The Vintage Summer Wedding

A Vera Wang dress, the reception at a sophisticated London venue, and a guest list that reads like a society gossip column are all the ingredients of Anna Whitehall’s perfect wedding that never was…

Spending the summer uncovering hidden treasures in a vintage shop, Anna can still vividly remember both her childhood dreams – neither of which included unpacking dusty boxes whilst wearing her oldest jeans…

The first was that she’d become a Prima Ballerina, and dance on stage resplendent in a jewel-encrusted tutu. The second was that at her wedding she would walk down the aisle wearing a collective-gasp-from-the-congregation dress.

Years ago Anna pirouetted out of her cosy hometown village in a whirl of ambition…but when both of those fairy-tale dreams came crashing down around her ballet shoes, she and fiancée Seb find themselves back in Nettleton, their wedding and careers postponed indefinitely…

Don’t they say that you can never go home again? Sometimes they don’t get it right… This one summer is showing Anna that your dreams have to grow up with you. And sometimes what you think you wanted is just the opposite of what makes you happy….

Also available by Jenny Oliver

The Parisian Christmas Bake Off

The Vintage Summer Wedding

Jenny Oliver

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Jenny Oliver 2014

Jenny Oliver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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 e-book 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.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472096319

Version date: 2018-07-23

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

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

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

JENNY OLIVER

wrote her first book on holiday when she was ten years old. Illustrated with cut-out supermodels from her sister’s Vogue, it was an epic, sweeping love story not so loosely based on Dynasty.

Since then, Jenny has gone on to get an English degree, a Masters, and a job in publishing that’s taught her what it takes to write a novel (without the help of the supermodels). She wrote The Parisian Christmas Bake Off on the beach in a sea-soaked, sand-covered notebook. This time the inspiration was her addiction to macaroons, the belief she can cook them and an all-consuming love of Christmas. When the decorations go up in October, that’s fine with her! Follow her on Twitter @JenOliverBooks

Chapter One

They arrived in the dark in a heatwave. As Anna stepped out of the car, all she could smell was roses. An omen of thick, heavy scent. She remembered being knocked off-kilter by a huge vase of them at the Opera House once – big, luxurious, peach cabbage roses – and shaking her head at her assistant, trying to hide her agitation by saying scathingly, ‘Terrible flower. So clichéd. Swap them for stargazers or, if you must, hydrangeas.’

‘Wondered whether you two would ever turn up.’ Jeff Mallory, the landlord of the new property, a man with a moustache and a belly that sagged over his dark-green cords, heaved himself out of the cab of a white van.

‘Sorry, mate.’ Seb strode forward, arm outstretched for a vigorous handshake. ‘We would have been here earlier but—’

He left the reason hanging in the air. They both knew it was Anna’s fault. Stalling the packing at every conceivable opportunity. Dithering over how clothes had been folded and obsessively wrapping everything in tissue paper, then bubble-wrap until tea-cups were the size of footballs.

‘Not a problem.’ Jeff shook his head. ‘Just been reading the paper, nice to have a bit of time to myself if I’m honest. Nice little cottage this ‒ you’ll love it, just right for a young couple.’

Anna turned her head slowly from the view of the field opposite, the pungent smell of cowpats and hay and something else that she couldn’t quite put her finger on that had mingled with the sweet roses and was drawing her back in time like a whiff of an old perfume. She let her eyes trail up from the white front gate, the wild over-grown garden, the twee little porch and the carved wooden sign that she knew would spell out something hideous like Wild Rose Cottage and held in a grimace.

You have to try, Anna.

Seb did all the chatting while she opened the car door and grabbed her handbag.

‘It’s good to be back.’ She heard him say, taking a deep breath of country air. ‘Really feels good.’

‘Well I never thought I’d see the day.’ Jeff ran a hand along the waistband of his trousers, hitching them into a more comfortable position. ‘Anna Whitehall back in Nettleton.’

She scratched her neck, feeling the heat prickle against her skin, wondering if by some miracle someone had thought to install air-conditioning in this hell-hole. ‘Me neither, Mr Mallory,’ she said. ‘Me neither.’ She attempted a smile, felt Seb’s eyes on her.

