The Vintage Summer Wedding (21 page)

Anna glared up at her, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Really?’ Mrs Beedle raised a brow in challenge and Anna found herself looking away, at the big swathes of purple buddleia, butterflies hovering around each drooping flower, and tried to hold her cool, her feeling of rightness.

The customer cut into the silence asking, ‘How much is this bird?’ and pointing at the taxidermy crow.

Mrs Beedle stood up, now chuckling at Anna who’d jutted her chin out in defiance, and said, ‘That one, my love? Let me see.’ Pausing to drain her coffee cup before going over to the counter to search for a price.

Anna, who after hours of dusting, polishing and repositioning, knew everything in the shop and its retail value probably better than Mrs Beedle, sat with the price on the tip of her tongue. But she didn’t do the selling, she’d decided that quite firmly. That part of the job wasn’t for her. Yet as she sat there watching, saw Mrs Beedle run her finger slowly down her price list, she was suddenly struck by the flashes of memory that had been darting in and out of her consciousness since she’d started working in the shop. There she was in her red shorts, ponytail swinging, going to the antique fairs and car boot sales with her dad. All their little scams and schemes flooding back, the haggling, the stifled giggling and the belly laughing, the rush of a good bargain, the pat on the head when she pulled off a brilliant deal, an ice cream melting in the heat, the smell of frying onions from the burger vans. The chill of frost-bitten fingers warmed by hot chocolate and mittens in winter and sunburnt cheeks slicked with luminous lotion in summer, the shouts and insults and the stories about old coins and postcards that went on forever, the little dogs that curled up on the front seat of vans and the big dogs that barked when she walked past, the smell of cut grass or the slide of icy concrete. The thrill of taking the crumpled notes that he would strip off the wodge in his pocket and give her at the end of the day if she worked hard enough. The fine line between right and wrong that they were acting out every time they went in for a deal. The worry of whether it would work. The breath-holding wait. The knowing winks, the knowing that everyone was doing it. Everyone was screwing each other for a bargain. And then driving home, the Thermos in the van, the crack across the windscreen, the day’s spoils on the roof bungied on at precarious angles.

Memories more fun, more precious, than she had allowed herself to believe.

‘I’ll take this one, Mrs B,’ Anna said, jumping up. And Mrs Beedle paused, her finger hovering over the price list, then smiled as she walked willingly back to her seat at the table.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Anna said to the woman with the sausage dog and they both looked up at the bird. ‘A real beauty. We haven’t had him in long.’ She thought about the beady little eyes of the fortune-teller watching her the night before, remembered the throbbing of her stamped hand.

Now, what did I teach you, Anna? Go in high. Why knock off fifty straight away when you can add it on straight away. See what I’m saying? That way you all leave knowing you got the price you want. And they think they got a deal.

‘I’ve got it on for a hundred and fifty.’ Anna heard Mrs Beedle suck in a breath and pause to lean on the window frame and watch as the woman walked round either side of the glass cabinet.

‘And can you do any better?’ The woman asked without looking up from the bird, its iridescent feathers catching the sunlight and sparkling blue, green, pink.

Everyone wants what they can’t have, Anna.

‘I’ll have a look but I know I don’t have a lot of room to move. There’s so much demand for these. They’re in and out the shop like that‒’ Anna clicked her fingers and took a couple of paces forward. ‘Very desirable.’

The woman traced her finger round the edge of the case.

Anna watched her, watched her lick her lips, watched her glance out to where someone was waiting for her in the car, watched her hand hover over her bag, watched her look into the glass case again and then step away, unsure. Anna waited, walked over to the counter, pretended to study an invoice. She felt like her eight-year-old self. Her dad would be nodding, just out of sight.
Wait, Anna. Not too quick. Wait, patience, wait, wait. Let the desire build, wait, wait, and now...now reel them in. Catch them off guard. Slice it down and they’ll be putty, Anna, putty.

‘Best I could let you have it for is a hundred,’ Anna said in the end, without looking up from the invoice. ‘And that’s pretty much cost price for me. I have someone coming in at end of the week wanting similar, so…’ She glanced over her shoulder, held out her hands. ‘It’s up to you.’

‘You take cards?’ The woman asked, a fraction too quick, taking a step back to glance casually at the bird from a different angle.

