The Vintage Teacup Club (13 page)

Alison’s umbrella blew inside-out the moment she stepped out into the car park. The rain dripped down her cheeks, and she knew her dark eye make-up would be smudging. She really needed today to go well, so that she could get a loan approved and get the café started with Jamie.

She’d worked in the studio until midday that morning, filling an order for thirty teacup candles and then starting work on some cushions with outlines of foxes sewn on to them. She’d listened to music, humming as she stitched, and remembered how much she enjoyed sewing; time just disappeared as her needle ran through the material. She smiled to herself thinking of how much craft she’d be doing once she and Jamie had
the café up and running – she couldn’t wait. When the rain had started, she’d grabbed her chunky knit cardi and pulled it tight around her as she worked. Ah, the English summer. The moment you start to take it for granted it’s gone.

It was only a five-minute walk to the bank on the high street from where she’d parked, but by the time she got there she was soaked to the skin. Her umbrella had got so battered she’d thrown it away, and her leather satchel was wet through. Mr Cavendish, the bank manager, was there to meet her when she stepped inside. ‘Mrs Lovell, hello,’ he said, in a voice no bank manager should really have – it was as comforting as warm buttered toast. Ever the gentleman, he acknowledged her dishevelled state but only smiled gently. ‘Come into my office where you can warm up.’ He took her coat from her. ‘And let’s hang this up by the radiator, shall we?’

Mr Cavendish knew things about her that even her closest friends didn’t know. When her clothes shop had foundered a decade ago he had helped her work things out so that her debt was manageable and she’d slowly got back on top of things again. She should have been more honest with other people back then – hers wasn’t the only good business ever to hit the rocks after all; but she hadn’t wanted her friends and family to think of her as a failure. It was easier to say that she’d wanted to spend more time with the girls while they were still young, and do without the long
commute. And of course both those things were true. It just hadn’t been the whole truth.

‘Mrs Lovell. It was good to hear from you again the other day. It’s been a while.’ His forearms were resting on the table and he leaned towards her, looking her in the eye. His hair was an attractive salt-and-pepper and his suits were always well cut. Still no pictures of children on his desk, she noted, idly.

‘Yes, thanks for fitting me in today,’ she said.

‘From what you’ve told me, it sounds like your current business is going rather well. Are you looking to develop that further? Or was it something different you wanted to talk about today?’

‘A bit of both,’ Alison said. ‘What I’d really like to do is sell my products in my own shop, rather than selling them on to boutiques. And an opportunity has arisen for me to do just that.’ She shifted slightly in her seat.

‘Go on,’ Mr Cavendish said.

‘I know I’m in a good position now,’ she said, ‘with a steady stream of customers and no overheads, but I can’t see the business growing as things are. I want to use my retail background to hand-sell my products to customers.’

Alison looked over at Mr Cavendish and he was nodding, listening to her attentively.

‘I know that my business background isn’t flawless,’ she said. ‘But I’ve put my heart and soul
into this company and over the past year I’ve achieved some strong results. More new orders are coming in through the web-site, too.’

Alison unclipped her sodden satchel and pulled out the ringbinder she’d assembled earlier; thankfully the sheets inside were still dry.

‘Here, I brought the documents along, the ones you asked to see.’ She handed them to him over the large desk.

He smiled and opened the folder, starting to read. Alison had to stop herself from trying to gauge his expression. She looked out of the window instead, seeking distraction. The meeting room was up on the first floor and you could watch the goings-on in the high street. The rain was still falling. Some people had ducked into cafés and shops to stay out of it; old ladies and new mums were huddled together under the bus shelter. A single-decker rattled down the street and splashed a well-dressed woman holding a golf umbrella who shouted out in shock. Alison squinted – wasn’t that Sally? Pete had mentioned she was back. She looked a lot more attractive. Her dark dyed-red hair was styled into waves, and even though her skirt was mud-spattered now, you could see that her clothes were trendy. She had on a wide belt that emphasised her still-thin waist and she wore high-heeled leather boots. Perhaps that was what happened after a stint in London.

‘It looks like you’re doing a roaring trade, Mrs Lovell.’ Mr Cavendish’s voice broke into her
thoughts. ‘I can understand why you feel ready to branch out at this point.’ Alison breathed a sigh of relief. She knew it wasn’t over yet, but this was promising.

‘But your income has fluctuated over the years – and I have to take into account what happened with your previous business. However, your husband’s income is relatively high and steady, as I remember it. Is that right? And if so, would he be in a position to act as a guarantor?’

‘Things have changed a bit on that front, to be honest,’ Alison said, her heart sinking. ‘Pete lost his job last year. But I’m sure he’ll have a new one soon. And we have his redundancy payout in our joint account, which was really hefty.’

‘OK,’ Mr Cavendish said, making a note. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Lovell. Although the amount you’re asking for isn’t particularly high, we are having to be very strict at the moment about who we lend money to. I’ll need more information than I have here.’

‘I know,’ Alison said. ‘Of course – but look, why don’t you check our account now, you’ll see—’

‘OK, let’s do that then.’ He turned to his computer and tapped in her details.

Alison fidgeted in her chair and found her gaze returning to the window. Sally had vanished, and a tubby postman was there instead. He was opening up the post box and emptying the contents into his
sack, the wind blew a few letters on to the street.