‘You know I played you at the village Christmas play the other year.’ He nodded like he’d only just remembered. ‘Best laugh in the house I got. Dressed in a pink tutu I had to shout, “I’m never coming back, you fuckers. Up your bum.”’ He snorted with laughter. ‘Brought the house down.’

Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades as she huffed a fake laugh, ‘I’m so pleased I left a legacy.’

‘Too right you did.’ He moved round to the boot of the car to help Seb with the other cases, hauling them out as his trousers slipped lower. Seb was smiling along, trying to smooth out the creases of tension in the air. ‘Whole village has been waiting for you to come back.’ Mr Mallory went on, regardless.

Seb wheeled a case past her over the uneven road and let his hand rest for a moment on her shoulder. She wanted to shake it off, not good with public shows of sympathy, trying to keep her poise.

‘Well I’m glad I gave them something to talk about.’ This won’t be for ever, she said to herself as she gathered some of the plastic bags crammed with stuff out from the back seat.

‘Gave?’ Jeff laughed as he hauled another case out the boot.

‘Oh mind that—’ She ran round and rescued the dress-bag that was being crumpled under the stack of suitcases he was piling up in the street.

‘No past tense about it, Anna. Still giving, sweetheart. Still giving.’ He laughed.

She folded the Vera Wang bag over her arm and took a deep breath. That was it, that was the smell that mingled with the rest. The unmistakable scent of small-town gossip. I bet they loved it, she thought. The great Anna Whitehall fallen from her perch. Rubbing their hands together gleefully, hoping she landed with a painful bump.

Well, she’d made it through worse. She may have promised Seb a year, but she was here for as short a time as she could manage. All she had to do was get a decent new job and, she stroked the velvety skin of the dress-bag, get married. The wedding may no longer be at the exclusive, lavish The Waldegrave and it may not have tiny Swarovski crystals scattered over the tables, a champagne reception, forty-four bedrooms for guests and a Georgian townhouse across the street for the bride and groom, a six-tier Patisserie Gerard chocolate frilled cake and bridesmaids in the palest-grey slub silk, but there was still this bloody gorgeous dress and, she looked up at the cottage, a bare bulb hanging from the kitchen window that Seb had clicked on, and took a shaky breath in, well, no, not much else.

They hauled in bag after bag like cart horses as the dusk dipped to darkness. When Seb handed over the cash for rent, Anna couldn’t watch and, instead, drifted from room to room, flicking on lights and opening windows to try and get rid of the stifling heat. But the air was still like the surface of stagnant water, mosquitos skating over it like ice, buzzing in every room, their little squashed bodies, after she’d spied them, oozing blood on the paisley Laura Ashley wallpaper similar to the type her granny had had.

Looking out from the upstairs bedroom window, she could see Seb talking with Jeff in the street, their shadows as they laughed. She leant forward, the palms of her hands on the cracked, flaking windowsill, and watched as Jeff waved, clambered into his van and cranked the engine and imagined him pootling off to the King’s Head pub, his pint in his own silver tankard waiting for him on the bar and a million eager ears ready for his lowdown.

‘So what do you think?’ A minute later she heard Seb walk across the creaking floorboards as he came to stand behind her, his hands snaking round her waist, the heat of him engulfing her like a duvet.

‘It’s fine,’ she said, leaning her head back on his shoulder and feeling the rumble in his chest as he laughed.

‘Damned with faint praise.’

‘No, it’s really nice. Very cute.’ She turned and almost muffled it into his T-shirt so he might miss the lack of conviction.

‘Yeah, I think it’ll do. It could be much worse, Anna. I think we’ll be OK here. Get a dog, plant some vegetables.’

She bit her lip as her cheek pressed into the cotton of his top, swallowed over the lump in her throat and nodded.

He stroked her hair, ‘We’ll be OK, Anna. Change is never a bad thing. And you never know, you might love it.’

The very thought led to a great wave of nauseous claustrophobia engulfing her and she had to pull away from him. Going over to the big seventies dressing table she unclipped her earrings and put them down on the veneer surface, the reflection in the big circular mirror showed Seb’s profile ‒ wide eyes gazing out across the fields of wheat that she knew from her quick glance earlier was accented with red as the moonlight picked out the poppies. She couldn’t miss the wistful look on his face, the softening of his lips.

