The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows
JENNI KEER

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Jenni Keer 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Cover [photograph/illustration] © Shutterstock

Jenni Keer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008309718

Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008309701

Version: 2019-05-02

For Mum

A woman whose glass has always been half empty

but who has topped up it up at possibly the lowest point of her life.

I’m so proud of you.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Was it love? It certainly made her feel all tingly, although perhaps that was more to do with his magical fingers than the irrevocable connection between two people destined to spend an eternity having buttock-toning sex and finishing each other’s sentences. Currently those naughty fingers were tracing a delicious trail up her arm, over her shoulder and drawing tiny circles on her neck.

She shivered, despite the blistering August temperatures. The air-conditioning had struggled all week at work, but away from the office and enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon in the quaint Suffolk market town of Tattlesham, the hot sun soaked into her skin and bathed her in joyful expectations of the coming months.

‘Do you realise that skirt is see-through, you little minx?’ said Gareth. ‘Especially when you stand with the sun behind you.’

Maisie sat up abruptly and glanced down at her legs. She was lying on the freshly mowed recreation ground behind the town hall feeling slightly tipsy. Gareth had provided a picnic of sorts (Prosecco and a packet of Hobnobs) and Maisie determined next time she’d be in charge of refreshments. She had a delightful wicker basket at home; she could make tiny sandwiches, bake fresh white chocolate and raspberry muffins, perhaps provide a selection of cheeses, and, of course, bring proper glasses. It was embarrassing drinking from the bottle but Gareth seemed unconcerned.

She smiled at her boss – a man she’d admired from behind the Apple Mac for so long that her neck had adopted as its default position the slight angle necessary to view his delicious face without it being obvious. Suddenly, her tidy, ordered, quiet life had changed. The whirlwind that was a proper romantic relationship brought with it an infuriating chaos but also gave her much-sought-after company. And anyway, she had time to domesticate him.

Hopefully, all the time in the world …

Chapter 2
4 months later

‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Maisie, as she unwound her mile-long knitted scarf, and finally liberated the chunky bright green coat buttons straining across her ample bosom. ‘There were no unpleasant scenes and no hysterical screaming.’ Largely because the screaming and shouting had been conducted in her head.

Nigel peered over to the door, watched as she disappeared back into the hall to hang up her coat, and waited patiently to hear more of the tale.

‘Actually, that’s not true.’ Her golden curls bounced up and down like slinky springs as she returned to the room. ‘Finding Gareth in the basement was a decidedly unpleasant scene.’ She shrugged. ‘So I now have no boyfriend and no job.’ Her sun-soaked expectations of the summer had curled up in a dark corner and were shivering with cold.

That afternoon, she’d been sent down to the archives to research the names of chief brewers from years gone by as the brewery looked to relaunch a historic ale. Entering the basement, she heard the huffing and puffing often associated with lifting down heavier box files from high shelving, but as she got closer, there were an awful lot of squelchy noises that didn’t fit the scenario. The naked bulb hanging from the high concrete ceiling failed to light the back row adequately and, as she turned the corner, she recognised the Hollister polo shirt she’d bought Gareth for his birthday. He was not only showing the new girl from HR around the archives but also giving her a guided tour of his tonsils. Maisie’s world stopped for that moment. She squeaked and dropped her notebook, Gareth turned and flushed traffic-light red, and the young girl slid out from under him and made for the fire exit.

Maisie brushed the unpleasant memories from her cluttered mind as she sat primly in her upholstered armchair. Time to move on, she told herself, and bit back treacherous tears.

Nigel took another nut from the ceramic bowl in front of him and popped it in his mouth. They made eye contact across the low-backed sofa where three aubergine satin cushions were set at precise forty-five-degree angles. The question he hadn’t asked hung in the air between them.

‘I could hardly stay. He’s my boss. Hashtag awkward,’ Maisie said, in her defence. ‘It’s fine. Another job will come along. I might even look for something different. Four years in the same office has been suffocating. You have to pick yourself up and embrace new things.’

Nigel looked momentarily worried, probably because the bowl in front of him was empty, more than an overriding concern for her crummy job and relationship statuses. He shuffled through the tummy-high sawdust, lay on his back and stuck his stumpy legs in the air. Never one for convention, he slid underneath his wheel to place his tiny limbs on the exterior of his well-nibbled exercise device, and a low droning rattle began as he scampered like mad, almost as if his tiny life depended on it.

Maisie Meadows wasn’t a why me? kinda gal. Gareth’s betrayal and her subsequent resignation were both upsetting but not insurmountable. However, as she placed a silver cracker across the solitary white dinner plate, she acknowledged this wasn’t how she’d planned to spend Christmas Day – alone. The original plan, Christmas dinner with Gareth at the local gastropub, had been struck through the calendar with such force the pen had ripped the paper. So, it was just her and Nigel, and he would remain in his cage until after the meal because she didn’t trust him with her Brussels sprouts.

Cutting herself off from Wickerman’s, she had also inadvertently cut herself off from her social life. She no longer wanted to be with the mutual friends she’d shared with Gareth, and because her absolute best friend and sister, Zoe, was as far away from Maisie as she could geographically be, she had no one to discuss her Christmas wish list with or share a laugh about her unrealistic New Year’s resolutions. As if in response to her thoughts, there was a scuffling from the corner of the room. At least she had Nigel.

An expensive Merlot breathed next to the hob, where she steamed a single portion of vegetables. A chicken breast fillet wrapped in maple-cured bacon – like an oversized pig in a blanket – roasted merrily in the oven with four crispy roast potatoes. There was already a half-drunk glass of pale cream sherry on the go and, as she sipped it, the leathery fruitiness added to the festive aromas swirling around the room.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have family. Goodness – she had more than enough to go around. Both parents were still alive and kicking, although should they ever find themselves alone in the same room, the kicking would be seven shades of something unpleasant out of each other. And she also had three older siblings. Problem was, she couldn’t even remember the last time they were all together. Part of it was logistics – they were scattered across the globe – but most of it was more … complicated.

Several years ago, she received separate Christmas dinner invitations from her parents. Not prepared to undertake the forty-mile round trip to keep them both happy, nor to accept one and refuse the other, an amicable solution was reached that had endured ever since. Christmas Eve with Mum (because she did the most fabulous stockings and even at twenty-five Maisie refused to relinquish the tradition) and Boxing Day with Dad and whichever lady happened to be hanging adoringly off his jaunty elbow at the time.

Her smart strawberry kitchen timer buzzed to announce her Mini-Me banquet was ready, so she stood it back on the worktop in a line of matching red appliances. (The kitchen was the first room she’d painted when she moved in the previous year; a study in monochrome with accents of scarlet – she’d even persuaded the landlord to go halves on a beautiful black and white chequerboard floor.) Ten minutes later, she sat down to her seasonal feast, flicked out the pure white linen napkin and let it drift gently down to her knees. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she toasted into the air as she sipped the sweet, plum-flavoured wine and then promptly burst into tears. There’s only so much positivity a person can muster in the face of such life-changing circumstances, especially when emotionally lubricated with a couple of glasses of sherry.

In recent weeks, the television had bombarded her with images of picture-perfect, happy families gathering to share banquet-sized meals of gastronomic perfection. The culinary aspect she could do standing on her wavy blonde head, but where were all the people she cared about? Because there had been a time, many moons ago, when her life had mirrored these saccharine adverts, long before the Meadows family members were scattered to the four winds.

The last family Christmas she could remember, Maisie had been six. Mum had woken at silly o’clock because the ostrich-sized turkey had to go in at half five and then she’d busied herself with table-laying, present adjustment and tree titivation. She always maintained once she was up, she was up. With all the crashing and banging drifting up the stairs, a bleary-eyed Maisie stirred to find Father Christmas had been. Her pillowcase was stuffed with exciting, oddly shaped parcels and the pine-green fabric stocking at the end of her bed was overflowing with sweets and treats. She stumbled her slippered feet downstairs to show everyone her Sylvanian Rose Cottage – which proved what she’d said all along – she had been a good girl this year. (No one knew about the hair-pulling incident at school. Not even Santa, apparently.)

Everywhere she looked there were delicious piles of food. The sideboard was covered in bowls of nuts and crisps, the fridge was bursting at the hinges, saucepans overflowed with pre-prepared veg, and the whole back worktop was loaded with bottles of wine and spirits. But most exciting of all, presents cascaded from underneath the Christmas tree like a waterfall of cheery wrapping paper. (This year, she’d only poked exploratory holes in a couple because she was a big girl now and had learned through bitter experience that anticipation was part of the fun.)

Dad was doing silly dances in a Santa hat and naked-lady apron to the loud music throbbing from the kitchen. Lisa, her eldest sibling, who had been her usual sarcastic and grumpy teenage self all morning, was unusually human by lunchtime – having found some festive joy from somewhere. Her brother, Ben, sat upstairs, contentedly bashing away at his drums. The beats echoed through the house, and even though they weren’t in time to Mum’s cheesy Christmas CD, it was all happy noises and general jollity. Maisie’s morning was spent either sneaking small fistfuls of salted peanuts from the sideboard or flat on her tummy arranging and rearranging Rose Cottage, only getting shouted at once by Lisa, who tripped over her sprawled legs when she came through to flop in front of the television.

Both sets of grandparents arrived in time for lunch, showed great interest in all Maisie’s presents (Granddad even playing board games with her) and then fell asleep en masse in the armchairs after the Queen’s speech – the only truly boring bit of the whole day. Later, the elderly contingent was roused for tea but decided to go home early. Maisie guessed all the excitement and post-dinner brandies were too much for them. Daylight ebbed away, and Zoe, older than her by five years, played with her instead – which was a first as she usually whined that Maisie was too babyish to play with. As Mum laid out another magnificent spread of food that everyone was too full to eat but still managed to devour, Dad took his parents home. Granddad had given up driving when his eyesight started to deteriorate but they lived locally and her dad told Maisie to save him a caramel square as he winked and slipped out the front door. Two hours later, he burst back into the house, laden with surprise presents for everyone and a huge bunch of flowers for Mum. The day was so full on that it seemed to Maisie it had ended almost as soon as it had begun. Lisa disappeared to bed uncharacteristically early, shortly followed by Maisie, who was full of delicious food and totally content. It was, she fondly recalled, how a Christmas Day should be …

Pulled out of her reverie by the buzzing of her mobile on the kitchen worktop, Maisie put down her nearly empty wine glass and walked over to the counter.

‘Merry Christmas, baby doll.’ It was Zoe Skyping across a vast expanse of ocean and continents.

‘Merry Christmas.’ Maisie leaned her bottom on the edge of the worktop, her heart temporarily lifted by Zoe’s beaming face. ‘What are you still doing up? It must be midnight there?’

‘I suddenly realised I hadn’t spoken to you, but now that I come to think of the time zones, you’re probably in the middle of a romantic Christmas dinner with that hot bloke of yours.’

‘Not at all. I’ve always got time for you.’ It wasn’t necessary to bring the mood down with Gareth’s tongue-thrusting exploits.

‘I miss you.’ Zoe reached a hand out to the screen and Maisie mirrored it with her own. ‘It seems ages since your visit.’

The three-week trip to South Australia was one Maisie would never forget even though it nearly bankrupted her. Despite the memorable art gallery, the adorable pandas at Adelaide Zoo and the winery tour in the Barossa Valley, spending intensive, quality time with her sister had only made her miss Zoe all the more upon her return.

‘Who are you chatting to?’ There was a chirpy voice in the background and a man’s mid-section appeared in front of the screen; the yellow cotton T-shirt and dark shorts of her favourite non-family member. The figure bent down and a beaming upside-down face appeared.

‘Cheers.’ A glass of red was waved in her direction. ‘How’s it going?’ Oliver was like a second brother to Maisie – a slightly less grunty and more interactive one.

‘It’s good.’ It was all the positivity she could muster. ‘I’m full of glorious food and about to kick back, pour another glass of wine and toast absent friends.’

‘And absent sisters?’ Zoe said, raising a Martini glass of something that looked far too colourful to be good for the waistline. For the Meadows family, weight, while not a major issue, was certainly something that tended to misbehave if it wasn’t monitored.

‘I shall toast them most of all.’ There was a moment when the two girls looked at each other on their respective screens, glasses aloft, and neither could readily form more words.

‘I promise I’ll be over soon,’ said Zoe.

‘Make sure you are, ’cause I miss you like crazy. Mum still made you up a stocking, you know? Says she’ll post it in the New Year.’

Maisie blew the biggest, most heartfelt kiss into her phone, and hoped her sister couldn’t see the burgeoning tear in the corner of her eye as she ended the call.

Later, with Nigel scampering over the sofa, cheeks so stuffed with pieces of raw vegetable he looked like he’d eaten two ping-pong balls (or possibly two whole Brussels sprouts) Maisie reflected on her day. Childhood memories were taunting her, probably because most of the Merlot was sloshing around in her tummy and there was no one to play Balderdash with. The gaping hole caused by the shifting tectonic plates of Gareth’s deceit was deep and cavernous. The happiest people she knew were those surrounded by family, supportive and ever-present. Surely there was a way she could pull her fragmented family together again to help fill that gap? And, if anyone could gather the scattered Meadows, it was her – largely because she was the only family member everyone was still talking to.

But with two siblings abroad, parents who couldn’t be trusted alone together in any room that contained sharp objects, and another sister who managed to generally rub everyone up the wrong way, it was a seemingly impossible task.

Chapter 3

‘This way, my dear, this way.’

Maisie swallowed. She was only applying for this position at the auction house because it was close to home and the first job advert she’d seen that was vaguely appropriate, so she tried to calm herself by repeating in her head that it was all good practice, regardless of the result. The suitability of the job was questionable but the location – in a tiny village just outside Tattlesham – was perfect.

The ovoid man beckoned Maisie through the front reception area and into a tiny office out the back. He was like an extremely well-dressed hard-boiled egg in his tweed jacket and contrasting waistcoat. Unable to drag her eyes from the broccoli hair (short back and sides, with a crown of glorious silver curls sprouting from the top of his head) and two highly animated and fuzzy eyebrows, she nearly walked into the doorframe. An old-fashioned leather button-back chair stood behind a cluttered mahogany kneehole desk and, for a moment, it was as if she’d stumbled into a Dickensian novel. The man was even wearing a maroon silk cravat, for goodness’ sake.