What was it the fortune-teller had said? That she was never too old to learn. Perhaps, more importantly, she was never too old to remember.

Anna tipped her head to one side and smiled. ‘Of course.’

As the woman backed out the door clutching the stuffed bird in its case against her chest, the dog trotting beside her, Mrs Beedle wandered in from outside. ‘So she is her father’s daughter after all.’

‘I don’t know what you mean?’ Anna said, feigning a total lack of comprehension.

‘Why knock off fifty when you can add it on straight away? I’ve worked with the old bugger long enough to recognise his tricks anywhere, Anna.’ She laughed.

Chapter Seventeen

Razzmatazz got steadily better. She wouldn’t have said they were perfect, not by a long shot, but they were beginning to move in real steps with real timing. Long gone were the bumbling random jumps and wiggles that had made up the performance when she’d first seen them.

Matt and Mary had started arriving together, heads down, barely looking at one another but giving the occasional murmuring laugh as one of them muttered something while the other might allow a playful nudge.

‘Look, Miss, they’re in luurve,’ Billy goaded, making Mary scuttle away in a pretence of changing her shoes.

Matt blushed and Anna heard Lucy, who was sitting next to her, shout, ‘More than you’ll ever get, Billy. Who’s going to ever fancy you?’

‘Don’t need to pretend, Luce, I know you want me.’ Billy swaggered over and Lucy threw her head back in a mocking laugh of disdain.

‘Come back to me when you’ve hit puberty, you little runt.’

As they wound each other up, Anna watched Mary take a couple of steps out of the shadows of the sidelines and nearer to where Matt was standing. She was struck for a second how simple their love triangles were, how sweetly naive. Maybe all she needed to do was sidle up to Seb and offer him a Haribo and all would be well again. Maybe that was where she’d been going wrong.

Gradually, the others started to arrive, Peter sloped in, Scott loafed about by the piano and Clara appeared, dressed in black-and-white leggings and a ra-ra skirt, cramming half a sandwich in her mouth, and they took their places.

‘Two days to go, Miss,’ Peter said as she walked to stand in front of them.

‘I know.’ She nodded. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fucking shit-scared,’ Lucy shouted.

‘No, you shouldn’t be scared. You should be excited,’ Anna laughed. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Getting it all wrong.’ Peter bellowed.

‘Well, because, Miss, we used to be shit and we knew it. And, well‒’ Lucy looked around at the rest of them who seemed to be in agreement. ‘Now it’s like we know we’re OK, so there’s more to worry about. If we think we’re good and then actually we’re shit, then that’s embarrassing, d’you know what I mean? It’s more serious, isn’t it?’

Anna watched Mary nodding and felt a mix of pride and frustration. ‘That’s got to be a good thing, surely? Think how good it will feel if it goes well,’ she said, feeling her brow furrow as she looked along the rows of them.

‘Maybe, Miss.’ Matt shrugged.

‘It’s just we probably want it more now, if you know what I mean? It feels like something we could maybe have, maybe get on the TV in a good way, kind of.’ Lucy shrugged. ‘Or Peter’ll just fall over and we’ll all go home.’ She cracked a smile and the subject was over.

Peter swore while they sloped off the edge of the stage and took their places to start. Matt led the warm-up while Anna watched in silence, her mind rolling one thought over and over...

She had given them hope.

And with hope came the huge possibility of disappointment.

It was midway through a second run-through, this time to music that was so loud the windows seemed to bow outwards, that the door slammed its now familiar booming thwack and the sound of a number of pairs of stiletto heels seemed to puncture the thumping track.

Peter stopped mid-move and said, ‘Fuck me, Miss. Your mates are supermodels.’

Matt stumbled to turn the iPod off while the rest of the group just stood and gawped while Anna swivelled, uncertainly, round in her seat.

Striding towards them, heels clipping on the wood, wasn’t just Hermione this time, but her ex-assistant and now job-pimp Kim, her slicked-red lips beaming around an electric cigarette and the towering platforms on her shoes wobbling precariously with every step as she waved a vigorous hello.

And who was that next to her? Anna wondered. She knew her, she thought, was sure she recognised her. The need to place the face overcame the fact she herself was wearing leggings, a plain white T-shirt and plimsolls, her hair, in need of a wash, was scraped back and her cheeks flushed from shouting instructions at the group.