She wanted to say, ‘One year, Seb. Don’t get any dreamy ideas. It’s not going to happen.’ But she wasn’t in any position to lay down the rules. The fact that they currently had nothing was her fault. The dream she had been pushing had broken, now it was Seb’s turn to try his. And the feeling was like having her hands cuffed behind her back and her smile painted on her face like a clown.

He turned to look at her. ‘Think of it like a holiday,’ he said with a half-smile.

She thought of her vacations, two glorious weeks somewhere with an infinity pool, cocktails on the beach, restaurants overlooking the sea, basking in blazing sunshine. Or there was schlepping round Skegness with her dad in the rain as a teenager. At the moment, this was more the latter.

‘I’m going to have to shower, I’m too hot,’ she said, peeling off her silk tank-top, wondering whether if she just hung it by the window, the little dots of sweat would dry and not stain.

The bathroom was tiny, the grouting brown, the ceiling cracked where the steam had bubbled the paint. She pulled back the mildewed shower curtain and found herself perplexed.

‘Seb!’ she called.

‘What is it?’

‘There’s no shower.’

‘No shower?’

‘No shower.’

He stood in the doorway and laughed, ‘You’re going to have to learn to bathe.’

‘Who doesn’t have a shower?’ She whispered, biting the tip of her finger, feeling suddenly like a pebble rolling in a wake, her façade teetering.

‘Primrose Cottage, honeybun.’

Oh she knew it was going to be called something dreadful like that.

‘Home sweet home.’

Chapter Two

‘I lay awake most of the night.’ She said this without moving, as if her limbs were tied to the sheet. ‘And do you know what I could hear?’

Seb was standing at the end of the bed in just his boxer shorts, drinking a glass of water.

‘No, honey, what could you hear?’ He raised a brow, waiting for it.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. Not a sound. Just total and utter silence. And do you know what I could see?’

‘Let me guess…’ He smirked.

‘Nothing.’ She started to push herself up the bed. ‘I could see nothing. It was black. Pitch bloody black. I couldn’t even have made it to the bathroom if I’d needed to. I couldn’t see my fingers in front of my face.’

‘I think that’s nice. Cosy.’

‘It’s like being in a coffin buried underground. Where are the street lights? Where are the cars? What does everyone do after ten o’clock? Does no one go out?’ She was so tired she wanted to just bury her head under the pillows. The engulfing darkness of the night had made what was bad seem worse. ‘I thought the countryside was meant to be being ruined by motorways and lorries and flight paths.’ Seb gulped down the last of his water as she pulled the sheet up towards her chin. ‘I didn’t hear any bloody planes,’ she said. ‘At least an animal would have been good. A fox or an owl or something. Anything. A cow mooing would have sufficed.’

‘Anna, are you going to get up?’ Seb said, going over to a suitcase to pull out a shirt he’d ironed before they’d left the Bermondsey flat. Always prepared for every eventuality, she thought. Some Scout motto or something. She saw him look at his watch as she rolled herself in the sheet and turned away so she could stare at the crack in the wallpaper join. The little leaves didn’t match up. She thought about the clean white walls of their old place, the wooden floors she padded across to make a breakfast of yoghurt and plump, juicy blueberries.

‘You’ll be late for work,’ he said, looking down at his buttons as he did them up.

While Seb had landed his dream job of teaching at Nettleton High, getting back to his roots as he put it, Anna was about to begin a new career working in a little antique shop that her dad had pulled in a favour for. If her memory served her correctly, it was a grubby hovel that she had had to sit in as a child while he haggled the price of his wares up before he took her to ballet lessons. It was going to pay her six pounds fifty an hour.

‘Come on, get up and we can have coffee in the village before I have to go to school.’

‘Do you think there’s a Starbucks?’ she asked, brow raised.

‘You know there isn’t a Starbucks.’ He rolled his eyes.

‘It was a joke!’ she said, heaving herself up. ‘You have to allow me a joke or two.’

‘You have to allow me some semblance of enjoying this.’