He followed her startled eyes as they swept the higgledy-piggledy scene before her. A thin shaft of light cut across the room, originating from a small window high up the back wall, and dust motes danced through the beam. A ceiling-height glazed bookcase dominated the side wall, bursting with reference books, and a wobbly stack of the Antiques Trade Gazette stood on the floor – several empty coffee cups balanced precariously on top. Used to a bright, open-plan office, full of light and clean surfaces, this crowded space was anathema to her.

‘Do, pray, excuse the mess. Part of the problem really; too much to do and not enough time to see each thing through to its proper conclusion. We really do need a purge of the accumulated detritus.’

The man beckoned for her to take a seat and he stuck out a plump hand as he finally introduced himself and shook hers vigorously.

‘Johnny.’

‘Maisie,’ she replied and cleared her throat. ‘The advert said you needed someone with marketing experience to help update the website and promote your online presence?’ she said, keen to establish the parameters of the job. ‘I have several years of relevant experience at Wickerman’s Brewery—’

‘Yes, yes, you are eminently qualified, dah-ling.’ Johnny plucked at his corduroy trousers and pulled them up a fraction at the knee, before launching himself recklessly into his chair. It was on castors and slid back behind the desk, coming to a halt directly in front of her. He’s practised that, she thought. ‘However, the crux of the matter is that Theodore, my partner …’

He inhaled and put the fingertips of his left hand to his chest, as if he’d made some dramatic proclamation in a theatre production. Did he expect her to be shocked by this revelation? If his flamboyant wardrobe hadn’t given it away, the way he called her dah-ling, stretching out the word like it was made of elastic, was a bit of a clue.

‘… does not see the need for Twitter and the like. He’s so old-fashioned in many ways – and terribly behind the times. Do you know, his mobile phone is one of those brick-shaped button things that positively went out with the ark?’ He gave an exaggerated roll of the eyes. ‘And as I’m a total imbecile when it comes to anything of the technological persuasion, I decided it was about time we employed someone to drag our frenetically kicking feet into the new millennium – albeit nearly twenty years too late …’

As the interview progressed and Johnny asked a series of probing questions, she reassured her potential employer that social media and company websites were her forte. The eccentric man before her was making her care about this job more than she’d expected.

‘Theodore is away at the moment, flaunting himself in front of television cameras across the land, so I have inaugurated a company shake-up whilst he is in absentia. It simply would not do to sit and dwell.’

‘I agree. Work can be an excellent distraction,’ Maisie said, thinking of her own situation. It wasn’t healthy to brood over things you couldn’t change, like unfaithful loser boyfriends.

‘Lamentably, he will be absent for longer than I anticipated. Apparently, the camera just adores him and he’s been asked to shoot some extra episodes.’ His eyes fluttered towards the ceiling, and Maisie couldn’t help but conjure up a mental image of Theodore as some kind of John Gielgud luvvie, but then chastised herself for perpetuating stereotypes. ‘But time and tide, dah-ling, so with that said, let us take a perambulation around the premises.’ Johnny wriggled to free himself from the confining arms of the chair. ‘Monday is valuation day so do not be alarmed by the proliferation of people. I shall introduce you to every member of our small but dedicated team and if you aren’t bored totally rigid to the point of needing CPR after ten minutes with Arthur, you’ll do for me.’

As they walked into the biting late January air, an attractive, clean-shaven man rushed past and nearly sent her flying.

‘My bad,’ he called as he disappeared down a gap in the buildings, leaving a musky scent and a startled Maisie behind. If he was the sort of customer the auction house attracted then working here might have its perks after all. A boozy New Year’s Eve might have allowed her to set her Gareth-trampled heart free, but a hungover New Year’s Day had brought back the reality of being alone. She longed for the companionship and security that Zoe had with Oliver. Being single was all very well until your ovaries started idly flicking through pension options – not that she was anywhere near that stage, but sand still trickled relentlessly into the bottom chamber of her hourglass. She pulled her coat tighter around her body and waited for Johnny, who’d been caught by the accounts lady on his way out of the office.

At the edge of the car park stood an elderly man leaning on a sack barrow next to a young girl clutching a bundle of folders to her chest. Maisie couldn’t help but notice a small port wine stain across the girl’s left eye and how she turned her face away as Johnny stepped from the building.

Maisie caught the old man’s strong Suffolk accent carried by the breeze. ‘… So, I told her we often have similar things come up and I could keep an eye out and let her know if any appeared, and she said she appreciated that, but it’s really no trouble …’ The girl was taking tiny backwards steps, nodding and trying to extricate herself with the minimum of fuss.

‘… You know as well as I do that there’s no rhyme or reason to what turns up each week,’ he continued. ‘Sometimes I look at the lots and think my Pamela would snap up some of them dainty bits and pieces in an instant. And there’s always weird and wonderful things out the back. Why, only yesterday I helped the lads unload one of them red telephone boxes. Now that’s something that would look lovely in a—’

‘Arthur, my dear fellow, Ella is obviously busy, and totally inappropriately dressed to be standing about in this most inclement weather.’ Johnny turned his head and stage-whispered to Maisie. ‘What is she wearing? An avocado blouse with that ghastly shade of blue?’ The volume of his observation made Maisie feel uncomfortable so she tried to make sympathetic eye contact with the shivering girl, but she was eyes down, staring intently at her elegant knee-high boots. ‘Let her go about her work, please.’ Half-grateful, half-embarrassed, Ella gracefully picked her way across the pot-holed forecourt and stepped into the front office.

‘Sorry, Mr Gildersleeve, sir.’ The old man nodded in deference to his boss. Ah, so that was where the company name came from.

‘Arthur is our head porter,’ Johnny announced, his eyeballs inspecting the insides of his upper eyelids, as if to indicate the job title was possibly inappropriate. ‘And this charming young lady is Maisie. She’s applied for a position in our burgeoning empire and I’m giving her a guided tour of our salubrious premises in an attempt to woo her over.’ Johnny really liked his big words. If nothing else, her vocabulary would expand should she take the position.

‘Right lovely to meet you, Maisie.’ The old man stuck out his hand. As she tentatively reached out, Arthur grasped her fingers, but didn’t let go as he began another verbal ramble.

‘Coming for a job, you say? It would be smashing to have another bright young thing about. We always seem to have more jobs than staff. Everyone is so busy, with barely a moment to pass the time of day.’ There was a small cough from Johnny but Arthur continued, undeterred. ‘If you get the job, and I know you will because I can tell by looking at you what an asset you’d be to the company, come to me for anything you need help with. I’ve picked up an awful lot during my time here and it would be smashing to pass that knowledge on to someone else. Always new objects to research and interesting people coming and going …’

On cue, the clean-shaved man who’d bowled past her earlier appeared briefly in the doorway, bobbing his head around the barn door looking lost. He must be a customer either dropping off items for sale or collecting things he’d bought in the auction the previous week. He caught her eye and grinned. She felt her cheeks burn hot and looked away but no one seemed to notice her discomfort or the bobbing man.

Two porters, one bearded and one bald, appeared from a huge barn, wrestling with a heavy green upholstered sofa that resembled a bathtub.

‘Art Dee-co, that is,’ Arthur said, nodding towards the sofa knowledgeably and stressing the first syllable. ‘Heavier than it looks.’

‘Can you get the door to the storage shed?’ one of the porters panted.

‘Don’t be stressing. I’ll be there presently. And, before I forget,’ he said, turning back to Johnny, ‘I noticed a nice little Moorcroft vase in the sale – Mrs Collins said back in the summer how she was keeping an eye out for them, so I thought I might let her know. She doesn’t make it to the viewings now the weather’s turned nasty. What do you think?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Johnny. ‘Whatever you think best. Anyway, don’t let us hold you up, Arthur.’

The two men rested the sofa on the damp concrete path by a large shed and looked over to Arthur, who ambled towards them, rattling a bunch of keys, as if he had all the time in the world.

‘Head porter, you say?’ Maisie clarified, her forehead creased into a frown, as they walked over to two gigantic farm barns.

‘Don’t ask, dah-ling. Don’t ask.’

Maisie stood in the doorway to Saleroom Two. It was the upmarket version of the larger barn they’d just walked through. Saleroom One held household and modern effects; this was antiques. Both had the large central space divided by trestle tables, strewn with boxes. Larger items, such as furniture, stood around the edge and pictures and rugs hung from the walls.

At the far end stood a glass-fronted cabinet that contained small objects of value, every item proudly displaying a numbered sticker, which Johnny explained was cross-referenced in their printed catalogues. In her efforts to understand the system she looked up the lot number for a pair of silver cufflinks and read the description with a £130–£190 estimate. It seemed a frustratingly vague idea of their value to her.

Having never been to an auction, Maisie was wary of them as a concept. She liked the certainty of wanting an object, knowing its price and being able to purchase it without competition. There were too many elements of chance associated with the random and unstructured nature of bidding for her liking.

Johnny leaned an elbow on the top of the cabinet and ran a hand through his bouncy hair. There was a pause when all she could hear was the echoing footsteps of the porters at the back of the barn.

‘Look, I’ll be brutally honest,’ he said, ‘I’ve only had seven applicants and interviewed three. You are far and away the most impressive candidate and possibly over-qualified for this job. We need marketing skills like yours to help the company grow but you’ll also be asked to lift tables, offer practical help on auction days and even sweep up occasionally.’ His foot toyed with some dead leaves blown in by the wind, letting them crunch beneath his highly polished shoes.

The advert in the local paper had been optimistically worded: Growing firm of Auctioneers seeks individual with marketing and communications skills to contribute to vibrant team. Maisie was beginning to suspect General dogsbody who knows a bit about computers because we’re largely clueless, and who’ll probably be asked to clean the toilets if we’re a man down might be a more accurate job description.

‘However, I promise you won’t have anyone looking over your shoulder or making you account for your movements, and I will genuinely listen to any input and ideas you have. I liked your portfolio, particularly the unusual Wickerman’s beer mats you designed for the Felixstowe Beer Festival. You are clearly creative and focused. But more importantly, I like you.’

For the first time that morning, Johnny looked slightly nervous; tiny beads of sweat forming on his corned beef-coloured brow. He was wringing his hands together and looking intently at her face. ‘So, my darling, I fall procumbent at your alabaster feet, and ask if you are in or out?’

Not quite sure whether being procumbent was a good thing or not, Maisie gazed across the cluttered room of miscellaneous objects, contemplated the joy of a ten-minute commute, and the distinct and welcome lack of potential romantic partners in the workplace.

‘In,’ she said.

Chapter 4

Maisie didn’t regret her impulsive decision to take the job for a moment. It was nothing like working for Wickerman’s and nothing like Johnny had led her to believe, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

For the first week, she shadowed various members of staff because he insisted she got a feel for the place. With an evil north-westerly wind slicing across the forecourt every time she ventured between the salerooms and the offices, bloody freezing was her overriding feeling. Now she understood why so many of the staff wandered around in fingerless gloves and quilted jackets. But somehow even this lifted her spirits. How much more invigorating than sitting at a desk all day, trying to remember to get up and move every half an hour to encourage blood flow and reduce eye strain.

She realised now that even though she’d worked in an office full of people at Wickerman’s, there had been a sense of isolation. Tied to a desk, each person in their own little computer-centric bubble, interaction was sparse. The auction house by comparison was a bustling and varied working environment.

Maisie quickly settled into the weekly routine. Monday, the public dropped off items for sale. Tuesday and Wednesday Johnny dealt with private appointments or left the site to oversee probate valuations. Thursday was a frantic collation of the lots and production of the catalogue – all ready for the sale on Friday. People were invited to view Thursday evening or early Friday morning. No one, with the possible exception of Arthur, paused for breath. And then on Monday, the whole cycle started again.

Maisie was given a desk and a computer in the back office with Johnny and, in amongst the clutter, she created an oasis of calm and order. By the second week, she was keen to put her marketing skills to good use, and her priority was to tackle the dated brand. Simple was the way to go, with a clean GA monogram and a coffee, aqua and teal palette of colours.

‘Oh, you are an absolute darling of the highest magnitude,’ Johnny gushed, resplendent in a double-breasted suit of British racing green, with a cheeky silk handkerchief poking out the left breast pocket. They were gathered in the front office-cum-reception – Maisie showing everyone the new logo and gauging opinion.

‘Ladies, what do we think? I value and indeed actively solicit everyone’s input.’ Johnny turned to Maisie. ‘They are, after all, the frantically paddling legs under the surface of the water, whilst we glide along like the serene and elegant swans that we are. Ella, stop hiding behind the computer screen. Do you not agree Maisie has captured the very essence of Gildersleeve’s? Sophisticated and professional?’

The poor girl coloured up faster than a halogen hob and although Maisie liked the exuberant Johnny enormously, sensitivity and tact were not his forte. She threw what she hoped was a conciliatory smile across the office but the girl didn’t raise her eyes and instead chewed nervously on her bottom lip, reluctant to leave her desk. The glossy mahogany curtain of hair that covered the left side of her delicate face swished as she gave a brief nod.

‘Arthur’s had a slight accident.’ The bearded porter ambled into the reception and Maisie immediately raised a concerned head.

‘What is it this time?’ Johnny sighed. ‘Ran over a customer’s foot with the sack barrow? Dropped a box of crystal glasses? Or got his wretched foot caught in the storm drain again?’

‘No, he’s excelled himself with this one. Locked himself in the men’s toilet cubicle and managed to pull the handle off completely. Apparently he’s been in there nearly two hours. Poor bloke is getting a bit agitated,’ the porter explained.

Johnny let out a long sigh. ‘I know Theodore is terribly fond of him, and it’s largely why I feel obliged to keep him on, but really? He should have retired years ago. Why work here when he could be at home, enjoying his retirement, pottering about the garden, and playing bowls? – or whatever it is old people do.’

What business the staffing of the auction house was to Theodore, Maisie couldn’t possibly imagine and hoped Johnny’s boyfriend wasn’t the sort of person who knew nothing about the business but still waggled his oar about in the company waters as he rowed past.

‘Perhaps Arthur’s wife doesn’t want him under her feet all day?’ ventured the accounts lady.

‘I fear the poor woman more likely craves respite from his incessant chatter,’ said Johnny.