‘Mrs Lovell.’ The bank manager was frowning at the screen. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t really tying up with what you’ve said. I don’t understand.’

Alison smiled at him, ready to help. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ she asked.

‘Are you sure your husband’s payout is in the joint account – the one you just gave me the details for – rather than in his personal one?’

‘Yes, I’m a hundred per cent sure,’ Alison said. ‘We decided it would go towards paying bills, and the everyday things.’

‘But Mrs Lovell, this account is overdrawn. In fact you’re very close to your overdraft limit.’

Alison looked at the bank manager blankly. ‘There must be some mistake,’ she said.

‘Perhaps your husband transferred an amount over to his own account?’ the manager said. ‘Is that a possibility?’

‘No,’ Alison said. ‘Pete wouldn’t do that.’

Would he?

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lovell. You know I’d like to help you. But I just don’t think I’d be doing that by lending you money at this point.’

Alison walked back to the car in a daze. What possible reason could Pete have for transferring their joint funds? She wracked her brain. He didn’t spend money on expensive hobbies, or clothes
– it just didn’t make any sense. The rain had eased off, but the wind slowed her progress and made the walk feel longer than usual. She shut the car door and put on the heating, waiting for the windscreen to clear. Business had been good this spring. The sunny days had brought shoppers out to browse the high street, and her clients were putting in reorders every couple of days.

The windows were starting to clear now, and as she thought back to the unopened envelopes on the hall dresser – Good Energy, Virgin Media, the water board – so too did her mind. Handling the bills had always been Pete’s thing – he’d dealt with the finances and she’d done most of the cooking, it had been the way their domestic set-up had functioned for years. But with Pete’s redundancy, both of their roles had changed. What with everything that had been going on with the girls, and taking care of her mum, the truth of the matter was that she hadn’t been keeping track of their spending, and if what the bank manager said was correct, neither had Pete. There might not have even been a transfer. The reality of the situation started to dawn on her. Their money could have, quite simply, slipped away.

She switched on the radio – it was playing the Commodores’ ‘Easy’. She switched it off again. She leaned the side of her head against the car window and rested there a moment. Her plans with Jamie
suddenly seemed a world away.

‘What about this?’ Chloe asked, putting on a cream birdcage veil, studded with pearls.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said, looking at the way her dark ringlets set it off. I reached out to touch the delicate netting. The lady running the stall, who had a distractingly generous, hoiked-up bosom, smiled in agreement. Chloe passed the veil over to me and I held it up against my own hair and looked in the little mirror hung up in front of us. ‘Pretty,’ I said. I looked like a proper bride with the net falling over my face. The detailing lifted it and it was clear it was the genuine article. ‘Original 1930s that one,’ the lady confirmed, before turning to deal with a customer who was trying to force her
large feet into some delicate T-bar shoes.

‘I’m not sure if I want a veil though …’ I said, hanging it back up on the hook a little reluctantly. ‘Is it really me?’ Chloe tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at me a little. ‘Come on,’ I protested. ‘It’s the first stall we’ve stopped at, Chloe,’ I said, defending myself. ‘Give me a chance.’

‘Would a glass of champagne help?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied. It would knock some of my retail hesitation on the head, that was for sure. ‘Wedding dress shopping while drunk,’ I said, laughing, ‘what could possibly go wrong?’

Champagne glasses in hand, we looked out over the vintage fair in the arches of the old Charlesworth railway station. It was just as Chloe had described it, stalls stacked with period wedding dresses, fascinators, handbags and jewellery. When Dan and I first got engaged, I’d dragged Chloe up to London and together we’d schlepped around the shops where patronising shop assistants had shown us endless wedding dresses that were far too flouncy and not my kind of thing at all. I’d ended up a sweaty grumpy mess with nothing to show for our train fares and the day we’d spent looking. So I was grateful to Chloe for bringing me here to the vintage fair. I could already see that the clothes were much more my style, and the pressure was off, without fake-tanned saleswomen insisting that this diamante bodice
or that long net trail would look ‘to die for’ on me.

‘Have you and Dan thought about your first dance yet?’ Chloe asked, taking a sip of the fizz. ‘Because if you haven’t, I’ve had a few ideas,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘I think the—’

‘Nope,’ I said, holding up my hand and laughing, knowing already what she was about to say. ‘Stop right there, Chlo.’ I shook my head. ‘Not the
Dirty Dancing
routine that couple did on YouTube. Don’t even think it.’

‘But …’ she gazed at me imploringly, not believing that she was already beaten on this one.

‘No routines.’ I was resolute but still felt guilty for crushing her vision. ‘But we have got the playlist down to perfection,’ I said. Dan and I had been dancing around the living room the last few evenings, putting on our favourite tracks in turn and fighting our corner to have them added to the DJ set. We each got two chances to veto tunes – I’d said no to Slipknot already, and Dan had put the kibosh on Lady Gaga, despite my desperate pleas. ‘It’s all pretty much sorted, apart from Chris finalising the songs that he wants to play in his set.’

‘But it’s never too late to change your mind,’ Chloe insisted. I raised an eyebrow questioningly. ‘About your first dance, I mean.’ Chloe stepped away from the bar and slipped an arm around my waist, whispering in my ear ‘
I’ve had
…’ She put her champagne flute down and put her other arm around me, ‘…
the time of my liiiiife
,’ she crooned in my ear. I felt her grip on me
tighten.