‘I am!’ She put her hand on her chest. ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m trying, I promise.’

He didn’t look at her, just fumbled around in his suitcase trying to find his tie. She bent down and fished one out of the side pocket of a different bag and went over and hung it round his neck.

She thought about the look on his face when she’d told him that The Waldegrave had gone into administration. That all their money was gone. Everything. That even just the loss of the fifty percent deposit was actually the whole shebang. That she hadn’t been exactly truthful about the extent of the cost.

And he had turned to the side for just a fraction of a second, clenching his face up, all the muscles rigid, shut his eyes, taken a breath. Then he’d turned back, eyes open, squeezed her hand in his and said, ‘It’s OK. It’ll be OK.’

She turned his collar up now and laced the tie underneath, knotting it over and looked up at him and said, ‘I will try harder.’

He shook his head and laughed, ‘All I want to do is have coffee with you before my first day of school.’

‘And that, my darling,’ she said with a smile, hauling the sheet further round her like a toga, squashing the part of her that wanted to sneak back under the covers, and kissing him on the cheek, ‘Is all I want to do, too!’

He raised a brow like he didn’t quite believe her but was happy to go with it.

Driving to the village, Seb had trouble with the narrow lanes, bramble branches flicking into the window as he had to keep swerving into the bushes as Golf GTIs and mud-splattered Land Rovers hurtled past on the other side of the road, beeping his London driving.

‘It’s a fucking nightmare,’ he said, loosening his tie, knuckles gripping the steering wheel. ‘You just can’t see what’s coming.’

‘I thought you always said you knew these roads like the back of your hand.’ Anna straightened the sun-visor mirror to check her reflection. She’d been told by Mrs Beedle, the antiques shop owner, on the phone to wear something she didn’t mind getting mucky in. Anna didn’t own anything she minded getting mucky. Her wardrobe had predominantly consisted of Marc Jacob pantsuits, J Brand jeans and key Stella McCartney pieces. The only memory of them now were the piles of jiffy bags that she had stuffed them into and mailed out to the highest eBay bidder. For today’s outfit she had settled on a pair of khaki shorts that she had worn on safari three years ago and the most worn of her black tank-tops.

‘I did. I think they’ve planted new hedgerows since my day.’

Anna snorted and pulled her sunglasses down from the top of her head, closing her eyes and trying to imagine herself on some Caribbean beach absorbing the wall of heat, about to dive into the ocean, or settled into the box at the Opera House to watch the dress rehearsal, sipping champagne or a double vodka martini.

‘Eh voila,’ Seb said a minute later, cutting the engine and winding up his window.

She opened her eyes slowly like a lizard in the desert.

There it was.

Nettleton village.

The sight of it seemed to lodge her heart in her throat. Her brow suddenly speckled with sweat.

‘OK?’ Seb asked before he opened the door.

Anna snorted, ‘Yeah, yeah, fine.’ She unclicked her door and let one tanned leg follow the other to the cobbles. Unfurling herself from their little hatchback, she stretched her back and shoulders and surveyed the scene as if looking back over old photographs. Through the hazy morning mist of heat, she could see all the little shops surrounding the village square, the avenue of lime trees that dripped sticky sap on the pavement and cars, the church at the far end by the pond and the playground, the benches dappled with the shade from the big, wide leaves of the overhanging trees. Across the square was the pharmacy, its green cross flashing and registering the temperature at twenty-seven degrees. She looked at her watch, it was only eight o’clock. The window still had those old bottles of liquid like an apothecary shop, one red one green, it could have been her imagination playing tricks on her but she thought she remembered them from when she was a kid. Next to that was the newsagent, Dowsetts. A bit of A4 paper stuck on the door saying only two school children at a time. Now that she did remember. Three of them would go in deliberately and cause Mrs Norris apoplexy as they huddled together picking the penny sweets out one at a time and pretending to put them in their pockets. Then, when her friend Hermione locked Mrs Norris in the store cupboard one lunchtime, it earned them a lifetime ban. Did that still stand, she wondered. Would she be turned away if she dared set foot inside? Or was it like prison? Twelve years or less for good behaviour?

