weekend, raking in the shop’s highest-ever weekly profit. Even my one-eyed Hitler teddy was sold for fifty quid, and Max grudgingly asked me to look out for more champagne coupes. But in the long term, my big fish had swum away, taking Max’s commission—and potentially my job—with it.

  He was, naturally, very, very disappointed when Duncan called the following Thursday to say that the McAndrew family was terribly sorry to have wasted his time, but they felt unable to part with their Chippendale dining set for sentimental reasons.

  More than disappointed, actually. The howl of anguish when he put the phone down was audible in Earl’s Court. Of course, Max blamed me, but not for the reason I was expecting.

  “I bet you did your full ‘Oooh, think of the magnificent occasions this table’s seen!’ routine!” he raged, systematically ripping up the contracts he’d drawn up for the clients interested. “ ‘Ooh, you can’t sell this! It’s part of your family’s bloody story!’ ”

  “Well, it was,” I said. “Is. You’ve still got plenty of other stuff to sell, though.” I pointed to the list I’d made of the Sèvres china, the good paintings, a barrackload of rusty weaponry—the antiques I was fairly sure Violet hadn’t had copied. “And it’s photographed, too. You could send those photos I e-mailed you straight to the auction house.”

  Max glared at me. I noted he’d had his silver streaks topped up, and his teeth were looking suspiciously pearly. He’d clearly invested a lot of time and money in his new HD-ready appearance. Sadly, there wasn’t much he could do about his foul expression.

  “If you find someone who wants a gross of card tables with a side order of stuffed peregrine falcons in cases, ring me as soon as possible,” he said with elaborate sarcasm. “Otherwise, I’m going out for lunch. What was that fairy tale where the princess had to spin flax into gold?”

  “Rumpelstiltskin,” I said.

  “Oh yes. Well, I’d like you to spin Duncan McAndrew’s repro Victorian escritoires into a Sheraton side
table and a Turner watercolor of the Loch Ness Monster by the time I get back.” He added a malevolent leer, which I think was supposed to be raffish, but just came across as camp Bond villain. “I hope you’ve done your thank-you letters.”

  Of course I had. It had taken every ounce of dignity I had not to include my e-mail, my landline, and my mobile number.

  When Max had flounced a safe distance down the King’s Road, I sank onto the chair behind the desk and logged onto eBay. The threat of imminent redundancy, not to mention my mother’s continued hints about the state of my flat, had focused my mind regarding my private dealings. So far this month, I was three hundred quid up, and the carpet was visible in my spare room.

  The problem was, the more persuasive the sales pitches I wrote, the more I wanted to keep the item. It was a genuine struggle. I was deep into an emotional description of a tatty child’s sampler when the bell jangled above the door.

  I looked up to see Walter Piven, a dealer acquaintance of Max’s, slithering in. If Max was the antique world’s Heathcliff, Walter was more of a Fagin type, down to the greasy-brimmed hat that was his trademark. He dealt mainly in high-end Oriental stuff, and I only ever saw him when he came round to collect Max’s bridge IOUs.

  “Evie, it’s about those escritoires,” Walter began. His eyes kept slipping sideways to the door. “I want to make a cash offer on them.”

  “Escritoires?” I repeated stupidly. Walter didn’t do brown furniture.

  “Yes, Max showed me some photos—the ones you were valuing up in Scotland. I want to buy them. All of them.” He licked his lips. “For a friend. Who’s furnishing a … an old people’s home.”

  “That’s fantastic!” I began, then remembered Max’s rules about keeping cool. “I mean, do you? What sort of price were you looking to pay?”

  Walter was so wrong-footed by this unheard-of tactic that he stopped licking his lips and stared at me.

  “Maybe you’d like to show me which ones,” I said, pulling up the photograph on the laptop. “They were very good examples, some with the original baize.”

  He leaned forward, but I barely noticed the sudden nasal assault of stale sweat and tobacco, thanks to the pang of nostalgia that rushed over me when the crowded upstairs room popped onto my screen. I wasn’t looking at the piled furniture: my eye went straight to the crisp blanket of snow and the forest visible in the corner of the windows. Two doors down was the ballroom, and my bedroom, and—

  “I want the whole lot,” said Walter. “Two grand. For everything in that room.”

  I glanced across. He was staring at the screen with a manic gleam in his eye. Not normal. And not at all like the way Max had gripped his head and moaned aloud at the bourgeois tastes of the upper middle classes.

  Alarm bells rang in the back of my mind. Had he seen something in that photo that Max hadn’t? Had one of those escritoires belonged to someone famous? Was there a Ming vase hidden behind an elephant’s foot?

  “If you can have it packed up, I’ll send my lad up with the van,” said Walter, reaching into his pocket. “The whole room,” he stressed. “Top to bottom.”

  “Max has just popped out for lunch,” I said, peering desperately at the photo. “You might want to—”

  “You don’t want to make the commission yourself?” He withdrew a tempting wad of actual notes. Red notes. Fifties. “You’re the one who did the hard work. What’s your cut—twenty percent? Max needn’t know.”

  Now, this was definitely suspicious. No one ever cut deals with me. My head swam at the thought of making some real money, but a sterner voice cut in. This is Robert’s property.

  “I’d need to check with the owners first,” I said, playing for time.

  “Three grand,” blurted Walter, then looked furious with himself.

