‘He’s coming in on Tuesday,’ said Lew. ‘I’ll ask him then.’
Bonnie whistled as a thought came to her. ‘It’s a good job that Ken didn’t see this in the old lady’s haul. Good grief, I hope he never finds out what I might have cost him.’
‘His loss is my gain,’ said Lew. It would have sounded flirty to say it so he stopped himself, but he didn’t only mean the old lady’s treasures. He watched Bonnie turn the saucer over in her hands. Her hazel eyes were shining with fascination. He was aware that he was staring and forced himself to shift his focus before she caught him. He wondered what Mr Brookland was like.
There was only a trickle of customers in the afternoon, people who had been to the teashop next door and decided to have a poke around, but one of them had bought a silver toothpick from Long John’s cabinet along with a gorgeous Asprey cigarette case.
The clock wound around to closing time surprisingly quickly; Bonnie couldn’t remember when she’d had such a pleasant day at work. Mr Harley seemed like a good man to work for, but she hadn’t to rule out that this was a new broom situation and he might turn out to be another Ken Grimshaw. But, even after only one day in the job, somehow she didn’t think so. As she bade Lew good night and walked out of the door towards her car, she wondered if there was a Mrs Harley and what she was like.
Chapter 11
When Bonnie woke up the next morning, she thought her alarm clock had gone off too early because the sky was charcoal and lumpy with grubby dumplings of cloud. The rain was lashing against her window, distorting the view of the fields beyond and giving them the appearance of an Impressionist painting. Angry March winds with ADHD were pushing and pulling at everything they could find in their stream. It was one of those mornings where a bed might have called in a silky purr, ‘come back to me’, except her mattress had been chosen by Stephen for its sensible orthopaedic qualities and going in to the Pot of Gold was a far nicer prospect. On Saturdays the dealers who didn’t go to the huge fayres searching for stock used the day for replenishing their cabinets, so they could hang around talking to customers and fish for sales. There was always an extra pleasant feeling about Saturdays which made them her favourite working days.
As she walked downstairs, she could hear Stephen on the telephone saying goodbye and thank you to whoever it was he was talking to. He was wearing his best self-righteous smile when Bonnie entered the kitchen. It was the only sort of smile he was capable of. He momentarily flicked his eyes towards her but he didn’t greet her with a ‘good morning’. He never did, and she wondered again if other couples behaved like this towards each other, co-existing rather than living together. They never did anything as a couple except eat or watch ‘intellectual TV’ occasionally. They had no common interests: she didn’t even know what he thought about her, or if he had ever loved her, especially in the beginning when he acted as if he did, even if he had never said the actual words. She didn’t love him. She hadn’t loved him for many years but she didn’t know how to change things. Wishing and thinking about herself being away from him certainly hadn’t worked.
She picked up her handbag and knew that Stephen had been snooping inside it, because she never zipped it up more than three quarters of the way and now it was fully closed. She should have been used to it, because it wasn’t the first time it had happened. She had no idea what he thought he might find and a flare of anger made her ask on this occasion.
‘Why have you been in my bag?’
‘I’ve just had a very interesting conversation with your boss,’ he replied, avoiding the question.
Bonnie looked at him, puzzled. ‘What?’
‘You’re to go back, apologise and he’ll say no more about it.’
Bonnie was just about to ask what on earth he was talking about, when she realised he wasn’t talking about Lew Harley, but Ken Grimshaw.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ve negotiated a way out of your problem for you. There will be no more nonsense about going to work for someone who won’t be in business this time next month, so Mr Grimshaw says.’ That supercilious smile on Stephen’s lips stretched into a self-congratulatory arc. ‘So you can ring the new place and tell them you won’t be returning. I was just about to do it for you, but if you’d prefer to tell them yourself, that might be courteous.’ He held the house phone out for her to take and use. She stared at it in his hand but made no move to relieve him of it.
‘I wouldn’t go back and work for that creep if he doubled . . . trebled my wage.’
The smile shrank. ‘You will, Bonita. Mr Grimshaw has a long establish—’
‘No I won’t.’ Bonnie cut off his words and snatched up her bag. ‘You had no right to—’
It was Stephen’s turn to interrupt now. ‘You’re lucky he was so amenable after your disloyalty.’
‘He’s amenable because he’s off to Spain soon and there is no one to look after the shop, so no, I won’t go back.’ Bonnie made to step past him but Stephen caught hold of her hand and forced her fingers around the phone.