Or he needs the money, thought Maisie, rather more charitably than the rest, wondering how no one, including her, had missed the old man for two hours.

Johnny, Maisie and the porter headed to the gents’, a separate brick building with a corrugated metal roof and a brown tile-effect linoleum floor – draughty but functional. A lick of paint and a big mirror would brighten the place up a bit. Perhaps she’d mention it to Johnny later, although she knew she was volunteering herself for another job.

‘I’m a daft old bugger. The lock jammed. I panicked, used too much force and the knob came off in my hand, but you can take all associated costs out of my wages and dock the two hours’ pay when I wasn’t working. I don’t want to cost the company money.’ His disembodied voice floated over the cubicle, only a pair of scuffed brown Chelsea boots visible under the door.

‘Applying that logic, he’d earn about four pounds fifty a week,’ the porter mumbled.

‘Is the lock screwed to the door?’ Maisie called, trying to find a practical solution to the situation as fast as possible.

‘Well now, let me see … Yes, little cross-head screws,’ came the reply.

‘I’ll grab a Phillips,’ Beardy Man offered and disappeared, returning with the appropriate screwdriver and thrusting it under the gap below the door.

After much huffing and tutting, it became obvious Arthur couldn’t undo the screws with his arthritic hands.

‘That’s it,’ Maisie announced. ‘I’m going over the top. Someone give me a leg up. Stand back, Arthur. I’m coming in.’

‘Oh, dah-ling, you aren’t serious,’ said Johnny. And then another stage whisper: ‘You don’t know what you are going to find …’

She glared at him and he looked slightly abashed, clasping both hands together and bending forward to help her mount the cubicle door by way of an apology.

One exuberant heave and she was half over the top. She leaned forward, shifting her centre of gravity to help propel herself forward. As her legs lifted, her floaty wool skirt slid towards her waist and revealed her sturdy underwear. Was it better or worse, she wondered for that suspended moment, that she was wearing tights?

‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Johnny from the other side, as her kicking legs disappeared over the top. ‘Look away, people. Preserve the dignity of this fair maiden.’ She fell awkwardly to the floor, next to a remorseful Arthur, sitting on the closed lavatory seat, with his head in his hands.

Two minutes later and she’d liberated the pair of them to embarrassing whoops from the porter.

‘Would one of you take the dear fellow to the back office? There’s a comfortable old armchair in the corner somewhere, under a pile of coats. Someone should sit with him for a while and revive his flagging spirits,’ Johnny said.

‘I’ll take him,’ volunteered Maisie. ‘Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you a cup of tea. You could do with one, I imagine.’

Arthur looked over to his rescuer and smiled a watery smile.

‘I’m a silly old fool, aren’t I? Don’t know what my Pam will say.’

‘Nonsense,’ Maisie said. ‘It could have happened to anyone.’

Chapter 5

‘Here’s the camera I was talking about.’ Johnny handed Maisie a large, black digital camera. ‘But you might prefer your i-Thingy to upload pictures. A selection of photographs for the catalogue, focusing on our more lucrative items, if you would be so kind.’

‘Oh – me? Right.’ Maisie was hoping to crack on with updating the website. There wasn’t even a section detailing staff members – a must if they wanted to create a friendly, family feel about the business.

‘Everyone else is so dreadfully busy today. It won’t cause you an unnecessary degree of inconvenience, will it? The lot numbers are already in place, so all you have to do is fly around the saleroom with the speed of Hermes and take some photos of the more interesting pieces. It should be a breeze for someone as capable as your good self.’ Johnny’s round face broke into a charming smile and his fluffy eyebrows gave a little jump. Flatterer, thought Maisie – feeling suitably flattered.

‘I mustn’t linger, for I have a probate valuation in Norwich shortly. Deaths and doddery old dears,’ he joked. ‘Families can’t cope with a lifetime of accumulated possessions and are happy for us to dispose of it all – forever hoping there is an undiscovered masterpiece in the attic or some scandalous and valuable correspondence from an illustrious historical figure deposited in the secret drawer of a roll-top desk.’

‘And is there, ever?’ she asked. ‘A hidden gem that turns around the fortunes of the family?’

‘Closest we ever came was a little Constable sketch. Fetched thousands. The family were so delighted they quite forgot to grieve.’ He winked and slid a gold pocket watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and glanced at it. ‘But I must away – the traffic can be such a bore.’ He tugged on an outsized dark blue Barbour wax jacket, flung the tasselled end of a banana-yellow silk scarf over his shoulder and floated towards the door like an enormous and colourful hot air balloon.

‘And you’re still okay with me rearranging things, to get them looking their best?’ Maisie asked. She’d been itching to play about with the salerooms and put her marketing experience into practice, but was conscious of overstepping the mark.

‘Absolutely, dah-ling. I told you at the interview, you have carte blanche. We are so terribly behind the times. It’s why you got the job. I knew deep in my very soul you would be the restorative tonic this business needs.’

Heaving back the huge door to the first saleroom, Maisie squinted to adjust to the dim interior. The day was sunny and bright but, typical of February, the underlying temperatures were colder than the bottom drawer of a freezer in the Arctic. There was a dusty smell, not unpleasant and reminiscent of old hymn books, the church feel accentuated by the loftiness of the barn ceiling and bare walls. Her eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness and then she walked over to the light switches, allowing the artificial blue-white light to invade the space.

Remembering her lesson from Johnny on how to handle the items (ironically, not by the handle) she took several photographs, marking each item off on the sheet as she did so.

She was halfway down the second aisle when a shiver of something rippled through her. The sensation came upon her so decidedly that she almost stopped mid-step. Her skin danced as a thousand tiny pinpricks exploded over her arms. It was a feeling she’d experienced many years before and one she’d all but forgotten about. Bending down, she pulled out a box of household objects from under a trestle table, the prickles moving up her arms like an army of inchworms. As she rifled through the mismatched saucers and dated kitchen paraphernalia, something at the bottom caught her eye and her heart gave a funny little jolt of recognition. It was a teapot, nestled between a yellow plastic colander and a cake tin – and one that was startlingly familiar.

Kneeling on the cold concrete floor, she carefully lifted out the surrounding contents. With one hand about the body of the teapot and the other keeping the lid secure, she placed it on the trestle table and sat back on her heels.

The china was white but the bold abstract pattern was in black, and it was a good size for a teapot, possibly holding five or six cups of tea. The squiggles and shapes that covered one side and crept over the lid were like jigsaw puzzle pieces, but not quite. And then sections of the pattern tailed off down and round to the predominantly white side – as if pieces of the pattern were drifting away from the whole.

Her heart was beating like Ben’s thudding kick drum. She knew this teapot of old – she was damn sure of it. There was nothing else in the box that matched it – no china that would imply it was part of a set. But then the one she remembered from her childhood had also been a solitary item. Long-forgotten words floated into her brain – words the owner of the teapot had said to her all those years ago, and her heart began a slow tattoo.

‘It isn’t a set any more and my darling teapot so misses her companions.’

Chapter 6

How strange that Meredith Mayhew’s teapot should come up for auction and Maisie should stumble across it. No, strange wasn’t the word; it was disconcerting. Memories flooded back as her thumb traced the pattern around the pot and up the handle. Although not unhappy memories, they sat uncomfortably with her because they took her back to a troubled time in her life nearly twenty years ago …

Meredith Mayhew had lived next door for as long as Maisie could remember. A funny old dear with tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses either perched on her elegant nose or on her aluminium-coloured shampoo-and-set hair. She always had a neatly pressed collar on her polyester print dress or floral cotton blouse, and there was invariably a string of beads hanging under the collar and around her neck. Sometimes jet black like small, shiny olives; sometimes bright red like ripe cranberries; occasionally, on high days and holidays, iridescent pearls. And, like many older ladies of Maisie’s acquaintance, she always smelled of Parma Violets and talcum powder.

There were several years of exchanged pleasantries over the garden fence between Meredith and her mother, often as Maisie tumbled cartwheels across the lawn, or sat cross-legged, threading daisy stems together to make chains whilst her mother hung out a never-ending line of cotton tops, branded jeans and more odd socks than she had pegs for. (How is that growing family of yours doing? Oh, you know. Eating me out of house and home. Cue an eye-roll and a flustered expression. You’re always welcome to pop in for a cup of tea. If only I had the time, Meredith, but I never get so much as five minutes to myself …)

All this changed on a blustery morning in April, as the scampering wind scraped the branches of an overgrown buddleia across the wall outside her bedroom window, even though the day was bright and inviting. A seven-year-old Maisie woke to Zoe perched on the edge of the twin bed, headphones on and staring straight ahead. Competing with the buffeting wind from outside was the sound of someone pummelling on the front door.

‘Come on, Bev. Be reasonable.’ The voice was pleady and distant.

‘I’ll give you sodding reasonable,’ her mother’s voice shrieked from the hall. Bleary-eyed and half-asleep, Maisie stumbled out of her bedroom to witness her irate mother launching a brown leather shoe out the landing window – three black sacks of clothes and books at her slippered feet.

‘Owww. That got me across the shoulder. Look what you’re doing, woman.’ Her dad’s troubled voice floated in through the open window and across to a bemused Maisie. What was Daddy doing on the outside?

‘It was meant to land smack bang across your lying, cheating mouth and break a few of those perfect teeth of yours,’ her mother yelled, pulling back a Russian shot putter’s arm, pausing to take considered aim, and launching its companion on a similar trajectory. Open-mouthed, Maisie watched as her mother heaved up one of the sacks and tipped the contents out the window, giving the bag a final shake, before it was caught by a gust of wind and carried into the stratosphere.

‘And I’m changing the locks. You’ll have to find somewhere else to live because you aren’t welcome here any longer.’

‘Why does Daddy have to live somewhere else?’ Still in her Hello Kitty pyjamas, Maisie returned to her bedroom to ask Zoe what the confusing scene was all about – it was Saturday so neither Lisa nor Ben would surface until the afternoon. Zoe wasn’t quite a teenager like her older siblings but she was at high school so practically a grown-up. She kissed boys and everything.

‘He’s got this … friend that Mummy doesn’t like. In fact, she’s only just found out about her. But it’s complicated,’ Zoe sighed.

Maisie thought about this for a moment and her eyes expanded as she processed the information and its consequences. Inwardly, she resolved to steer clear of that new girl in her class. All showy-offy and sly. Mummy wouldn’t like her at all.

The verbal warfare continued through the open window as her mother stomped backwards and forwards along the landing, scouring the house to seek out all vestiges of her husband. The lawn was now a colourful and abstract display of one man’s possessions as the owner chased loose sheets of paper across lawns and pavements. Amused neighbours gathered at the edges of their gardens, intrigued by the spectacle, as he repeatedly begged his wife to let him in.

But the lady was not for turning. Her father eventually scraped together his scattered belongings from the front lawn and drove off in his company car. And Meredith Mayhew, who had remained inside for the duration of the showdown, opened her front door, walked purposefully down to the road, U-turned up her neighbour’s drive and gave the front door three sharp knocks. It was opened by, Maisie’s sobbing mother, floundering around in a world that had collapsed overnight, and in which she was now bereft of adult companionship.

‘The offer of tea still stands. The kettle is on and we only have to talk if you want to.’

‘I’d like that,’ her mum replied between sobs, and the older lady ushered her down the front path with Maisie trotting behind, determined not to lose both parents during the course of a morning.

Meredith’s house was the semi attached to their house. Everything was mirrored. And considerably tidier. And smelled less like stinky socks and overused deodorant. As she walked into the kind lady’s living room, Maisie felt all fuzzy and peculiar – a bit like when you had to stand up in assembly and talk to the whole school, and were worried everyone would stare and laugh. She sat on the edge of the floral-patterned sofa, her small feet barely reaching the Chinese rug that covered the centre of the room. Maisie crossed her chubby legs in front of her and then uncrossed them again. They sat in silence for a few moments until Meredith reappeared with a tray.

‘Drink this,’ Meredith ordered, picking up a curious black and white teapot and pouring a steaming stream of dark brown tea into a dainty cup. The tulip-shaped cups and saucers matched each other, but didn’t match the pot – Maisie always noticed things like that. ‘It will take the edge off things, Beverley. I promise.’

Unable to drag her eyes from the teapot, Maisie felt the pricklings become more intense. Meredith looked across at her as Maisie stared, transfixed, and rubbed her small hands up to her shoulders and down to her elbows.

‘Are you okay, dear?’ she asked, returning the teapot to the tray. Maisie’s wide eyes followed her movements, as if hypnotized.

‘Um …’

‘Can you feel something?’ She bent over the little girl, her voice breathy and excited. ‘Gamma used to go all peculiar and tingly whenever she brought out this tea set. She was so insistent it was like a family and should be kept as a whole. “Split the set; split the family,” she used to say. It had been in our family several generations, so she was very attached to it. But then it isn’t a set any more …’ The old lady looked sad, Maisie noticed. ‘And my darling teapot so misses her companions.’

Maisie shook her head but kept her lips firmly pressed together, not wanting to be associated with a mad, old and long-dead relative of Meredith’s. There was something funny about the teapot, but at seven, she couldn’t even begin to articulate what it might be. And with two grown-ups both staring at her, she wasn’t inclined to try.

Maisie uncrossed her arms and stared down at her blue T-Bar canvas shoes.

‘I think we’ve all got rather more on our minds than a silly old teapot – no offence,’ her mum sniffed.

‘Of course. I suppose I always wanted to believe there was something unworldly about the teapot or even that I might feel it too …’ Meredith’s voice tailed off and she placed it back on the tray.

Maisie’s mum lifted the delicate bone china cup to her trembling lips, eyes red-rimmed and posture defeated, and half-sipped, half-choked on the scalding tea.

And a silent seven-year-old Maisie tried to ignore the continued prickling sensation, as she watched the pain drain from her mother’s face and her hunched-up shoulders relax.

‘Wow,’ said her mum. ‘You’re not wrong, Meredith. That tea is remarkable.’