  I reached for my phone, staring at the laptop screen. It was like a Where’s Waldo puzzle. “I’m going to call the McAndrews,” I said. “Run it past them.”

  I almost dialed Duncan’s number, then chickened out. He’d say yes at once, and now my instincts were telling me that something in there was worth a packet.

  Oh, be honest, I thought. You want to call Robert. Any excuse.

  I dialed his mobile, and it started ringing. My heart started banging to much the same rhythm. I hadn’t even had time to imagine this conversation. I hadn’t thought through how I’d open the batting, what he’d say, how I’d casually ask about his wedding plans …

  “Three and a half,” hissed Walter. “Max has really trained you well, the sneaky—”

  “Hello?” said a familiar voice in my ear.

  My stomach did a slow loop-the-loop, like the Red Arrows aerobatic squad trailing plumes of excitement through my bloodstream.

  “Hello, Robert!” I managed. “It’s Evie.”

  “Evie!” He sounded pleased to hear from me. “How are you?”

  “Oh, fine, thanks, bit busy, um …” I suddenly realized that I didn’t want to do small talk: I didn’t want to hear about the wedding. “I’ve had an offer for some of the furniture from the house,” I said, trying to sound professional. “Are you still interested in selling some of it?”

  Just that room, Walter mouthed, sending a jet of halitosis in my direction.

  “I might be,” said Robert easily. “I have various expensive plans in the pipeline, could do with some cash flow. Which furniture?”

  I pushed aside the image of Catriona’s expensive wedding needs. She’d be bound to go for the huge marquee, nine-foot cupcake towers, eighteen bridesmaids all St. Tropezed the same shade, the lot.

  “The …” I almost called it the upstairs junk room. “The room with the …” I peered at the screen, trying to find a star item to make it sound better. There was so much stuff packed in that you could barely see the carpet. “… table your dad thinks is made out of wreckage from the Armada. Allegedly.”

  And it was then that I saw what Walter had seen. The carpet wasn’t carpeting: it was an enormous rug, and the tiny areas visible between the repro writing desks had delicate leaf and star patterns woven into the pile. My pulse banged.

  That was what he was after. Not the furniture—the rug. I didn’t know a lot about them, but my instincts yelled that it could potentially be worth a lot more than three and a half grand, especially if Walter had doubled his offer in the space it had taken me to make one phone call.

  I kicked myself. Why hadn’t I spotted it? Because I’d been too busy checking the escritoires for hidden love notes and diamond necklaces in secret drawers. Chasing after the imaginary romance instead of seeing what was under my nose.

  “The room stuffed full of tables?” Robert said. “Oh, take the money. Please.”

  “Don’t rush into a decision,” I insisted, and Walter’s expression changed. “There might be items in there that need reassessment.”

  “Are you angling to come up to Kettlesheer again?” he asked. I could almost see his straight face, his dark eyes glinting as he spoke.

  “No, no! I mean, yes, but …” My cheeks turned crimson.

  “Four grand, and that’s my final offer.” Walter’s toxic breath gusted far too close for comfort.

  “Maybe I should drop in and talk it through?” Robert went on.

  “Yes!” That sounded a bit keen. “I mean, yes, that’s probably a good idea,” I said, trying to regain my confident tone in front of both of them. “Why don’t you do that? How about—”

  There was some background noise on Robert’s end. “Hang on,” he said, “I’ve got a call waiting. Don’t go away.”

  As if.

  “I won’t.” I put one hand over the phone and stared Walter down. Forget keeping my job; this was the least I could do for Duncan and Ingrid. Max was always muttering about what some of those rugs fetched—it might make up for the table.

  “What’s it really worth?” I demanded. “It’s the carpet, isn’t it?”

  Walter’s eyes went sideways. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 
“Come on,” I snapped, anxious to get this brokered before Robert finished his other call. “We can bring you in as an expert. Just tell me.”

  The shop bell jangled, but I ignored it. If it was Max, it’d do him good to see me playing hardball for once. “Walter? I can easily advise him not to sell.” I raised my eyebrows. “Did Max mention the important table? The one that’s staying in the family after all?”

  At that, Walter seemed to choke on his own tongue. “And I thought Max was a coldhearted, self-interested … I’ll double your cut. Just get on with it!”

  “It’s not for me,” I hissed. “It’s for them! It’s my duty to get the best price for the client!”

  “Good,” said a voice.

  Walter and I spun round.

  Robert was standing next to an Art Deco globe drinks cabinet, one hand resting on the top. He swiveled it casually, as if choosing his next holiday destination. My skin went chilly, then very hot, and finally settled on a buzzing warmth.

  But Walter, like Max, was no friend to the casual browser, and gave him a dismissive glare, then turned back to me. “Okay, so it’s probably worth a bob or two. They don’t need to know that. Get it at the right price, and if we split the profit on it three ways, we’re still quids in.”

  “They deserve to know what it’s worth,” I said.

  “Philistines like them don’t deserve a priceless Persian carpet!” Walter roared, finally losing it. “They’re using it to line their junk room! You might as well let them use straw!”

  I gestured to my phone. “I think they’ve come off hold. Um, hello? I can offer you five thousand pounds.”

  “No, I’m going to take private advice,” said Robert into his mobile. “But thanks for your professional honesty.”

  Walter gripped hold of the desk as if he was about to keel right over, then gave me a piercing glare. “I’m going to talk to Max,” he whispered furiously, pointing a nicotine-stained finger right in my face.