‘You will and you will apologise.’
As soon as he let go, she dropped the phone onto the kitchen table and it bounced onto the floor. The back flew off and the batteries spilled out. ‘No I wo—’
When the slap landed on her cheek, Stephen looked more stunned than Bonnie did. It all happened so quickly that it took Bonnie a few seconds to realise that he had, for the first ever time, hit her. It wasn’t a hard slap, her cheek might have pulsed with the contact but the real impact was in her brain where the shock pealed like a church bell.
‘You silly girl,’ yelled Stephen at volume. ‘That was all your fault.’ And with that, he strode out of the kitchen towards the lounge, chuntering to an invisible audience about lies, deceit and betrayal.
But Bonnie couldn’t move. Her legs felt numb whilst pins and needles prickled her arms. Her dad’s voice was loud and clear in her head. If a man ever hits you, just once, you walk out of the door and you keep walking because if he’s done it once, it’ll happen again. And then you tell me and he’ll never hit another woman as long as he lives because I’ll chop his bloody arms off.
But her dad wasn’t here to tell. And leaving was easier said than done when you didn’t have anywhere to go.
Bonnie arrived at the Pot of Gold wet and wild-haired; her yellow mac was only shower-proof and the elements laughed at it. Even in the short walk from her car to the shop, the material had plastered itself to her skin. But once she had opened the door, her spirits instantly soared in relief both for the respite from the icy downpour and for reaching a place that felt a million miles away from Greenwood Crescent.
‘Good morning, Bonnie,’ Lew greeted her. ‘I’m gathering that it hasn’t stopped raining.’ And he smiled a welcome and Bonnie thought that he must be the sort of man who kissed his wife goodbye that morning and told her to have a nice day. A man who didn’t slap his wife when she didn’t do as she was told.
‘I bet I look like something out of a Tim Burton film.’
‘Not at all.’ And even if she did, it would still have been a thousand-times improvement on Vanda Clegg.
Bonnie disappeared into the back room to get herself tidy and ready for duty. There was no evidence on her cheek of the scene that had happened at home. The scene that was replaying itself on a constant loop in her head. Stephen had never hit her before, but then they’d never had a stand-up argument where she had dug in her heels and defied him before. You have to leave him said a voice in her head, a deep man’s voice that sounded a lot like her father’s and she knew it was right. But where would she start the process of untangling her life from his? And would she ever really be able to cut all the threads?
‘I imagine the weather will put a lot of people off venturing out,’ sighed Lew, walking into the back room and interrupting her thoughts.
‘Have faith,’ replied Bonnie, switching into shop-assistant mode. ‘People will have paid off their Christmas bills so they’l
l have a bit of spare money in their pockets again, plus it’s officially spring next week. They’ll defy the weather and come flocking.’
‘I hope so,’ said Lew, reaching into his jacket. ‘I think your first official duty of Saturday should always be to go next door and buy a couple of their very excellent toasted teacakes. Heavily buttered. Leni knows just how I like them.’
Bonnie thought he was joking until he handed her a ten pound note.
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Really.’
It hadn’t been a tradition he had practised with Vanda but then she had never walked into the shop in the morning bringing the sunshine in with her, even on a day such as this, giving him faith that he hadn’t been mad to gamble on opening up his business. Then the doorbell tinkled and a couple of people in waxed coats wandered in and asked if the shop was open because they’d been in the mood for checking the place out and were determined not to let the weather put them off.
The Pot of Gold was busier that afternoon than it had been on any other Saturday before and Lew was gobsmacked. He sold a space-consuming mahogany table and six chairs that he never thought he’d shift and had been about to slash the price on it. He threw in free delivery and was so giddy he had to stop himself throwing in the dinner service that was displayed on it as well. Then two dealers called in to size up the shop after bumping into Gary Glass at the Ribury Fayre: the rough and ready Stantiques, who dealt in Victoriana and the very dapper Goldfinger whose speciality was old gold and precious gems. Lew couldn’t help but be impressed by how the faces of the two dour-looking men were split by smiles when they saw his new assistant. Lew left Bonnie to work her magic and persuade them to come on board. Within the half hour they had asked if it was all right to move their stock into a couple of spare units on Tuesday.