Chapter 7

The saleroom find unnerved Maisie for the remainder of the day. It opened a chapter of memories she’d not allowed herself to dwell on for many years. The divorce had been difficult and drawn-out but the children were shielded to a degree. Ultimately, the Meadows siblings knew they were loved by both parents; Mum’s love a daily dose of kisses to heal grazed knees, broken teenage hearts and academic disappointments. Dad’s love demonstrated by the fun activities he did with them every weekend, facilitated by his bulging wallet. His magnetic personality made him a delight to be around. But then everyone who came across David Meadows fell under his spell. His monumental charm was used to great advantage at work – hence the healthy finances – but more destructively with the female population of the planet – hence the divorce.

Despite a busy afternoon setting up social media accounts for the company, Maisie felt called back to look at the teapot before she left for home – the blissful ten-minute commute still a novelty. As she wandered towards the centre of the barn, Johnny bumbled in. The pricklings had started as soon as she walked up the middle aisle.

‘How are you doing, most magnificent of marketing executives?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together and blowing over them, trying to summon a warming flow of circulation from somewhere. ‘Found something interesting?’ He wandered over to where she was prodding about in the box.

‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘It’s this teapot …’ She lifted it out and held it aloft.

Johnny peered over the steel rims of his spectacles. ‘Part of a household clearance from last week. These boxes of odds and sods don’t fetch much. Five to ten, at best.’

‘But it’s so unusual …’

‘Not really. Hip-hop design, probably mid-Eighties – not at all my cup of Darjeeling.’ A frisson of distaste rippled through him. ‘At home, I’m classic Wedgwood all the way.’

Not wanting to correct her boss, who clearly knew his vintage ceramic onions, Maisie frowned. She thought the teapot was significantly older than that. Meredith had told her it belonged to her mother, and her grandmother before that. It had stuck in her mind at the time because she couldn’t imagine Meredith ever being young enough to have a mother, and certainly not that mother having a mother.

‘I like it,’ said Maisie, more to herself than to Johnny. ‘My kitchen has a monochrome theme. It would look lovely on the corner display shelf near the window. Everything is black, white or a cheery bright red.’

‘Ah, a girl who co-ordinates. Perhaps you won’t get on with our Theodore as much as I hoped.’ A little sigh escaped from his full lips. ‘I’ve never before met a man who embraced such a mismatch of colours and styles. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose, just to wind me up. As for the teapot – nothing to stop you placing a written bid, dah-ling. Your money is as good as the next man’s.’

‘I might,’ Maisie said, but she knew in her heart she would because it was destined to belong to her.

‘Whilst you’re about it, put a bid on these ridiculous and vulgar garden ornaments.’ He pointed his highly polished toe at a box of six-inch-high garden gnomes. As she studied them more carefully she noticed they weren’t undertaking the usual gnomish activities such as fishing and wheelbarrow-pushing. These gnomes were engaged in more dodgy pastimes; pole-dancing, naturist sunbathing (with alarming anatomical detail) and a variety of other unpalatable, largely naked, pursuits.

‘Who on earth will want these monstrosities, I simply cannot imagine.’

Maisie thought it was funny – not only the thought of someone displaying them in their garden but also Johnny’s obvious discomfort and abject horror at their very existence.

‘Oh, I don’t know. You could make a feature of them,’ she joked, her face deadpan. ‘Or give them as Christmas presents to the people you don’t like. In fact, I can picture them dotted along my flower border.’

One of Johnny’s haystack eyebrows came out to play. It bobbed above his spectacles and stayed there. ‘Really?’ he huffed in disbelief. ‘Well, it takes all sorts, I suppose.’

Placing her soft leather house shoes neatly outside the door to her tiny spare room, Maisie stepped inside and onto the plastic sheeting. Everyone had a hobby and most people happily talked to others about the activities they engaged in during their free time. Maisie didn’t talk about her pastime much. She didn’t want to be judged for indulging in something so … unregulated, but she got far more satisfaction from this than she ever did from alphabetizing a bookcase or ironing the bed linen.

Pulling her long hair back into a ponytail and placing a one-and-a-half-metre-square board in the centre of the room, she grabbed a tube of vivid violet acrylic paint, took a deep breath, focused, and with a ferocious sweep of the arm sprayed a satisfying run of paint across both board and floor.

It felt amazing.

As she added to her creation, grabbing more tubes and squirting them just as wildly, a glorious array of colours emerged on the floor before her. The greens and purples seeped into one another, wild and untamed, and her heartbeat began to accelerate.

She flicked on her iPod and the docking station speakers pumped loud rock music into the room. A further frenetic burst of activity followed; dripping and smudging, flicking and scraping. A damp rag in her left hand was used to wipe clean the brushes and spatulas and, as she reached the crescendo with a forceful thumbprint on the bottom right-hand corner, her hands.

If the resulting mess hadn’t been such a rainbow of colours, the room would have resembled a horrific and brutal murder scene. Daubs of true ochre were on her cheek and spatters of black plum had caught the skirting board. (She’d promised the landlord this room would be totally redecorated should she leave, but then he was so delighted with what she’d done to neaten up the tiny garden that he hadn’t made a fuss about her messy pastime.)

Now that, she thought to herself, was intensely satisfying. Although the paints had very little odour, she walked over to open the window and let in some fresh air. Her abandoned mobile buzzed and her brother’s name flashed up.

‘Benjamin Meadows. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ she said, running the back of her hand across her sweaty brow and inadvertently streaking herself with pistachio mint.

‘Sis …’ Whilst not everyone could be as verbose as Johnny, her brother rather took it to the other extreme.

At thirty-three, he was the perennial teenager who’d ambled through life with minimum effort. He didn’t have far-reaching ambitions or crave great wealth. He was happy with a Beef and Tomato King Pot Noodle and a four-pack. Luckily for him, his high-school band had picked up a few gigs as he’d drifted through sixth form and things took off unexpectedly. In their heyday, they’d even opened for Quo and were consistently massive in Bulgaria. Although perhaps not to Ed Sheeran proportions, for the last fifteen years it had earned him a moderate living. Consequently, he’d never had to attend a formal interview in his life and had bypassed the need to get to grips with the structure of a proper sentence.

‘How’s the tour?’ she said, to kick-start the conversation.

‘Good.’ There was a pause. ‘Mum said you’d given Gareth the heave-ho?’

Maisie was one of the few people who understood that below Ben’s thick veneer of not giving a flying ferret about the world, beat the heart of a man who noticed things – little things. She wouldn’t hear from him for weeks at a time, but when there was cause for concern or even celebration (like the bunch of flowers that arrived the day after she got her A-level results), he came through for her. It was often under false pretences, as if he couldn’t bear anyone to know how much he cared, but it was apparent to Maisie now he was checking in to see if she was okay after Mr Two-Timing Pants had betrayed her.

‘I felt hurt at the time but he wasn’t right for me – I see that now. I trusted him. I gave my heart to him. And he stabbed it with a pickle fork. Fundamentally, I think—’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t need the gory details or to talk emotions and stuff. Just checking you don’t want me to thump him for you.’ From across the Channel, it would have to be one hell of a left hook. ‘So, up to much?’ He’d satisfied himself she wasn’t about to launch herself off a high-rise and was making an effort at small talk, but his social skills were nanoscopic.

Maisie swallowed and looked at the paint-encrusted canvas on the floor. ‘Oh, you know me. Running the hoover around and combing the grass,’ she joked. She couldn’t possibly divulge her hobby to Ben. How could she insist washing was hung on the line in colour groups and size order, or that every pen in her desk-tidy at Gildersleeve’s was the right way up, when her spare room looked like Mr Creosote had eaten his last wafer-thin mint at her desk? She returned to the centre of the room but there was a squelching sound as her bare foot landed in a puddle of blue. ‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask if there’s any chance of you popping back to the UK soon? I’ve decided we need to do more family stuff together.’

He snorted down the line. ‘You ARE yanking my chain? It would be like trying to organise a social outing for a pride of lions and herd of gazelles. You can count me out.’

And as a blob of crimson red dribbled down the wall, so did Maisie’s hopes.

Chapter 8

Maisie quickly found her auctioneering feet and began to make wholesale improvements to Gildersleeve’s. She mentioned the possibility of bringing in a mobile coffee shop to keep the bidders fed and watered but Johnny was one step ahead. Planning permission for a small café at the end of the car park was already in place and work was due to start in the spring.

She embarked upon a serious clean and tidy of the salerooms, an area Arthur struggled with, admitting Pam had always done the housework and it really wasn’t his forte. Once the barns were more presentable, she experimented with dressing the barn. She laid a dinner service out on a dining table that was in the sale and knew it made both lots look so much more appealing. With Arthur’s help, she dragged a sofa and two non-matching armchairs into a horseshoe, placing a glass-topped nest of tables in the middle, and arranged some ornaments on the low tables.

Johnny wandered in, clutching the digital camera, and stopped in front of the homely arrangement.

‘Oh, magnificent work, young lady. Why we did not have the perspicacity to think of such an ingenious yet simple idea, I do not know. So embarrassingly obvious now I give it thought.’ He stuck out a plump hand to shake hers vigorously.

‘I’m glad you approve,’ she said, hoping people could now envisage the items in their homes and that would increase their appeal. As an added benefit, it would improve the catalogue photos and make Gildersleeve’s look more like an upmarket antique shop and less like a bargain warehouse.

‘I do indeed, my little budding Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen. Talking of which, a couple of interesting items came in late this morning and I’d like them photographed. The lot numbers are on the sheet and I’m certain you’ll whiz through them in no time,’ Johnny said. He thrust the camera at her and words such as ‘inspired’ and ‘marketing genius’ tumbled from his lips. Whizzing wasn’t the word she’d use. It took longer than you thought to take decent photographs but she was again suitably flattered so didn’t protest.

Saleroom Two was peaceful and she worked undisturbed, glad of her extra layers as the industrial oil-fired heaters struggled to keep the hangar-like space warm. There were plans afoot to update the insulation of both barns – also scheduled for the better weather – so sturdy thermal knickers and thick black tights under her smart trousers were the order of the day.

As she stood back to get a shot of an Edwardian wardrobe, she heard footsteps echo down the far end and looked across the barn to see a dark figure moving about. Letting the camera hang from her neck by the strap, and giving her hands a quick rub in an attempt to get some blood flowing back into her stiff fingers, she walked up to see if it was one of the porters. Perhaps they could help shuffle the wardrobe forward into the light. She was toying with hanging a Nineteen-Fifties faux fur coat inside and taking the photo with the door ajar, to give it a Narnia-esque appeal.

An unshaven young man, wearing a thick-knit striped woolly hat, and a shabby camel-coloured duffel coat, was behind the glass cabinet. Johnny had left it unlocked as she needed access to a couple of the lots.

‘Excuse me,’ she called, getting closer now and realising he was sliding the cabinet door open. Some of the most valuable pieces were kept in there; this week they included a selection of Victorian enamel brooches, a couple of pocket watches and a gold sovereign. Exactly the sort of easily pocketable items opportunistic thieves went for and exactly why they had the lockable cabinet. Arthur had told her earlier they’d had a spate of thefts before Christmas. The staff at Gildersleeve’s wore many hats and it seemed security guard was yet another they were expected to wear – especially the porters, who prowled the salerooms with friendly smiles but beady eyes.

‘Viewings are Thursday evenings and Friday mornings.’ Maisie used her PowerPoint-presentation-giving voice – clear and with assumed authority. ‘The salerooms aren’t open to the public at the moment.’

The figure ignored her, continuing to slide the door back and reach inside. He clearly thought she wasn’t a threat. Arthur said the pre-Christmas thieves were so self-assured, no one thought to challenge them. They had the balls to carry a fifty-inch screen TV out the saleroom, with everyone assuming they were either staff or customers. Was this scruffy man brazening it out with her, knowing full well he was stronger and faster, and she was unlikely to try anything physical? Where the heck were the porters? She cast a nervous glance around. They were normally wandering about, moving furniture or stickering up recently delivered lots.

‘Morning,’ the untidy chap said, several days’ worth of pale stubble scattered across his chin. ‘Nice selection this week. The half-hunter pocket watch should fetch a bit. I’m hoping to get at least three hundred for it.’ He slid the cabinet door shut, the watch still in his hand, and turned to walk towards the back door.

The cheek of the man. Not only was he stealing from them but he was also shamelessly informing her of his plans to sell the items once he’d made off with his loot. Well, not on her watch – pun intended. Maisie lifted the camera strap over her head and laid it gently on the glass top. He continued to head for the back door, and without pausing for thoughts of his size, her gender, or her zero knowledge of any form of self-defence, she launched herself at his back with grunting tennis player sound effects, clinging to him like a baby koala clinging to its mother’s back as she scaled the lofty eucalyptus trees.

‘DROP THE POCKET WATCH, YOU THIEVING BASTARD!’ she screamed, as loud as her squashed lungs would let her. And as an afterthought: ‘Help! We’re being robbed.’ The pair of them tumbled to the ground, the man’s knees hitting the concrete floor with an unpleasant crunch. She gave him an elbow in the side for good measure and heard a muffled oomph from the face-down woolly hat. A not entirely unpleasant waft of pine soap and musky aftershave drifted past. Were shoplifters allowed to smell this appealing? Shouldn’t they smell of stale alcohol and used ten-pound notes?

It was only as they lay together in a wriggling heap, that it occurred to Maisie he might be armed – carrying a knife or even a gun. But within a microsecond of her piercing yells, the back door of the barn was flung open, a bitter February wind slicing through the air, and several people burst in, including a heavily panting Johnny. His hands fell to his mustard, corduroy-covered knees as he took in the tangled bodies before him.

Her squirming quarry gave up his futile struggles and lifted his head to face the assembled crowd, standing in a concerned semicircle looking down at the pair of them.

‘Theodore, dah-ling.’ Johnny sounded most puzzled. ‘What on earth are you doing to the new girl?’

Chapter 9

Theodore? As in Johnny’s partner? Hashtag Endofpromisingcareer. Maisie rolled off the man and onto her bottom.

‘She hit me! Really hard,’ Theodore said, as he lifted his head from the floor, the knitted hat now slipped down half over one eye. He put a hand to his head and tugged it back, enabling him to throw Maisie a dirty look. Now she thought about it, he looked vaguely familiar …

‘I … I thought he was stealing from us,’ she blustered.

‘Oh, bless you and your misguided company loyalty,’ Johnny said, offering his arm to Maisie, who heaved herself from the floor and brushed down her dusty knees.

