Vanessa Greene hosted her first tea party at eight, to a select gathering of stuffed bears. Since then she’s trawled antiques markets from Portobello to Paris, Brighton to Buenos Aires, to build her teacup collection and feed her addiction to all things vintage. She still loves an excuse to bring friends together – but nowadays her guests are less shy about trying the cake.
Vanessa is in her thirties and lives in north London with her partner. The Vintage Teacup Club is her first novel.
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-7481-3254-6
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Vanessa Greene 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
For my mum and sister.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Caroline Hogg, for making this novel happen and for her creative input at every stage.
To the outstanding team at Sphere, in particular to Manpreet Grewal and Rebecca Saunders for their dedication, skill and enthusiasm from day one, and to Andy Hine for believing in the power of teacups. Thanks also to Andy Coles, Jen Wilson, Carleen Peters, Madeleine Feeny, Kate Hibbert, and to Sian Wilson for the cover.
I’m extremely grateful to Emma Stonex and Sheelagh Alabaster, whose feedback on early drafts was invaluable, and to Caroline Hardman at Hardman & Swainson, for her expert guidance. Thanks also to Kim Lines, Becky Bradley, Ellie Jacob and James Gill – and in particular to my niece Eloise – for their insights and support.
To the lovely brides who supplied tales of their wedding day joys and hiccups – thank you!
Finally, thanks to James – for the laughter, inspiration and Yorkshire tea.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
How We Began
Prologue
Chapter 1: Maggie
Chapter 2: Jenny
Chapter 3: Alison
Chapter 4: Jenny
Chapter 5: Maggie
Chapter 6: Alison
Chapter 7: Jenny
Chapter 8: Maggie
Chapter 9: Alison
Chapter 10: Jenny
Chapter 11: Jenny
Secret Histories
Chapter 12: Maggie
Chapter 13: Alison
Chapter 14: Jenny
Chapter 15: Alison
Chapter 16: Maggie
Chapter 17: Jenny
Chapter 18: Jenny
Chapter 19: Maggie
Chapter 20: Alison
Chapter 21: Jenny
Chapter 22: Alison
Chapter 23: Maggie
Chapter 24: Jenny
Chapter 25: Alison
Chapter 26: Maggie
Blitz Spirit
Chapter 27: Alison
Chapter 28: Jenny
Chapter 29: Maggie
Chapter 30: Jenny
Chapter 31: Alison
Chapter 32: Jenny
Chapter 33: Maggie
Chapter 34: Jenny
Chapter 35: Maggie
Chapter 36: Alison
Chapter 37: Jenny
Chapter 38: Maggie
Chapter 39: Jenny
Chapter 40: Jenny
Epilogue
How We Began
(May–June)
Prologue
Jenny
Gold-edged, delicate, almost translucent – four perfect teacups sit on four perfect saucers and a small and shapely teapot gleams in between them. The tea service seems to light up the open boot of the bottle-green Morris Minor, and as I reach out a tentative hand to touch the china I’m pretty sure I can hear a gospel choir singing out. Yes. Here, in the hum and bustle of Charlesworth’s car boot sale, the Saturday bargain hunt that brings the residents of our old market town together, we’ve found each other at last.
‘Anything in particular you’re after, love?’ comes a gentle, welcome voice over my shoulder. My lord, is that a matching milk jug and sugar bowl I can see nestled among the yellowing newspaper? I peel a corner back to check. I’m right, and they all have the same pretty forget-me-not pattern below the gold rim. I’m transfixed. I wrestle my gaze away from the teacups and turn towards the voice, warm smile already in place – less a charm offensive to kick off the negotiations, more that I simply can’t stop grinning like a fool. I meet the stall-holder’s world-weary eyes, grey-blue under unruly brows. I expect my hazel ones look a bit manic – because in my head I’m desperately trying to decide on a maximum price for something I’ve fallen budget-defyingly in love with. Then, before we’ve even exchanged a word, I see the old man’s gaze drift over my shoulder. Hang on …
‘Well now, not a customer all morning and then along come three lovely ladies at once.’
I swivel round and see that two pairs of elegant hands have crept onto my teaset – touching the precious cups that, once I’d bought them, would make everything in my life just right. The women look up in surprise, drawing back from the open boot in unison, still clasping a teacup each. One cup is held protectively by a willowy redhead in a cream silk vest and khaki slacks, the other by a curvy brunette in a gingham dress and red lipstick, her hair pinned back in 1940s victory rolls with just a few curls escaping.
‘But …’ I start. I was here first, I long to protest. But then I see the expressions on their faces and I can’t bring myself to say the words. They both look every bit as forlorn to see me as I am to see them.
‘Listen,’ the redhead says, composing herself and fixing the stallholder with an assertive glare. He’s clearly about eighty, and I worry he might faint if a conflict escalates. ‘It looks like you’ll be going home with less stock and fuller pockets when you leave this car park today.’ Her green eyes sparkle, and I flinch – how on earth can I compete with this cream-silk-clad professional? She’s a crockery tiger. Retro brunette seems to be losing her nerve, she’s fiddling with her chunky red necklace and glancing around – though something tells me that she might have the cold hard cash to come up on the inside. And me … I look down at my worn jeans and Converse, suddenly aware of the girlishness of my blonde ponytail and petite figure, complete with blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cleavage. I feel twenty-six going on sixteen. Jenny Davis the amateur; my art deco engagement ring the only sign I’ve even dipped a toe in the antiques market before. But I do have passion – and that’s supposed to count for something, isn’t it? Even so, I can’t help fearing that neither my purchasing prowess nor the contents of my purse are going to be hefty enough to land me this teaset of dreams. I hope, at least, that the others can’t see that my heart is breaking a little bit.
‘But ladies,’ says the redhead, her auburn waves catching the light as she turns to face us, ‘something tells me that taking this set home would mean really quite a lot to each one of us. Am I right?’
I’m so shocked by this curveball from the tiger, I just nod dumbly – tears prickling at my eyes. Instinctively I look back at the set. Yes, the sugar tongs need a good polish, but that some how makes the whole thing even more perfect.
‘Yes, it looks like we’re all keen,’ I finally pipe up, turning towards the bemused pensioner. ‘Could you put a hold on the tea ser
vice for an hour?’
That was how our summer started.
Chapter 1
Maggie
‘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 fi
rmed 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?
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