The Vintage Summer Wedding. Jenny Oliver
‘You sold the Russian clock?’ she said, dumping a shopping bag of milk, custard creams and an antiques magazine that Anna remembered her father getting delivered, down on the counter.
‘No.’ Anna shook her head. ‘I haven’t sold anything.’
Mrs Beedle paused and then looked out into the street. ‘I just saw a man leave with it.’
‘Not from here.’
‘Anna, it was from here.’ Mrs Beedle huffed back to the front door but there was no one in the street. Anna could see her standing on the pavement with her hands on her hips, looking right then left, calling to the group of men sitting on the bench on the other side of the square who shook their heads in response. When she finally came back in, she was shaking her head. ‘Bother,’ she sighed.
Anna straightened her shoulders. ‘He didn’t buy it from here.’
‘I bought that clock as part of a repossession auction of a Russian oligarch. Anna, it was the only clock of its type west of the Ukraine. Don’t tell me that wasn’t my clock.’ Her cheeks started to flush. ‘Clearly he didn’t buy it at all. See over there‒’ She pointed to a cabinet that had a dust-free square on the top about the size of a shoebox. ‘That’s where it was when I left.’
Anna glanced over at the shiny, polished square of emptiness and bit her lip, then pushed a strand of hair from her face and said, ‘Was it expensive?’
Mrs Beedle closed her eyes and sucked in her top lip before muttering, ‘You could say that.’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Anna said, almost without thinking.
‘I’d rather you didn’t say that, Anna.’ Mrs Beedle opened her eyes, she looked sad and tired and old suddenly, and glanced from Anna over to the CCTV monitor that was currently rolling the closing credits of Murder She Wrote.
Anna felt herself inwardly cringe as Mrs Beedle squeezed past her, took the remote down and flicked the TV back to the security monitor, then took her bag of shopping into the stockroom.
Anna yanked off her gloves and rubbed her hand over her brow. All her usual defence mechanisms kicked in straight away. It wasn’t her fault. It could have happened to anyone. Even if she had been watching, what would she have done, tackle him to the ground? She leant against the counter top and gave it a bit of a polish with an old rag to look like she was doing something, anything rather than go into the back room with Mrs Beedle. As she polished and listened to the kettle being flicked on and saw the cat scamper underneath the curtain, her eyes kept being drawn to the dust-free patch on the top of the mahogany cabinet. She could actually remember the clock, and she knew it was probably the most expensive item in the shop. Gold and magnificent with two lions holding up the dial and an eagle on the top, its wings spread wide. A square base with claw feet like talons. She had remembered admiring it as quite a gem amidst the taxidermy, the assorted crockery and the jumble of chairs that blocked the back half of the shop.
When Mrs Beedle came out with her tea, Anna leant back against the counter and mumbled, ‘I’m sorry.’
Mrs Beedle paused as she brought the mug up to her mouth. ‘That’s not really much use to me.’
Anna bristled, unused to that kind of reaction. She thought of Seb squeezing her hand and telling her that it was OK after she’d lost all their money. ‘It could have happened if you were here or not—’
‘Anna.’ Mrs Beedle locked her with a look that cut her off immediately. ‘Don’t make excuses to me. It wouldn’t have happened if I was here, I know that, because this shop is my life and the things in it are my life. To you they may be nothing, but to me they are my livelihood and I respect them. I have given you a job when a lot of people here wouldn’t and all I ask in return, is you show my possessions just a little respect. That’s it. That’s all I ask,’ she said, her lips taut, her jaw as rigid as it could be in her round little face.
Anna opened her mouth to reply, but chose instead to say nothing, just nodded.
‘I don’t need you here. In fact, I’d rather you weren’t here. But your father has been my friend since I was at school and he asked for a favour. I’m not putting up with your shit, Anna Whitehall. I see through you. And, quite frankly, I’d say it’s about time you grew up.’
At five on the dot, Anna grabbed her bag and sloped out so that Mrs Beedle wouldn’t see her, and once outside she’d never been happier to feel the scorching heat of the afternoon sun on her face.
Pausing for a moment to sit on one of the chairs outside the French bistro, she leant her head against the wall and took a deep breath. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon flitting between fury about her telling off and guilt over the clock theft. Why had this had such an effect on her? It was just a crappy antiques shop, but it felt like the culmination of everything. The conversation with Hermione had rattled her, shaken her foundations. Her relationship with Seb felt like it was being wedged apart by a huge Nettleton crowbar, and now she had the big, sad, watery eyes of Mrs Beedle’s disappointment to contend with.
‘I don’t care,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘I do not care.’
As she was repeating the mantra to herself, the owner came out of the bistro where Anna had taken residence of one of his chairs. He very good-looking in a dark, Gaelic way she thought as he started watering the pots of red geraniums with an old glass bottle. ‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘Oh no sorry, I was just sitting.’ Anna pushed herself up. ‘I’m just going.’
He shook his head, pouring the last of the water into one of the gnarly pots. ‘There is no hurry. You can sit as much as you like.’ He winked, shook out the drops from the bottle, and then disappeared back inside. She watched him go and wondered in how many places you could sit at someone’s cafe for free.
Standing up, she hauled her weary body across the cobbles, the sun burning on her back, the group of old men sitting on the bench staring, hands resting on their bellies, the old sheepdog at their feet turning its head away as she passed. She felt like everyone knew about the clock.
I don’t care, she said again under her breath. But then why was she so riled?
As she neared the bakery, she saw Jackie and Seb sitting on the chairs, laughing together over chocolate cake. She could see Rachel inside, behind the counter, wrapping up bread and scooping chocolates into gold boxes. The window had changed again, piles of jellied sweets shaped like strawberries and green apples, orange slices and bobbly raspberries glistened in the afternoon sun. Scattered nasturtium flowers fluttered like butterflies, shots of bright vermilion and dazzling cerise. And hanging from ribbons in the window were tiny glass test-tubes, each with a sweet pea drooping from the weight of its pastel petals. If she still had it, a photo of the display would have been worthy of her book.
‘Anna!’ Seb called with a wave.
Jackie was still sniggering as she approached. Again Anna felt like the outsider.
‘Jackie was just asking me whether you’d ever change your mind about coaching her dance group,’ Seb said, as if by way of explanation for the giggling.
Why was that funny? Anna wondered.
‘Seb said that you didn’t really do things for other people.’ Jackie said over a mouthful of chocolate cake.
‘I didn’t say it like that.’ Seb shook his head, waving a hand to try and make her disregard Jackie’s comment. ‘I just said that you weren’t, you know, community-focused.’
Anna didn’t say anything. Just watched the pair of them, a thousand possibilities of what Seb had said swirling through her head. In London this was her time with him. Where she’d call and arrange to meet him in swanky bar, but he’d catch her just before she went in and pull her into a sweet, family-owned tapas place where they’d get free sherry with their chorizo, or make her stroll down the Embankment to look at the river in the twilight