‘This is Maisie?’ Theodore asked, looking at Johnny and waving a vague hand in her direction. ‘The one you were interviewing when I was on my way to the studios last month? You said you’d employed an extra pair of hands, not a bloody guard dog.’

Could this man be the clean-shaven figure who had caught her attention a couple of weeks ago? This man was more stubble than skin. No wonder she hadn’t made the connection.

‘This is indeed she.’ Johnny put out the same burgundy velvet arm to help Theodore to his feet.

‘She whacked me really hard in the guts,’ Theodore grumbled, rubbing his left side.

‘Maisie was multi-tasking, dah-ling – photographer, marketing whiz and guard dog.’

‘I. Am. So. Sorry,’ she said. ‘I honestly didn’t know who you were.’

‘Don’t sweat it,’ Theodore sighed. Having recovered from the assault he was beginning to see the funny side. He gave a lopsided smile and a tip of the head. ‘Even Johnny didn’t know I was coming back in to work today.’

‘You work here?’ Maisie couldn’t stop her mouth from falling open.

Theodore looked over to Johnny. ‘You didn’t tell her about me? Bloody hell, mate. I’m only the most important person in the whole company. I’m the media superstar. I’m the draw.’ He said all this is a most un-superstar way, Maisie noticed. And yet … there was something beguiling about this untidy, mismatched young man. Something that drew you in. Was it the moss-green eyes, or that enchanting lopsided smile? He tugged the hat from his head and an indefinable mass of springy, fair, afro-textured hair sprung up like a very small, very thick sheepskin rug.

Or perhaps it was the extraordinary hair.

Not sure whether he was exaggerating for her benefit, or whether he truly was in that much pain, every time Maisie came across Theo (it transpired only Johnny used his full name) for the remainder of the day, he limped like someone with a shoe full of acorns. Mind you, he’d really thudded into that concrete …

Arthur was on clouds nine, ten and eleven, and unable to conceal his Cheshire-cat grin.

‘I didn’t think he was coming back until tomorrow so I was really made up when he knocked on my door this morning and asked if I wanted a lift to work. We live in the same part of town, you know? And he’s always looked out for me, even before this job came up. Turned out they were absolutely desperate for someone with my skills, even though I thought I was on the proverbial scrapheap. Wonderful really, that I’m still useful to someone, especially as I often say to our Pam that I passed my prime many moons ago. Naturally, I said yes to the lift because I’ve really missed him. He’s such a good boss …’

‘Boss?’ interrupted Maisie, who was half-listening, as she tapped away on the keyboard at her now thoroughly organised and totally business-like desk. Unlike Johnny, who still spent five minutes looking for his ringing phone under all the papers, if she needed a spare USB cable or an orange highlighter, she could lay her hands on both in seconds.

She was designing an ‘About Us’ section for the website – especially as she now needed to add another member of staff. Why the original website hadn’t included any details about the employees was beyond her. Her experience taught her it was people and animals that got the most attention in any marketing campaign. And she was beginning to realise it was the people who made Gildersleeve’s special so they should be actively promoted along with all its other attractions.

‘Well, yes. He’s like a sort of manager, I suppose. Deals with all the day-to-day stuff. Didn’t you know?’

No she jolly well didn’t – she hadn’t even known he was an employee until that morning. Johnny was drip-feeding important information about her job – information that could have saved her considerable embarrassment and her manager from unprovoked grievous bodily harm.

Arthur barely paused, not needing any verbal responses from his audience. ‘Everything will be rather more ship-shape now he’s back. Don’t get me wrong, Johnny’s a wonder, but we were all so surprised that the Wot a Lot! crew wanted Theo – particularly Johnny, who between you and me rather fancied himself as a charismatic, less orange, David Dickinson figure. But they insisted on our Theo – and why wouldn’t you? They said he had great visual appeal and the researcher I spoke to thought he’d pull in a younger audience, particularly the females.’

‘But isn’t he a bit erm … untidy for television? Don’t they want experts in suits with clipped accents and neatly combed hair?’

‘Nonsense. Look at them popular characters on the telly, like Columbo?’ The reference meant nothing to Maisie. ‘The public loves quirky.’

‘Johnny’s quirky. Theo’s a bit … scruffy.’ And that was her being polite. She knew it was wrong to stereotype but the majority of gay men she’d come across had been immaculately turned out. Theo’s jeans weren’t distressed, they were positively traumatised, and the hand-knitted jumper he was sporting was so misshapen, she couldn’t be sure which member of the animal kingdom it had been knitted for – possibly a rhinoceros. No wonder she’d mistaken him for a ne’er-do-well, loitering around the back of a dimly lit saleroom.

‘To my way of thinking, Johnny is a caricature of himself,’ Arthur said. ‘And twiddly moustached, eccentric antiques experts are ten a penny. Handsome, young, wiry-haired men full of charm sporting a pair of sparkly eyes – now that’s going to get the pulses of the female audience racing.’

And possibly about five per cent of the men, she conceded. Although Maisie’s encounters with Theo had been less than positive, she saw Arthur’s point. She could quite understand Johnny being too much of a handful for TV. The flowery language and ostentatious clothes had been done by other so-called experts, and possibly more successfully.

‘Theo really knows his stuff, you see? Everyone expects antiques experts to be as old as the items they’re valuing but our Theo has nearly fifteen years of experience under his belt. If I had a pound for the number of times clients have come in here and asked to speak to one of the experts, thinking Theo was a junior member of staff … But oh, those patronising faces soon vanish when they realise he knows what he’s talking about. I take my cap off to him, and Johnny come to that. Have you seen the mind-boggling range of things we handle? Everything from pushchairs to antiquarian books. And they have to know about it all – the history, the value and the current market.’

‘Ah, there you are, Arthur.’ Theo appeared in the doorway and slouched a hip against the architrave, two empty coffee cups dangling from a curled forefinger. The knitted hat was back on, his sheepskin hair wrestled into its woolly confines, and he had a look of nonchalance about him. ‘Keeping our resident pit bull from her work?’

‘No, no,’ Arthur protested, ‘I was telling her how much I admired you and Johnny, and how knowledgeable you both are.’

Theo smiled. ‘I know, old boy. I’m teasing.’

‘Let me take those cups for you, sir. I’ll rinse them out.’ The cups were removed from Theo’s fingers before Arthur had finished speaking and the old man disappeared kitchen-wards.

‘I wish he’d stop with the sir thing. It’s embarrassing,’ Theo said, still leaning at an I’ve Got Nothing Better To Do And All The Time In The World To Do It angle.

‘It’s a form of respect,’ Maisie said. ‘He’s from an age where hierarchy mattered more than it does today. It’s endearing. Whilst I’ve got you …’ She efficiently saved the piece she was working on and slid her chair back. ‘Can I take a photo of you for the website?’

Theo gave his wonky grin. ‘Snap away.’

‘What, now? With the hat?’ Maisie asked.

‘Yeah, sure, with the hat.’

‘Oh, okay, if it’s your thing.’

‘My thing? It keeps my head warm. Are trousers and jumpers your thing?’ There was a slow curl of the lip, as he continued to lean in a lackadaisical manner against the doorframe.

‘I meant, if you think more people will recognise you with it on. I want the friendly and informal nature of the company to come across on the website.’ She’d expected him to remove the hat, but now she thought about it, marketing Gildersleeve’s as a company of smartly dressed businessmen was missing the point. ‘It’s one of our strengths.’

‘You’re not going to plaster my mug shot all over social media though, are you? Johnny’s been banging on about our inadequate online presence for months but I’m rather more cautious when it comes to the power of the internet. It can make and it can break.’

‘Not if you don’t want me to. But don’t underestimate it as an advertising tool. And posts with people in always garner more likes than those without. We found that at the brewery.’

‘Ah, yes. Johnny told me you were a high-flying marketing assistant at Wickerman’s. Don’t know why you left a cushy number like that to come and work here? The promotion prospects aren’t great. And the canteen pretty much consists of that dodgy-looking biscuit tin in reception.’

‘It was a personal move.’ She shrugged. ‘Not every life decision has to be based on material or hierarchical gain.’

Both his eyebrows bobbed up to greet the hat. ‘Couldn’t agree more. Go on then. Snap away.’

‘And you’re sure you don’t want to um, freshen up?’

‘Nah. What you see is what you get. Crumpled shirt and all.’

She pulled the camera out from the low drawer in her tidy and ordered desk and put the flash on to compensate for the low light levels.

‘Macaroni cheese,’ he said. The button clicked a few times – she wanted to make sure she got a decent shot – and she let the camera drop. Their eyes held for a few moments until it became obvious neither had anything to say. Theo coughed as she bowed her head and began to scroll through the images.

‘Anyway, I came here for Arthur and he’s scuttled off. I need some help with shifting a dresser.’

‘Get one of the others to help,’ the accounts lady called from the front office. ‘They’re younger and stronger.’

Theo twisted his head back over his shoulder. ‘No, it’s Arthur I need. He’s the best in the business.’

On cue, Arthur shuffled back into reception and a wide grin spread across his wrinkled cheeks as he caught the end of the conversation. ‘Right you are, sir. I’ll be there straight away. I know we were mid-chat, Maisie, but I’m needed by the boss,’ Arthur apologised, and Maisie nodded a disappointed but understanding nod.

As they disappeared, Maisie uploaded the photo of Theo and her stomach flipped as she studied his twinkly green eyes and wide smile. She flapped the open neck of her blouse in an attempt to cool a sudden rush of heat from nowhere. Yep, she totally understood where the Wot a Lot! researcher was coming from …

Chapter 10

Staff were required to stay until eight for Thursday night viewings, so there was no time to artistically express her pent-up emotions in the spare room when she finally arrived home that night. After her unintentional assault on Theo, the consequent shake-up of her contented little work bubble and the complicated feelings she couldn’t quite decipher for her new boss, she had a burning desire to splash a lot of flare red about and then smear some sharp lines of black through the whole lot.

The following day was sale day. Friday was always the best day at any job but at Gildersleeve’s it was more so. It saw the culmination of all the hard work throughout the week, and buzzing staff milling about the premises as items hit higher prices than expected and nail-biting bidding wars played out in the salerooms. Maisie was particularly excited about this week’s sale because Meredith’s teapot was one of the lots.

After offloading her embarrassing day on to Nigel, she wandered upstairs in search of a book that had occupied her thoughts since she’d stumbled on Meredith’s box of miscellaneous kitchenalia. When she was younger, it had lived under her pillow and only when she was certain Zoe was asleep, would she sneak her pink torch out from the bedside table drawer and take both book and torch deep under the covers. She knew the book so well she hadn’t looked at it much in recent years, but with thoughts of Meredith flooding her head, it was suddenly important for her to physically hold it again.

It was where she knew it would be, amongst the oversized volumes and nestled between a photography manual and a guide to logo design. Sometimes it was hard deciding whether to sort according to subject matter or size. Or – if she had her way and as impractical as it was – colour.

Flicking through the familiar pages, her hand tracing the images within, she realised the teapot and this book were so inextricably linked, that she simply must be the winning bidder on sale day. After all, it was her curiosity about the teapot that had led Meredith to give her the book in the first place.

‘Why does your pot only have a pattern on one side?’ Maisie asked Meredith, tipping her seven-year-old head to one side and drawing in her eyebrows as she’d seen her teacher do when she wanted the children to know they had her full attention.

Since Mummy and Daddy had decided to live apart (although Maisie was pretty sure Mummy had done most of the deciding) Maisie and her mum often popped in on Meredith in that delightful slice of the afternoon between walking back from school and the number fourteen bus dropping off her rowdy older siblings – when all peace and order was irrevocably shattered.

Maisie was the baby of the house. Her brother and sisters were born within five years, and then there was a gap of another five before she was even thought of – if indeed she’d been thought of at all. It meant she always felt slightly apart from the cluster. So with a houseful of hormonal teenagers, high-pitched screaming and the reverberating echoes of a drum kit being thrashed to within an inch of its life, Maisie trotted behind her mother whenever there was an offer of tea and sympathy next door. It was either sit in a strange old lady’s house and listen to boring grown-up conversation, get caught in the cross-fire of squabbling teenage girls playing tug-of-war with a much coveted halter-neck top, or get shouted at by Ben for walking in front of the PlayStation 2 screen.

Meredith smiled. ‘I suppose it does look rather unfinished. Almost as if the person painting it got bored and went off to do something else. But then that’s what I like most about it. It isn’t uniform or conventional.’

Grown-ups really used ordinary words in the most surprising of places. The only uniform Maisie knew anything about was the mustard-yellow polo shirt and bottle-green jumper she had to wear to school. She felt like a plate of salad in those dumb colours.

‘Gamma loved that it wasn’t dotted with pink flowers like every other tea service around. And yet my mother hated it for those very reasons. Drab old set, she would say. No colour on the damn thing at all. But things don’t have to be colourful to be beautiful. Think of black and white photographs – considerably more atmospheric than colour. And how striking a zebra is when compared to a horse. What do you think, Maisie?’

Even at her young age, she could tell Mrs Mayhew was a retired teacher. She was good at explaining things, would ask Maisie questions that made her think and often actively sought her opinion. Grown-ups normally didn’t care what she thought. If they did, Daddy would still be living at home.

Maisie put her best thinking face on to show her neighbour she was adult enough to take this question seriously – this time she allowed her eyebrows to rise up her forehead in a considered manner. Eyebrows, she noticed, did a lot of talking.

‘I love Lisa’s black and white stripy dress. I think she looks super cool. But colours are fun too. I like Coca-Cola because it’s in red shiny cans—’

‘Not that she drinks lots of fizzy drinks, Meredith,’ her mother interrupted, keen to be seen as a responsible and caring parent by their neighbour.

‘But if everything was black and white, like in the old days,’ Maisie continued, ‘you wouldn’t be able to tell things apart.’ Now wasn’t the time to admit she had lots of Coca-Cola at Daddy’s house. In fact, she pretty much got whatever she asked for, on the condition she didn’t run back and tell Mummy.

‘I do so love a child who knows her own mind,’ Meredith said, much to Maisie’s delight. ‘You are quite right, young lady. Variety is key. It doesn’t matter how wonderful something is, if it becomes too commonplace, it loses its appeal.’