Starstruck made an appearance with a framed, signed Evel Knievel T-shirt along with his handwritten message, ‘Follow your dreams’. It was accompanied by a photograph of him wearing it as provenance. ‘He died that same year,’ Starstruck sniffed. ‘What a man. Reminded me of your dad in the face when he was younger, Bon.’
Bonnie tilted her head one way then the other and yes, she could see what he meant. Her dad was a big, strapping handsome man with a thick head of hair of which he was very proud. Before. His illness had even taken that away from him.
‘Hey, Bon, you don’t know anyone looking for a house to rent, do you?’ asked Starstruck. ‘Our Alison has moved in with her fella but she’s not selling up in case he turns out to be a plonker like the other one, so she’s letting her house out in Dodley Bottom. It’s a lovely little place, two-up, two-down, not furnished, mind, but I think it’s got a fridge and a hob. Number 1 Rainbow Lane, tagged onto the side of the old Duck Street chapel that they turned into offices, do you know where I mean?’
‘I think so, Starstruck,’ Bonnie said. ‘But I don’t know anyone who might want it, sorry.’
‘Never mind, I thought I’d ask. She’ll end up selling, I think, because this bloke’s a good lad but she’s erring on the side of caution. Once bitten, twice shy. She’s not greedy. Seventy quid a week she wants, just to cover her mortgage and a bit extra.’
‘Seventy pounds?’
Bonnie’s heart gave a leap like a racehorse over a fence. That was very cheap. Was it doable? One side of her brain started doing manic calculations in her head whilst the other seemed to be nudging up its bosom and warning, ‘Calm down, dear.’
‘She’d like a six-month lease on it,’ said Starstruck.
Oh goodness, thought Bonnie. The timing on this couldn’t have been better. Dodley Bottom was near to the shop too and there was a direct bus from there to Penistone which stopped at Spring Hill, should her car ever play up.
‘I’ll let you know straightaway if I hear of anyone who might be interested,’ she said.
‘Thanks, lass.’
The last customers left just after five, half an hour after the official closing time. Lew apologised profusely to Bonnie and couldn’t understand why her eyebrows rose when he said he’d make sure he paid her for the extra time, but then he had never worked for Ken Grimshaw. He cashed up quickly, having something worthwhile to bank for once, knowing that Charlotte would be annoyed that he was late. He headed back to his car with the rain pelting him from one side and the sun shining on him from the other. He drove out of the car park towards the brightest rainbow that he had ever seen in his life, with a fainter duplicate printed above it. He wondered if it was a sign. Double rainbows meant serendipitous magic was on its way: he was sure he’d read that somewhere once.
Bonnie saw the rainbows too. The inner one was rich with colour as if it had been painted on the sky with an artist’s heavy hand and it was especially vivid being set against such dark, blue-smoke clouds. She stopped the car at the top of Half Moon Hill in order to look at it properly and wished the camera on her ancient phone still worked.
She’d had a lovely day at work after such an awful start at home and, though she had only completed two days at the Pot of Gold, she felt as if colour was returning to her life again, warmth . . . hope. Hope that there was something bright waiting for her behind the clouds . . . and maybe she would find it on Rainbow Lane. It was a sign, it had to be.
Chapter 12
Charlotte was busy preparing for her dinner party when Lew got home. Prawns in coconut panko crumb to start with, fillet steak with her special secret-recipe sauce for main and strawberries in Pernod and black pepper for dessert. The breadmaker on the work surface was busy baking a parmesan and olive loaf and Astrid, their cleaner, was sprinkling confetti stars on the beautifully laid table in the middle of their cavernous open-plan dining kitchen.
Charlotte, as expected, was pulsing out vibes of annoyance when he kissed her on the cheek. She merely replied to his ‘sorry I’m late’ with the brusque words, ‘Lewis, get a shower, they’ll be here in just over an hour.’
‘Hello to you too,’ tutted Lew, but good humouredly. ‘And hello, Astrid. I see my wife has roped you into helping with arrangements?’
‘Yes. I dun’t mind though. I could alvays do viz the overtime,’ Astrid replied in her strange hybrid broad Barnsley-German accent.
Lew went upstairs and sighed, a little crossly. They were only having their friends round, it didn’t merit bringing in their cleaner to help throw a meal together. The stair carpet had tell-tale vacuum tool marks on it, so Astrid had obviously given the place a once-over before she started in the kitchen. He was pretty sure it wouldn’t have been Charlotte. As Lew walked into the main house bathroom, a hoot of laughter escaped him at the sight of the huge swan fashioned out of a towel perched on the side of the bath and then the towel elephant with mini soaps for eyes which was sitting on the toilet lid. Also the edges of the toilet roll were creased into a V and a tiny paper fan sat in the fold.