Nettleton, she thought, hands on her hips, there it was, all exactly as she remembered it.

Seb came round and draped his arm over her shoulders, giving her an affectionate shake. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

She forced a little grin.

They strolled over towards a bakery coffee shop, its yellow-striped awning unwound over red cafe tables and chairs, a daisy in a jam jar on each.

‘Charming,’ Seb mused, pointing to the cakes in the window ‒ rows and rows of macaroons all the colour of summer and displayed to look like a sunrise, deep reds into lighter pinks and brilliant oranges fading into acid-lemon yellows, their cream bursting out the insides and their surfaces glistening in the shade. Like jewels jostling for space. Behind them were trays of summer fruit tarts, fresh gooseberries sinking into patisserie cream and stacks of Danish pastries with plump apricots drizzled with icing next to piles of freshly baked croissants, steaming from the oven. There was a small queue of people lined up in the cool, dark interior waiting to buy fresh baguettes and sandwiches. ‘Truly charming.’

Anna thought back to when she’d picked the wedding cake in Patisserie Gerard. The slices the chef brought over on little frilled-edged plates and metal two-pronged forks, watching as she placed the delicate vanilla sponge or chocolate sachertorte into her mouth and sighed with the pleasure of it. How he had suggested that she had to have between four and six layers, less was unheard of for weddings at The Waldegrave; two chocolate with a black forest-style cherry that would ooze when cut and soaked through with booze, heavy and dense. Then a light, fluffy little sponge on the top, perhaps in an orange or, he suggested, a clementine. Just slightly sweeter. The guests would be able to tell the difference. They’d definitely be the type to appreciate such delicate flavours.

Then, without warning, her mother’s voice popped into her head. We never had a wedding, Anna, and it was a sign. Anna didn’t see the cakes, just her own reflection as the words carried on. Pregnant with you, Anna, and standing in some crummy registry office with a couple of witnesses he’d dragged in from outside. I didn’t even get a new dress. And in those days you didn’t have pregnancy clothes, Anna, not the flashy things you have now. Oh no, I had a big hoop of corduroy pleated around my belly like a traffic cone. There were no photos. Thank god. But when I think about it now, I know it was definitely a sign. He wanted to gloss over it. A wedding is more than just a day, Anna. It’s a statement of intent.

As Seb pulled out a chair and stretched his legs out in the morning sun, Anna perched on the edge of the one opposite and said, ‘My mum rang yesterday.’

He twisted his head round to look at her. ‘What did she say?’

‘That she’d give us the money to get married. All of it.’ Seb sat up straighter. Anna licked her lips and pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes. ‘As long as I don’t invite Dad.’

Seb spluttered a cough. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. No way. What did you say?’

She brushed some of the creases from her top. ‘I said I’d think about it.’

‘Anna, you can’t not invite your father.’

‘Why not? What difference would it make? At least it’d solve my problems.’ She paused. ‘Maybe then I wouldn’t have to invite yours either.’ She snorted at her own little joke, but Seb didn’t find it as funny as she’d hoped.

‘You can’t not invite him.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘I can’t start my married life on that kind of threat. She’s being a bitch.’

Anna bristled. ‘She’s not, he just hurt her.’

‘It was a long time ago, Anna,’ he said.

Anna glanced to the side, away from looking directly at Seb and, in doing so, caught a look at the girl behind the counter.

‘Oh god, it’s Rachel.’ Anna whipped round so fast her sunglasses fell off her head and landed with a clatter on the metal table.

‘What? Who?’ He stuck his nose right up against the glass. ‘No it’s not.’

‘It is. You’re so obvious.’ She pulled him back by the arm.

‘Well what’s wrong with it being Rachel. I liked Rachel.’

‘Urgh, that’s because you were a big old square at school just like her.’

‘I don’t think people say things like that any more. Not when they’re grown up.’ He raised a brow like she was one of his pupils.

‘God, I bet she’s loving this.’ Anna said, picking up her glasses and sliding them on to over her eyes. ‘Me back here with my tail between my legs. I bet that means Jackie’s somewhere about the place as well.’

‘Of course she is, Anna, she’s a teacher at the school, she helped me get the job.’ Seb shook his head at her like she was mad, as Anna started to breathe in too quickly.