‘Someone tell that to my wandering husband,’ her mum muttered, under her breath.

‘So if everyone had your teapot it wouldn’t be special any more?’ Maisie was trying to follow the logic. Just when she thought she’d grasped something, adults threw something else into the mix.

‘Exactly, and according to Gamma, this teapot is particularly interesting for reasons she never properly explained – at least not to me or my sisters. If she elaborated to my mother, sadly that information went with her to the grave.’ She stroked the spout, running her finger along it carefully, and let out a little sigh. ‘Gamma always rabbited on about finding someone to look after the whole set, but in the end, it passed to my mother and I can’t think of anyone less guardian-like she could have left it to. It was divided up between me and my sisters not long after Gamma died. But then I suppose at least it remained in the family even if it wasn’t together.’

‘You have sisters?’ gasped Maisie. Did old ladies have sisters? And if so, were they as much trouble as her own? Lisa, never mind drama queen, was a drama goddess, and kept blaming Mummy and Daddy’s quarrel for everything. And Zoe, rather boringly, had turned to exercise – as if she could work through her worries by pumping weights and running around the estate in Lycra. She was now far too busy to play with Maisie.

‘Five,’ Meredith replied. ‘Including me, that made six girls and I’m the oldest. Which is why I was given the teapot. Talking of which, it’s time to make a fresh brew. You look like you could use another cup, Beverley.’ Meredith swept up the tray of tea-making paraphernalia and returned to the kitchen.

Maisie was left wondering what made the teapot so special. Could you rub it and get three wishes, like Aladdin’s lamp? Or could you peer into it and see the future, like a crystal ball? She never did find out but perhaps it was one of those things said to a child merely to get an impressed, wide-eyed look. She’d fallen for all that nonsense before: unicorns and tooth fairies. Thank goodness Father Christmas wasn’t one of those silly stories made up by adults – she’d seen him with her own eyes.

A cheery rat-a-tat-tat at the back door interrupted Maisie’s memories and her mother, passing by after a late shift, let herself into the kitchen. As she snuck a home-baked cookie from the plastic tub on the side, Maisie entered. They faced each other and both gave weary smiles, her mother stepping forward to tuck a strand of Maisie’s loose hair behind her daughter’s ear.

‘Don’t hide your pretty face behind your hair. You’ll never get a boyfriend by hiding away.’

There had never been another man for her mother after the divorce; instead she’d launched herself back into the workplace to compensate. She once confided in her youngest daughter there had been a few tentative romantic offers over the years but no one had that dazzling smile, exuded that charming personality, or made her feel her insides would implode with longing as she entertained lustful and wanton thoughts when she was within a ten-metre radius of his intoxicating aftershave.

As soon as Maisie was at secondary school and relatively independent, her mother registered with a handful of job agencies, wondering what on earth she was qualified for with a cavernous twenty-year gap in her CV and no qualifications to speak of. Eventually, she took a part-time job in a local care home and over the years worked her way up to duty manager, having found her true vocation. The plus side of being a highly emotional person was she understood and respected the emotions of others. The old dears loved her, and Maisie’s mum, who had survived the horrible teenage years being repeatedly informed by her offspring that she was the worst mother ever, was loved again, by a myriad of doddery but tender-hearted residents.

‘How are things?’ her mum asked, as she slipped her coat off and helped herself to a second cookie. Her shoulders drooped and her face was pale and drawn.

‘Good,’ but Maisie didn’t return the question. It was obvious her mum had not had a good day. ‘Lost another one?’ she asked, flicking on the kettle.

‘Oh, sweetheart, sometimes I can’t bear it.’ Any pretence things were okay was now gone. A salty tear dribbled down her soft cheek and dangled from her jaw. ‘Such a darling. Thought she was still eighteen and didn’t understand why her mother never came to collect her. Every day she waited in reception, black leather quilted handbag at her feet, wringing her tiny hands together. She was the sweetest, meekest soul you’d ever find. And one of the few residents who wasn’t unduly alarmed by our in-house streaker. Honestly, he’s going to give someone a heart attack one of these days. Waving everything about and shouting, “Suck on this, ladies – dentures optional.”’

She tried to summon some joy from her heavy heart but it had clearly sunk too low for her to reach. Maisie embraced her mother and kissed the top of her head, noticing a few more wiry grey hairs. They gave a marbled appearance to her mum’s thick, wavy bob, but she was in pretty good shape for a woman of nearly sixty.

‘I don’t know why I put myself through it. Every time we welcome a new resident, I can’t help but size up their potential life expectancy. It’s so heart-breaking – knowing we lose them all in the end.’ She began to sob softly as she considered her words.

‘I prescribe a good, strong, hot cup of tea,’ Maisie said firmly. ‘Which reminds me, do you remember that quirky black and white teapot Meredith Mayhew used to wheel out? It’s come up at the auction from a house clearance, so I guess she isn’t with us any more.’

Maisie’s mum looked up and shrugged her shoulders, mopping the cascade of tears with the hem of her regulation navy blue cardigan.

‘I heard she’d passed away a couple of months ago from the lady behind the deli counter in the Co-op. I felt bad because we were close at one time.’ She shook her head, moving on quickly from a time of heartache she wanted to forget. ‘I’d have attended the funeral if I’d known. But then Meredith wasn’t there to miss me. Well, technically she was present – but you know what I mean.’

There was a moment where Maisie’s heart skipped a beat. Meredith was dead. That was it then. She’d never be able to tell the old lady what a profound impact she’d had on her life – even inadvertently influencing her career path. Swirling hot water around the pot to warm it, Maisie tipped it away before counting three spoons of loose tea and adding the boiling water. She reached for her red and white spotty mugs and stood back to let the tea brew. Both women liked a strong cuppa.

‘Meredith was a kind woman,’ her mum added. ‘Lived a lonely life though. Must have adored children, because you certainly don’t choose the teaching profession for the glamour and untold riches. Always kind to me and I don’t know that I ever said a proper thank you.’ This melancholy thought caused a further surge of tears. ‘I’m not sure I can cope with memories of Meredith on top of losing one at work today. Oh, why does it get me like this every time?’

‘It means you’re good at your job, Mum. Some of those old people don’t have anyone to miss them apart from care home staff. If you’re sad, it means you cared,’ Maisie said, pouring and passing the tea. Her mother appeared to mull this over as she brought the mug to her lips. Fresh tears hung from her chin, like a row of pear-cut diamonds from a necklace, and one plopped onto her lap. She blew ineffectually at the hot liquid before taking a sip. As it made its journey downward, she sat up straighter and, as Maisie hastily slid a coaster in front of her, placed the mug back on the table. Maisie pulled out a chair to join her mother at the table, giving her an encouraging smile.

‘You’re right,’ her mum said, finding some inner strength. ‘I do care. About nearly all of them.’

Chapter 11

‘Lot 243 – an immaculate condition Moulinex mixer, boxed, with all the attachments. Embrace your inner Raymond Blanc and reject this heinous culture of pre-packaged microwaveable mush. Do I hear twenty? Thank you, gentleman at the back. Twenty-five, anywhere? I can do two, if it helps? No? Twenty with you, sir …’ Johnny’s arm swept the room. ‘Going once. Sold.’ The gavel was smacked down on the wooden rostrum with gusto. He gestured towards the back corner and did the peery thing over his glasses. ‘Number, please?’

A disembodied country accent announced, ‘Forrrr. Three. Ni-yern.’ Johnny noted the number on his sheet and turned the page.

Johnny had suggested Maisie watch some of the auction – especially as she’d put a written bid on the miscellaneous box of kitchenware. ‘All part of your continuing education, dah-ling,’ he said. ‘And there really is nothing like it. The atmosphere can be deliciously electric, especially if you have two tenacious bidders after the same item. Never mind a pin, you’d hear the downy feather of a recently plucked fowl drift to the floor.’

Arthur had popped into her office to say they were getting close to her lot, so she’d reluctantly dragged herself away from the old-fashioned oil heater roasting her toes, if not the rest of her shivering torso, and walked over. She watched as groups of people drifted in and out, some in expensive dark green quilted jackets and Hunter wellies, some in purple North Face anoraks, jeans and trainers. Maisie initially sat rigid, not daring to move her arms in case she accidentally bid for something expensive and found herself hundreds of pounds in debt. The stuff of sitcoms, perhaps, but Arthur assured her it still happened occasionally.

Settled on a high bar stool recently vacated by a serious-looking man in casual clothes and a brown wool trilby, Maisie was now able to distinguish dealers from the general public. The serious gentleman had been the former, not making eye contact and studiously ticking off items from his catalogue as he walked towards the door, an empty travel mug swinging from his fingers. He was there to do business, not socialise.

‘Lot 244. Miscellaneous china and kitchenware. Do I hear ten to start?’ Johnny’s deep, melodious tones boomed across the cavernous space. This was the box containing the tingle-inducing teapot, so Maisie turned to the front and focused on Johnny as the follicly challenged porter tugged the box out and pointed at it. He was the ‘show-er’ for the auction – the member of staff who highlighted the item currently being sold.

The barn was uninterested and silent. Maisie didn’t need to do anything as her bid would be on Johnny’s sheet.

‘I have some interest on the books, so I’ll start at five. Six, anyone?’

Again silence.

Maisie felt a bubbling in her tummy. Was it going to be this easy to buy the teapot?

‘No advance on five? Going once. Sold.’

He peered over his glasses to Maisie and shrugged an I told you so, before updating the paperwork and moving on.

‘Lot 245 – an anomalous collection of garden ornaments.’ There were a few giggles and murmurs as the porter held a couple of the less embarrassing gnomes aloft. ‘I’ll start the bidding at ten? Thank you, sir,’ and he nodded to his right. Someone in the front row obviously had a burning desire to turn his garden into a saucy sideshow. ‘Twelve. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty. Do I hear twenty-five? Thank you, madam. With you, sir, at thirty? And thirty-five …’

When the bidding reached forty, Johnny cast her an astonished look and shrugged, as he waited for one of the eager bidders to decide whether life would be complete without an assortment of sexually uninhibited dwarf-like figures. Good grief! his eyes seemed to say – there are people out there who find such unpalatable objects of interest. She gave an emphatic nod and grinned, despite herself. After all her teasing, they were going to fetch a pretty penny.

‘And a new bidder, so it’s forty-five with you, madam.’

Maisie’s heart started to race. He’d explained how some buyers waited for the initial flurry of bids before stepping in. Three people in the room who wanted a box of garish gnomes. It beggared belief.

‘And I have fifty here at the front,’ Johnny said. Maisie shuffled her hands under her bottom, to make certain there were no ambiguous hand movements, and looked down at her feet, swinging happily over the edge of the stool. ‘Fifty-five with you, madam, at the back?’

She couldn’t quite see where Johnny was looking but he caught her eye again, grinning like a loon. Even he hadn’t foreseen this level of interest. She smiled and gave the faintest tip of the head and an eye-roll to acknowledge the humour of the situation.

‘And sixty?’ He swung back to the front. ‘No, sir? Certain we can’t tempt you? Are we all done then at fifty-five pounds?’ The gavel was held aloft as his eyes scanned the crowd. ‘And sold. Thank you, madam, this delightful collection of deviant outdoor ornaments are yours.’ He did another of his loud stage whispers to a group huddled at the front: ‘Each to their own, eh?’ He looked across at her again. ‘Number, please?’

Maisie’s heart, slowing slightly after the excitement of the bidding frenzy, began to race again. He was looking directly at her.

‘Umm …’ A high-pitched whine came out. Oh my God. Had she just bid for the damn things?

‘Ah, it’s okay, Maisie, I already have your number on my sheet.’

Yup.

A few lots later, during which time Maisie could barely look up from her now not happily swinging feet, Arthur slid beside her. She’d spotted him moving around the room when she’d first come in, chatting to people as he went.

‘Interesting collection,’ he said, nodding to the front and clearly referring to her recent purchase. ‘Pleased you got them if they were something you wanted. Wouldn’t have put you down as that sort of girl myself. I saw you as more flowers and veg – pots of primulas and window boxes of cherry tomatoes – but you never can tell. And I’d never judge anyone for their personal taste.’

‘Oh, the gnomes. No, that was a mistake.’ Her face was pale and her stomach leaden. ‘I didn’t even raise my arm.’

Arthur chuckled. ‘Well, there’s a rum do and no mistake. Poor love. Fancy being lumbered with all them. I’m quite broad-minded but there are a couple of those that made me blush. I daren’t tell our Pam. Not her sort of thing at all. She didn’t even like it when I bought one of them novelty corkscrews. Made me titter but she’s very much a lady and I’ve always respected that.’ He stroked his chin as he pondered her predicament. ‘It’s an eye contact thing. Did you make eye contact?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Ah. It’s the dealers, see? Don’t like other dealers knowing their business. Watch them. They barely move an eyelash but the auctioneer knows they’re bidding. Not like the general public, jumping up and down with their printed bidder numbers in the air, ever anxious the auctioneer won’t see them and they’ll miss out on their bargain Bavarian cuckoo clock.’

As she watched a few further lots, she realised Arthur was right; the extremely tall man beside them successfully bid for a collection of reproduction oil lamps yet barely twitched. But watching his face and Johnny’s, she could now see their interaction. Lesson learned, but an expensive and possibly humiliating one.

‘Tell Johnny and he’ll sort something out. I’ve seen buyers put things back into the sale the following week and even turn a profit. You did have competition.’

‘Please don’t say anything. I’d rather not have everyone thinking I was so green I bid on them by mistake.’

‘As opposed to them thinking you are a collector of naughty gnomes?’

It was a tough call but she nodded. She would just have to put her marketing skills to the test and see if she couldn’t make her money back somehow. She liked a challenge; after all, that’s why she took this job in the first place.

‘It’s right lovely to see someone who doesn’t let little mishaps in life get her down. I was telling my Pam that a bright young girl had started at work and what a lovely smile you had – just like a sunrise over the back fields – all glowing and lifty.’ Maisie felt a tiny grin spread across her cheeks despite her glum mood. ‘And you’ve got a keen eye. I saw you with that kiddies’ train set earlier. It looks smashing laid out on that glass-topped table. Might not be worth much but I reckon it’ll attract a fair bit of interest now.’