Charlotte’s voice barked up the staircase.
‘Lewis, use the ensuite and NOT the towels and toilet roll out on display in the main bathroom, please.’
‘Aye aye captain,’ he shouted back.
On his bed was a giant moth with a bath towel for the body and two hand towels for the wings. Astrid was very clever at those finishing touches though he seemed to remember that a couple of weeks ago he had walked into the house and found her purple-faced with rage as Charlotte was telling her that it might be better if she concentrated on things like skirting board dusting rather than creating such fripperies. Astrid had pulled herself up to her full height of six foot four and responded that the skirting boards were dust-free, danke schön, and that she had made those in her own time as a friendly gesture but that ‘She vud not be doing zem ag-ean so madam vud have nowt to worry abart.’ Astrid had stormed out of the house, mortified at the merest suggestion that she’d been slacking and Charlotte hadn’t been best pleased that Lew was taking the cleaner’s side on this; in fact he had insisted she ring Astrid and apologise. There was a bunch of flowers and a huge box of chocolates waiting f
or her the next time she came and all was smoothed over. Now, it seemed that Astrid’s artistic skills were not only being encouraged but rented.
By the time he had come downstairs, Astrid had left.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ pre-empted Charlotte as she covered prawns in crumbs, ‘but I wanted it to be special tonight.’
Lew didn’t argue. He was looking forward to having their friends over, with the notable exception of Regina. ‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘Nope, it’s all done.’ Right on cue the breadmaker gave a series of beeps. ‘Oh, you can take that out, if you will.’
‘What’s the occasion that we need Astrid’s zoo-towels?’ Lew lifted the lid on the breadmaker releasing a delicious scent that made his stomach growl in anticipation. He hadn’t eaten much all day because – marvellously – he’d been too busy. ‘Is it anyone’s birthday?’
‘No occasion.’
‘What time do the string quartet arrive?’
‘Oh very funny, Lewis, not.’
Lew tipped the bread out onto the wire rack. He could have hacked off a slice, slathered it in butter and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth.
‘It has been a long time since we’ve had one of these soirées, isn’t it?’ Lew tried to work out when it had been.
‘Last time we were all together was at the Koh-i-Noor,’ replied Charlotte, stirring something on the hob.
Lew shuddered. ‘Ah yes, Indian Plattergate.’
‘. . . Though I’ve been for coffee with Regina a few times in between.’
That surprised Lew. ‘Really?’
‘I like her, Lew. She’s great fun.’
A picture of a great white shark flashed into Lew’s head. It often did at the mention of Regina’s name. ‘What about Gemma? Haven’t you seen her at all?’
Charlotte shrugged dismissively. ‘Maybe we’re just growing apart.’
That saddened Lew to hear because Gemma was the nicest person in their group. The six of them usually met once a month and had done so regularly for the last four years, until Patrick and Regina’s famous hoo-ha. Gemma and Charlotte had been best friends since school. Gemma was a sweetheart, Lew had always thought so, and had been Charlotte’s bridesmaid and vice versa, and if either couple had had children, they would have been each other’s first choice for godmother. But Gemma didn’t want children; she had ploughed all her energies into her nail bar business, Sparkles. She had been married to Jason for ten years. He had been a jobbing car salesman until he took a gamble, leased a garage and started selling second-hand prestige cars and business was booming for him. Lew had always liked Jason, though if he were honest, he liked him more when he had less money. It had, as his mum would have said, ‘all gone to his head a bit’. Jason, for the first time, felt able to engage in serious one-upmanship with Patrick, the world’s most inveterate bragger. Lew was never interested in who had the best car, biggest house, fanciest holidays and he hadn’t thought Jason was, until recent months proved him wrong. Patrick, an accountant, had been a business associate of both him and Jason. He was loud, brash, and extremely likeable but if you’d been to Sevenoaks, he’d been to Eightoaks; if you had double-vision, he had treble-vision. Regina was loud, brash and extremely unlikeable but Patrick’s company was worth having, even if they had to include her. Still, as convivial a host as Lew was, he had to try really hard not to dread evenings in her company.
The Queen of Wishful Thinking Page 6