‘Oh great, that’s all I need. Come on, we have to leave.’

‘Anna, stop it. This is ridiculous, you’re being ridiculous. You’re going to see people you used to know.’

And they’ll think, stupid Anna, now it’s our turn to laugh at her, she thought. They’ll think, what’s Seb doing with her? Have you heard, she lost all their cash? Spending outside her means. Running off to London, we all knew it was doomed. Never made it though, did she? Very few do, it’s a tough industry to break into. Did you hear she lost her job as well? Tough times though, isn’t it? Or the time to cut loose dead wood?

‘I can’t sit here.’ She started to push her chair away.

‘Anna!’ Seb raised his voice just a touch. ‘Anna, calm down. Sit down.’

‘No, I’ll see you later. Have a good first day,’ she said, grabbing her bag from where she’d slung it over the back of the chair and marching away in the direction of Vintage Treasure. She heard him sigh but couldn’t turn round. She caught sight of her reflection in the window of the old gift shop, Presents 4 You, and tried to regain some of her infamous poise. Her eye caught a T-shirt draped over a stack of gift boxes, on it read Paris, Milan, New York, Nettleton. In their dreams, she thought, in their dreams. Who would ever want to end up back here?

‘How do you like your tea?’ A woman’s voice called as soon as the bell over the door of Vintage Treasure chimed.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Anna said, her eyes pained by the catastrophe of objects piled around the place.

‘That’s not what I asked.’

She heard a clinking of teaspoons and the air-tight pop of the lid coming off a tea caddy, and made a face to herself at the woman’s tone.

Contemplating describing her love of Lapsang Souchong, her dislike of semi-skimmed milk and her tolerance for normal tea as long as it wasn’t too strong, she thought it easier to reply, ‘I just have it white.’

There was no answer, so Anna carried on her journey into the dingy Aladdin’s Cave, just relieved to be out of the scorching heat and the gossiping voices that seemed to lace the air. Inside, dust swirled in the beams of sunlight that forced their way through the dirty windows and shone like spotlights on such delights as a taxidermy crow, its claw positioned on an egg, a crack across the left-hand corner of the glass box, a dark-green chaise lounge, the back studded with emerald buttons and a gold scroll along the black lacquered edges. A looming welsh dresser stacked full of plates and cups and a line of Toby jugs with ugly faces and massive noses.

If there was one thing Anna hated, it was antiques. Anything that wasn’t new, anything with money off, anything that had to be haggled for or marked down.

All it did was remind her of being wrapped up against the cold, having her mittens hanging from her coat sleeves, her dad bundling her up at five in the morning in the passenger seat of his van, a flask of hot chocolate and a half-stale donut wrapped in a napkin that she ate with shaking hands as he scrapped the ice off the inside and outside of the window of his Ford Transit before trundling off to Ardingly, Newark or some other massive antique market. She had inherited her mother’s intolerance of the cold. The fiery Spanish blood that coursed through her veins wasn’t inclined to enjoy shivering in snow-crisp fields, her fingers losing their feeling, her damp lips freezing in the early morning frost as she trudged past other people’s mouldy, damp crap for sale on wonky trestle tables.

As she edged her way through the maze of a shop, a woman bumbled out of the back room with a plate of Gingernuts and two mugs of stewed tea clanking together, their surfaces advertising various antique markets and fairs.

‘I made you one anyway,’ she said, pushing her glasses up her nose with her upper arm as she pushed the tea onto the glass counter.

Mrs Beedle. How could Anna have forgotten? Huge, dressed in a smock that could have doubled as a tent, round glasses like an owl, white shirt with a Peter Pan collar, red T-Bar shoes like Annie wore in the film, a million bracelets clanging up her wrist and pockets bursting with tape measures, pencils, bits of paper and tissues. Her greying hair pulled back into an Anne of Green Gables style do, the front pushed forward like a mini-beehive and a bun held with kirby grips.

‘Anna Whitehall, now look at you.’ She leant her bulk against the counter, took out her hanky and wiped her brow. ‘Still as much of a pain in the arse as you always were, I imagine.’