Arthur was on her wavelength. With the porters previously responsible for arranging the items in the salerooms, she’d noticed a distinct lack of the female touch. And Maisie was nothing if not organised. ‘Yes, I—’

‘And I thought to myself, that girl knows what she’s doing. She’ll be running the company before the week’s out …’

‘I hardly think—’

‘Because this company really needs more female input. The lovely ladies in the office don’t get the opportunity to leave their desks much, and when they do they always seem so busy. Always scurrying past me, with no time to talk. I guess they must be—’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Johnny’s voice cut through the chattering hum of the room. ‘A little bit too much voluminous babble. May I suggest you take your chit-chat outside if your conversation is vital?’ Maisie was pretty certain voluminous was more a measure of quantity rather than level of noise, but Johnny liked his fancy words and seemed to get away with it – his flamboyant vocabulary rivalling his flamboyant clothes.

‘That’s told them,’ Arthur whispered, oblivious he was a sizeable part of the general level of increased chatter. ‘But then, you should have heard him when I first got the job. He was telling everyone to bugger off out of his saleroom if they couldn’t behave like decorous citizens – don’t mind admitting to you, I had to look that particular word up. But he’s toned down a bit in recent years. Definitely Theo’s input.’ Maisie threw him a questioning look. ‘Let’s just say Johnny’s tendency to say what he thinks don’t always go down well with the customers. And when he insulted a painting last year, the vendor was in the room, eager to see how much his masterpiece raised. Turns out not only was he selling it, he’d also painted it …’

Johnny proceeded to rattle through three hundred lots in the space of the morning. Everything from furniture to miscellaneous boxes of goodness only knew what. Often, it was house clearance, and Maisie found it heart-breaking that boxes of personal possessions were sold to people for whom the items held no significance. What of the trinkets bought on a honeymoon to remind the happy couple of their holiday? The book won at school decades ago for academic achievement, its ornate bookplate inscribed with the proud pupil’s name and treasured in a bookcase throughout the years? The sepia photographs of Victorian families, stiff and formal, but the names and relationships of the subjects long-since forgotten?

It was the memories attached to things that gave them their greatest value. Sometimes just looking at a possession could move a person to tears, or make a couple reach out for each other’s hands, reliving a special memory. And when no one was left to remember, they reverted back to objects with only a material value. It was, she suspected, why the teapot was so important to her. No one else would have those memories – it was merely a teapot – but to her it symbolised a tiny light at a time in her life when things had been dark.

At the end of the day, Maisie paid her unexpectedly hefty bill and wandered over to the barn to collect her goods. Theo and Johnny had their arms about each other so she coughed to make them aware of her presence, but neither seemed embarrassed by the embrace.

‘Here she comes,’ Theo teased, ‘to hang out with her gnomies.’ She tried not to react as she handed him the stamped invoice. ‘If you’re going to take them gnome with you, you’ll need to bring your car to the front – gnome pun intended,’ he said, smirking. He held her gaze rather longer than she anticipated and her tummy did a double handspring.

‘I can manage,’ she said.

‘All four boxes?’

‘FOUR?’ She snatched the invoice back and sure enough, Lot 245: Four boxes of miscellaneous garden gnomes were listed – any marketing idea she came up with to shift them would have to be pretty damn good. The box containing the teapot made five. Ten minutes later, lugging the last one into the back of her Fiat 500 and trying not to focus too hard on what the blue-hatted gnome was doing to the smaller red-hatted gnome, she slammed down the boot.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, she reflected how sad it was that Meredith’s possessions had been shoved into cardboard boxes and carted down to the local auction house to be sold for peanuts and scattered to the four winds. Those visits had only lasted a couple of years, until her parents’ divorce had been finalised, and the house in Hickory Street, with only Mum, Maisie and Zoe rattling around, had been sold. They moved into a modern box-like flat closer to the town centre and the secondary school. But in those two years, the neighbour who had previously only called a cheery hello over the fence offered a refuge to them both. She’d been an escape from the squabbling of her teenage siblings and company for her mum who, looking back now, must have been so terribly lonely.

And as Maisie turned the ignition key an amusing thought entered her head as she wondered if the collection of gnomes had also belonged to Meredith.

Chapter 12

‘Hi, sweetie. Just checking in with the family. Or rather, speaking to you to find out what they’re all up to. Ringing everyone individually is so tedious. You can get me up to speed,’ Lisa’s singsong voice gushed down the phone.

It was Saturday evening and Maisie was in the car park of Willow Tree House about to help her mother with a programme of activities for the residents. For some it would be a quiet hour doing jigsaws whilst others would engage in the more raucous Wii Sports. Maisie enjoyed a game of tennis but only when she could play it sitting down – Zoe’s sporty gene seemingly only present in one-quarter of the Meadows siblings.

‘We’re good,’ Maisie replied. ‘Any chance of a visit soon? Mum said there’s always a bed for you at hers.’ Her oldest sister hadn’t been down to Suffolk in over a year. Lisa had mentally distanced herself from the family before imposing a physical distance, but even the guilt trips home were becoming fewer and further apart.

‘Too busy, babe. Too busy. Absolutely rushed off my feet. Haven’t you seen my Insta?’

With her job at a large television studio outside York, Lisa rubbed shoulders with an array of celebrities and attended a wild assortment of glitzy functions that resulted in a never-ending stream of social media posts depicting her successful and exciting life. She had been what their mother called a spirited child and that spirit had found a home in the busy and equally dramatic world of television production. ‘Besides, you know Mum rubs me up the wrong way. Always asking prying questions.’

‘She asks because she cares, Lisa. She’s interested in what you do.’

‘But she knows there’s things I can’t talk about; I have to stay professional and all that. You can’t name-drop just because Ryan has flown in to film some scenes outside the Minster. You’d lose your job.’

‘Wow. Reynolds?’ Maisie was impressed. ‘Or Gosling?’

‘Couldn’t possible say, sweetie. And as for Mum, what I can share is on the socials for everyone to see. But it’s so chaotic up here right now, you wouldn’t believe. I barely have time for a toilet break, never mind a day off work, and if I’m not working I’m partying – which is basically the same thing.’

Any hopes Maisie had to see Lisa in the immediate future were dashed. There was a glugging sound as her sister topped up a glass at the other end and Maisie consoled herself with the fact it wasn’t an outright no. Perhaps she could travel up to York and pay her sister a visit. After all, if the mountain wouldn’t come to the bosom of the family, the family could catch a train up to her.

‘So – how are things at the antique shop?’ Lisa asked, followed by a slurp.

‘Auction house.’

‘Same thing.’

Although a large number of antiques went through their hands, Gildersleeve’s was about so much more. They had an enormous yard, for a start, a concrete space behind the two barns where an open-air auction was held for larger items, like timber and architectural salvage. And Saleroom One was practically a huge charity shop full of household paraphernalia and unwanted domestic appliances. You could hardly describe a second-hand toaster as antique. But even if she took the trouble to explain to Lisa, her sister would forget. It wasn’t something she needed to remember, like when the new season of Love Island was starting, so she invariably switched off.

‘I’m finding my feet but I love it. Although, after assaulting one of the managers by mistake I’m lucky to still have a job.’ And she told her sister about her run-in with Theo.

‘Ooo. Young? Single? Sexy?’ Lisa asked.

‘Five or six years older than me, definitely not single but, yeah, sexy in a Robinson Crusoe kind of way.’

She could appreciate Theo was attractive even if he was unavailable. In fact, if she was honest, she was torn between the massive disappointment that she wasn’t on his carnal radar, and relief that there would be no boss-employee romantic shenanigans after the Wickerman’s fiasco.

‘Shame. Mum told me Gareth turned out to be a non-starter. Actually, that’s not true. She said he was a rotten two-timing git, just like our father, who deserved to have his genitals severed from his body and run up a flagpole to see if anyone would salute them. Then she cried a bit and said she hoped she hadn’t passed on the genetic predisposition to attract skirt-chasers to you. Skirt-chasers? I mean, where does she get her expressions from?’

That sounded like their mother. The poor woman simply couldn’t let go of the hurt, but it was hard not to smile at some of her more imaginative plans for revenge.

There were a couple of hearty slurps and then Lisa said, ‘Men can be such pigs.’

‘I’m over it now,’ Maisie said, because working at Gildersleeve’s had reminded her there were plenty of decent people about. She’d been unlucky and Gareth was an idiot. ‘It’s having company in the evenings I miss the most. You know? Someone to talk to when—’ She was about to offload to her sister when Lisa cut in.

‘Great, don’t let the bastards get you down. Anyway, gotta go. Heading out shortly to try my hand at speed-dating. Never done it before but sounds like it might be a laugh.’ For a woman in her mid-thirties, Lisa certainly lived life to the full, with an almost teenage air about her lifestyle. In their different ways, Ben and Lisa had clung on to the blind optimism and unaccountability of youth and Maisie was slightly jealous. ‘Then I’ll hit the bars and work my way through a few of bottles of Prosecco with the girls. It’s been an exhausting week but the party never stops.’

Maisie wished she had a fraction of the social life her sister did but consoled herself with the knowledge she had an immaculate, chocolate-box house – albeit rented. Shame she didn’t have more people round to appreciate her top-notch domestic skills. Lisa might have bombed academically but there was no denying she’d soared professionally. Whatever it was Lisa actually did, she was moving in exalted media circles and every member of the Meadows family was proud of her.

‘Yes, I need to make a move.’ Maisie looked anxiously at her dashboard clock, as being late was not something she allowed herself to do. She didn’t elaborate on her agenda, however, as Lisa wouldn’t be quite as dazzled by her plans to spend her Saturday evening hanging out with octogenarians and drinking tea.

A week later and Maisie felt she’d undergone a second settling-in period at work. Just when she’d got things at Gildersleeve’s sussed, a new staff member had been thrown into the mix. Johnny conveniently forgot to mention she’d have to defer to Theo as well and she felt uneasy that the pair of them might be discussing her performance together at home of an evening.

‘Excuse me, Maisie,’ Arthur said, knocking respectfully on the office door, even though it was wide open. The week had seen the whole spectrum of weather from wet and windy to dry and crisp – sometimes within the space of minutes, but at that moment bright sunshine was forcing its way into the dim room, shooting a heavenly beam of light down to spotlight Johnny’s desk where she was sitting with her boss.

‘I know you’re terribly busy and whatever you’re doing is probably far more important and urgent than my silly prattling, but I wondered if you’d got a minute?’ Which invariably meant fifteen, bless him.

She’d actually spent the last hour teaching Johnny how to use his smartphone and done barely any productive work all morning – whilst important to Johnny, it hadn’t diminished her ever-increasing workload. He insisted that if Theo consistently refused to grasp the internet nettle, he would be the one to rise to the challenge. Like a kitten in a wool shop, he was positively bouncing about in his chair when he realised the tiny rectangle of glass and metal did so much more than make phone calls. Between them they’d installed a selection of apps – news, weather, banking – he’d even insisted she set him up on Facebook. Johnny was delighted, although his sausage-sized fingers struggled with the minuscule keyboard.

‘Of course, Arthur. I’ve fried Johnny’s brain sufficiently for today. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s more a case of what I can do for you. At least, I hope I’m doing you a service. I spotted some cups and saucers that looked rather like that curious teapot you bought the other week. I know how delighted you were with the purchase and wondered if you’d seen them. It’s amongst the lots from a house clearance Johnny did a couple of weeks ago – some old dear that’s gone into a care home. And I thought perhaps you’d be interested?’

‘Really?’ There was a slight quickening of her heart and a flutter in her throat. ‘I’d love to take a look. Thanks, Arthur.’ Maisie handed Johnny his phone and slid her chair out from his desk. The biggest grin spread across Arthur’s face.

‘You want to look now?’

‘If it’s convenient?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m not busy but I rather thought you would be. I know you important office staff always have deadlines and targets and spreadsheets to, erm … spread out. I didn’t intend to take you from your work.’

As they walked through the front office, Maisie tried to make eye contact with Ella again but she turned her head and started scribbling away in a notebook. She didn’t take it personally. Ella didn’t talk to anyone unless she had to – and instead glided around the office like a silent, pale and beautiful ghost.

As Maisie stepped outside the reception, Arthur pointed out a tiny patch of snowdrops under the gnarly sweet chestnut that stood at the edge of the car park.

‘I’m always cheered when the first blooms of the year appear,’ he said.

Although pretty in their way, they were too delicate and colourless for Maisie. ‘It’s the vibrant purple crocuses, the bright orange centres of the daffodils and smudges of yellow primroses I adore most,’ she said. ‘Brightening up those gloomy areas and damp, dark spaces winter has overpowered.’

Colour was everything, even though she’d bitten back this passion when executing her home décor. One simply did not paint rainbows of colour across the walls of a room – far too uncontrolled. Although her landlord was generally delighted with her requests to redecorate, a full-height mural of random shapes, paint dribbles and brilliant colours might be pushing it.

‘Yes.’ Arthur paused, seemingly and unusually lost for words. ‘I’m partial to primroses too.’

They walked into Saleroom One and came across Theo hanging pictures from the long steel pole running along the back wall. Last week it had been put to good use displaying a small selection of Turkish rugs. He put down the framed print he was holding.

‘I’m not stealing it. Don’t hit me. Or pelt me with sexually deviant gnomes.’ He put up his arms and cowered as if Maisie was about to attack him. She put her hands on her hips, tipped her head to one side and out-stared him.

‘Very funny, I’m sure, but I genuinely thought you were stealing from the cabinet the other day.’

‘Chill, I’m teasing. I’m not used to women throwing themselves at me. It was fun.’ Hmm, was that an invitation? She was tempted. And then maybe afterwards she could offer to run the iron over his clothes and sew up the rip on the cuff of his shirt. ‘Although, as well as assaulting staff members, I see you’ve been playing dolls’ houses with my salerooms,’ he said, over his shoulder.

‘What?’ She was confused.

‘Getting out the dinner services and laying the table? Filling up bookshelves with rows of books? Shall we make the beds up and tuck a teddy in between the covers?’

‘Sorry. I thought …’

‘Don’t look so worried.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m teasing. Again. Let’s see if it makes a difference.’ He sloped off to a table of household electricals on the other side of the barn, exaggerating the limp and throwing a pained look back to gauge her reaction, but the joke was no longer funny.