‘Anna Whitehall,’ the stranger drawled. ‘Well, I never thought this is where I’d find you.’

‘Anna,’ Kim sidled up next to her. ‘I bumped into Hermione at just the most divine little launch party the other night and I asked where you were, and she told me about this lovely little village and I thought, where better for Lucinda to chat to you than here, in picturesque England. It’s perfect. Hello!’ She waved at Razzmatazz, who just stared back in silence.

Lucinda.

Anna thought for a moment.

‘So, do you recognise me?’ Curly flame-red hair, skin so white it was like she’d been cast from cream, taller than Anna by one inch exactly, eyes that sloped down at the corners, a mouth that curled up just on one side when it was satisfied it had got what it wanted.

‘Lucinda Warren,’ Anna breathed.

‘Great to see you again, Anna. I’ve been looking forward to it, what’s it been, ten years?’

‘Eleven,’ Anna said.

‘Eleven. What’s a year between friends?’ Lucinda laughed.

What’s a year between enemies
, Anna held her mouth taut.

‘Miss, we’re running out of time,’ Lucy shouted and all four women turned and looked at her as she flicked her Farah Fawcett hair and then tapped her watch.

‘This is what you’re doing now?’ Lucinda drawled, walking forward a couple of steps so she was beside Anna. Anna tried not to look at the group through the eyes of these newcomers. The various shapes and sizes, the ramshackle assortment of clothes, trainers, hairstyles, the hall that smelt of cabbage after the lunchtime Whist-drive, the booming Rihanna track. ‘It’d be awesome to see them dance.’

Hermione leant round and whispered, ‘I’m not sure it would actually.’

‘Oh, Hermione!’ Kim coughed on her electric cigarette. ‘They’re Anna’s. We all know what magic Anna can spin. I bet they’re fabulous.’

Anna licked her lips.

‘You want us to go again, Miss?’ Matt said, quietly.

‘He’s my favourite,’ Hermione snorted a laugh.

No I want you to go home, Matt.
Anna thought.
I’m embarrassed by you and I hate myself for being embarrassed of you.

In her last year at the English Ballet Company School it had been announced that the company itself were staging a production of
The Nutcracker
that would start at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden and then tour some of the greatest venues in the world, including the David H. Koch Theater at the Lincoln Center. The event would mark the fiftieth anniversary of the English Ballet Company and the decision had been made to open one role up to a dancer from the school.

The opening night would see the industry glitterati nestle into the audience, sip copious flutes of Bollinger, munch on canapés of sour cream and caviar croustades, and narrow their eyes at the performance of this fledgling ballerina, whispering witty criticisms or gasping in delight. It was a giant step towards a ticket to stardom.

By this time, under the tutelage of Madame LaRoche, Anna had begun to flourish. The more she grew, the more dedicated she became, the more she avoided her father and the less she went back to Nettleton, the longer she stayed behind so she didn’t have to go back to the flat and her eternally furious mother, and she rose the ranks to the heady, coveted position of unofficial favourite. She wasn’t the best dancer technically, not by miles, but she had what Madame LaRoche would spread her arms wide and call spirit.

Trampled over, beaten, almost destroyed in her first two years and left hanging by a thread, frayed and terrified, as she went from Nettleton top dog to bottom of the London pack, worn down by the unrelenting competition at the school and constant questioning from her mother every night she came home about who she was better than, who she’d worked harder than, Madame LaRoche had leant over her at the end of one session, knelt down so her eyes were level with Anna’s tired, bloodshot ones and said,
To become the top one percent, Anna, you have to look here ‒
she put her hand on her heart ‒
and not here.
She spread her arm out across the rest of the room.
You focus on this, you go to the devil. Natural talent may have got you here, Anna, but it is not enough to keep you here. Remember that.

Anna had stared back at her, thinking, please throw me out,
please
, expel me, let this end. But Madame LaRoche had simply walked away, and Anna had hauled herself up and when the music started once more, for the first time she didn’t see the others around her, she saw only herself, her beating heart, her gaze fixed and unwavering. And it had worked. She had started to get parts that weren’t the starring roles but ones that allowed her to try, to experiment, to show her so-called Spanish spirit ‒ the Mediterranean blood that pumped through her veins and imbued her with the fight, the passion, the determination to succeed against all odds. The same spirit that had turned inwards in her mother and was eating away at her bit by bit.