‘It was here somewhere.’ Arthur was tugging out boxes and scratching his thinning hair. ‘Aha! Thought I was going senile there for a moment. I saw the cup nestling on the top of the box and thought to myself young Maisie fell in love with a similar teapot. I might be wrong, I usually am, but I thought it was worth mentioning.’

‘Thank you, Arthur. It’s clever of you to remember.’

She walked over to the box at his feet, and there, in amongst some heavy Denby plates and a couple of cut glass vases, was a teacup that perfectly matched the black and white almost-jigsaw scribbles of her teapot. She’d felt tingly following him up the aisle but assumed it was the anticipation of a potential match giving her goose bumps. Now she wasn’t so sure. She bent down and lifted out the cup, which she was surprised to find was painted black inside.

‘There’s more in there. I’m sure of it. I didn’t like to poke about too much because I’d probably break something. I’m such a clumsy old bugger. But I definitely spied a saucer or two.’

Three cups, two with black interiors and one with white, and three matching saucers were located. Excited by the find, Maisie tried to hide her disappointment it was an odd number of cups, the others doubtless broken over time. Odd numbers sat uneasily with her and her need for order.

‘Well done, Arthur. A perfect match. Fancy you remembering.’ She smiled up at him as she slid the box and its contents back under the trestle table. Arthur puffed out his chest and grinned. ‘I’ll place another written bid and, if I get them, how about you come over one Saturday afternoon and road test them with me?’ A written bid was a safer bet than attending the auction again. Not only was she rushed off her feet with the website now but she didn’t want to end up accidentally bidding for a lifetime’s collection of plastic dinosaurs, a trailer-load of poultry incubators or more stupid X-rated gnomes.

As she made the offer, Theo looked up from a battered leather suitcase of old photographs he was cataloguing. He studied her face intently for a moment or two and she caught his eye, before his gaze returned to the task in hand. How could a look from her out-of-reach boss so casually flip the trip switch to her dormant erogenous zones?

‘You mean come around for a cup of tea?’ Arthur asked, his inflection indicating his disbelief.

‘Sorry, perhaps that was a bit presumptuous of me.’ She tore her eyes from Theo and returned her attention to the conversation.

‘No, no, I’d love to. Pam’s always saying I need to get out more to make up for the fact she can’t. I’m generally busy pottering about, fixing stuff at the weekends and getting a bit of shopping in, but I could pop by on my way into town.’

They agreed a day and Maisie turned back to the box containing the teacups, trying to ignore the weird sensation dancing up her arms.

They’re coming back to me, she thought. Meredith said this would happen.

Chapter 13

Maisie’s mother had been to see a solicitor. It was two months since she’d discovered her husband’s lads’ weekend away had actually involved a lass. The shock had now subsided enough to spur her into action and things were moving quickly.

‘What with all the stress and then bumping into him in town, I don’t mind telling you I’ve been weeping swimming pools-full, never mind buckets. So I thought I’d pop by for one of your cuppas, Meredith. Don’t know what blend you use but it’s incredibly calming.’

‘It’s just supermarket tea,’ her neighbour replied.

‘I bet it’s the magical-ness of the teapot,’ Maisie said, looking up from her jigsaw puzzle.

‘I’m not so sure. I think a good old cup of tea has merely worked its way into the psyche of the British people,’ Meredith said. ‘There’s a placebo effect at work. We think a cup of tea will solve everything and so it invariably does. I’m fairly certain tea got the British population through two World Wars and the Thatcher years.’

Meredith handed Maisie’s mum a dainty cup with matching saucer and Maisie a plastic tumbler of weak orange squash. Maisie didn’t mind because the old lady always had an exciting biscuit tin to make up for the blandness of the drink. Would it be sponge fingers, with one side coated in glorious granulated sugar, pink wafers that dissolved in your mouth, or sticky Jammie Dodgers with jam so thick and solid it was impossible to pull the two biscuit sides apart without serious crumblage? She peered in the tin and helped herself to four chocolate chip cookies, tilting her body so her mother couldn’t see, and returned to the floor to look for more pieces of edge.

‘He was with that … that woman. In public. All bosoms and low-cut tops. I should have known – he was never short of female admirers. I used to think how lucky I was he’d chosen me. He was such a good-looking man, with those perfect teeth and twinkly eyes …’

A quiet child, as it wasn’t worth trying to compete with the general level of noise in the household, Maisie was often forgotten and consequently privy to many inappropriate conversations. She sat silently in the corner or tucked herself behind the sofa and learned far more about life than many children her age. Only the other day she’d been colouring in butterflies under the dining room table and overheard Lisa talking about doing stuff with her boyfriend in the back of his Fiesta. The ‘stuff’ wasn’t specified but Lisa’s friend got very excited about the announcement they’d got the third base. Maisie knew about Ben smoking weeds (was that dandelions? Stinging nettles? Or that stupid sticky stuff that clung to your clothes like Velcro?) and her mother’s anxiety over flushing hot things and lots of early men on pause.

Maisie was the forgotten child, watching from the wings, absorbing the atmosphere and listening as rowdy voices carried up the stairs or doors slammed – all the time wondering why everyone was so unpleasant and shouty. And then she would close her bedroom door – assuming Zoe wasn’t sprawled across one of the twin beds, headphones on indicating she was off-limits for conversation – and play with her Sylvanian Family to reassure herself this was how it was supposed to be. They never threw their Sony Walkmans across the bedroom, burst into tears for absolutely no reason or slammed down the remote control, storming out the house saying ‘the oestrogen levels in this house are suffocating’. And Mummy Cottontail rabbit would never launch Daddy Cottontail’s belongings out the window of Rose Cottage and make him live somewhere else.

‘Little ears,’ reminded Meredith, and Maisie’s mum glanced across at Maisie, having momentarily forgotten her youngest daughter was with them. ‘Don’t let your tea get cold, Bev.’

Meredith returned the teapot to the tray, pulled the suction lid from a metal biscuit tin decorated with a Victorian ice-skating scene and offered it to Maisie again as her four cookies had mysteriously disappeared … She abandoned her puzzle and skipped across to see what other exciting treats lay within. Bourbons – yummy. Unlike the Jammie Dodgers, these would pull apart and she could lick all the chocolaty scrumminess off before devouring the crunchy biscuit bits.

‘You know you said your mummy split up the tea set between your sisters?’ Maisie asked her elderly neighbour, thinking of her Sylvanian families. The Cottontail family had a miniature tea set that was made of actual, real china. All the pieces were white, and every single cup and saucer was carefully returned to the miniature dresser after she’d finished playing. Since Daddy had moved out, she’d become obsessed with keeping things together.

‘Yes.’ Meredith settled into her dark green velvet easy chair.

‘Can’t you just put it all back together again?’ Maisie paused to lick her Bourbon and then scrunched up her face. ‘Ask your sisters for the cups and saucers back and have it all in your house? It’s what your granny wanted.’

‘If only it was that simple, but you know what sisters are like.’ Meredith rolled her eyes and gave Maisie a conspiratorial smile. ‘They’d rather force down the last cream bun and make themselves sick than share with a sibling. Besides,’ she continued, ‘Gamma used to say it was the sort of tea set that would always find its way to the right person and I spent so many years hoping that person was me. I asked my sisters from time to time if they were willing to part with their pieces but Essie wanted to pass her cups down to her own children, not that she had any in the end, and Irene took great pleasure in announcing she’d given them away. So I guess it wasn’t meant to be.’

Maisie felt for the old lady. It was horrid when you couldn’t get things to stay together. And, yes, she understood all too well that sisters – especially big ones – could be mean and uncooperative.

‘You know we were talking about how the pattern sort of doesn’t look finished before?’ Her thoughts were jiggling about but they kept returning to that funny old teapot.

Meredith nodded, smiling at the talkative child and adjusting the crocheted circular cushion behind her back.

‘I was wondering what it was supposed to be. It’s just squiggles and lines.’ Maisie stepped forward and traced a sticky finger across the stark black jaggedy outlines of shapes that made no sense to her.

‘Ah, that’s the joy of the thing. It can be whatever you want it to be. Just because an object is designed to be a particular something, doesn’t mean your brain can’t interpret it as something else.’

The weird things that Meredith said really made you think. Maisie liked the idea of things being what you decided they were. After all, the fluffy green rug between her bed and Zoe’s was actually a magic carpet but she hadn’t told Zoe.

‘Have you ever seen an abstract painting?’ Meredith asked the inquisitive girl. Maisie shook her head and Meredith leaned forward and pulled a book from the slatted shelf under the oval coffee table. It was called Finding Joy in Modern Art. She opened the book and flicked through the pictures. They were a miscellany of colours and shapes. Maisie took a few tentative steps towards her and peered over the top of the book. Nothing was actually anything but Maisie thought she glimpsed a face or an animal lurking in the muddle.

‘I’m sure the artists had something very definite in mind when they created these images, but when I look at this picture …’ Meredith tilted the book in Maisie’s direction, ‘On White II by a very clever and innovative Russian artist called Kandinsky, I see horses and a bird in the sky, a stopwatch and a chequered racing flag – so to me as a young woman this was a picture about horse-racing, maybe at nearby Newmarket. But when I was older and read more on the subject, I learned it was supposedly about life and death. In the end, does it matter what he intended when he painted it or what I thought I saw? It made me think and looking at it made me happy because it reminded me of a special day I had at the races with a young gentleman I knew at the time.’

Maisie could tell the memory wasn’t really a happy one by looking at the old lady’s face. It was like when Mummy said to Grandma how delicious her fruit cake was and then put the whole foil-wrapped loaf in the pedal bin as soon as they returned home.

‘I admire the skill in a Gainsborough or a Turner, but I do so love the challenge of a Dalí or a Klee.’

Maisie studied the curious picture – noting the sharp black lines, slicing across the canvas, the jumble of colour and the tiny chequerboard patterns. For a few moments she was reflective, then she looked back at the teapot.

‘I think it’s jigsaw puzzle bits,’ she said. ‘All floating around the teapot, needed to be put back in their puzzley holes.’

‘I think so, too,’ said Meredith, and Maisie gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Keep the book, sweetheart. I know you’ll treasure it.’

Nigel was clinging to the door of his cage as soon as Maisie approached the sideboard. He wasn’t daft and always began to hare around the bottom floor of his cage when he heard her return from work, occasionally optimistically launching himself at the small, square door that opened like a wire drawbridge to the outside world. Maisie pulled back the hook and the door fell forward as he waddled towards her, ever hopeful of a tasty treat. She scooped him up and he nestled happily in her soft, warm hands, munching on sunflower seeds, as she sat recounting the events of the day.

After he’d finished his seedy snack, she placed Nigel carefully in his clear plastic ball and let him explore as she went into the kitchen to unpack the china, mindful that working at the auction could lead to all sorts of impulse acquisitions. Colour co-ordinated ones only, of course.

The box had an unpleasant stale cigarette odour and most of the contents were stained yellow but after a good soak the cups came up shiny and clean. There wasn’t much else of interest inside so she lugged it into her petite garden shed with the other boxes – the rosy, bearded faces of the naughty gnomes still laughing at her every time she entered.

She sat down to a quick spinach omelette and then remembered she hadn’t taken her phone off silent since the auction. She found a missed call and a text from Zoe – both from earlier in the day.

BIG news but don’t want to put it in a text. Skype tomorrow around ten GMT? Zoe x

It would be the early hours for Zoe now but she texted back in agreement and wondered what the news could be. Perhaps a baby. That would be exciting. Their mother was desperate for a grandchild and Lisa had made it clear babies weren’t part of her life plan – too selfish and demanding – which everyone decided was rich coming from her. Oliver and Zoe had been together forever and, although Zoe had never mentioned children, perhaps she’d changed her mind now they were in the land of milk, honey and the perennial outdoor barbecue. And at thirty, Zoe’s biological clock would be counting down that final decade in readiness to sound the alarm.

‘Maisie!’

Zoe’s beaming face appeared on Maisie’s laptop, slightly glitchy as the signal sorted itself out, and resplendent in mammoth sunglasses, and a floppy raffia sun hat wider than the screen. While Maisie was still de-icing her car every morning and bemoaning the winter weather, her sister was basking in a gloriously hot Australian summer.

‘Look at you – all tanned and sun-bleached. It’s about two degrees outside and a smattering of the white stuff is forecast for this weekend. If ever you want to swap lives, I’m sure I could make the sacrifice – but only because I love you so much. It would be a purely selfless act on my behalf.’

Zoe adjusted her hat and the smile crept further towards her ears.

‘Funny you should say that; I’m coming home.’

‘Oh wow.’ So that was the news. A UK vacation, and looking at her sister’s beaming face, perhaps a sizeable one. ‘How long for? Does Mum know? Give me the dates and I’ll book some time off work.’

‘No, sweetheart, not for a holiday. For good.’

Chapter 14

For a moment Maisie didn’t know what to think. She missed her sister terribly since she’d emigrated two years ago but it had been Zoe’s long-held dream and it hadn’t been an easy one to achieve. Oliver and Zoe had spent several years saving up, applying for visas and jobs, and finding somewhere to live. Her physiotherapy qualifications and Oliver’s accountancy career made them eligible for the skilled migrant visa – but now they were telling Maisie it was all for nothing.

‘It’s not working out,’ Zoe continued. ‘We’ve been thinking about it for a while and I guess we both accepted the dream didn’t live up to the reality. Now we’ve made the decision, I know it’s the right thing to do. I’ve really missed you. And Mum. And Dad …’ There were no more Ands.

‘I don’t understand. Your jobs? The lifestyle? The sun?’

The miserable British weather had been the killer for Zoe. Fair, like all her siblings, but able to take a tan, she’d been a sun-worshipper and outdoorsy girl since childhood. Oliver had a sedentary and staid career – his idea of kicking back was settling down in front of the television with a large glass of Merlot. Zoe, on the other hand, had been known to stride up a mountain to unwind. It was a miracle their relationship had endured for nearly fifteen years.

‘Everyone thinks Australia is just a hotter version of the UK but it really isn’t. It’s been a complete lifestyle change – even the language is different, if you can believe that?’ Zoe said, shaking her head. ‘It’s all so laid-back and in many ways in a bit of a time warp. You go to a party and the men and women stand in different corners – and the men swear all the time

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