Tuesdays at the Teacup Club Read online

  Jenny can’t wait to marry Dan. Then, after years of silence, she hears from the woman who could shatter her dreams.

  Maggie has put her broken heart behind her and is gearing up for the biggest event of her career – until she’s forced to confront the past once more.

  Alison seems to have it all: married to her childhood sweetheart, with two gorgeous daughters. But as tensions mount, she is pushed to breaking point.

  Dealing with friendship and families, relationships and careers, highs and lows, The Vintage Teacup Club is heart-warming storytelling at its very best.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Vanessa Greene

  Copyright

  The Vintage Teacup Club

  Prologue Jenny

  Chapter 1 Maggie

  Chapter 2 Jenny

  Chapter 3 Alison

  Prologue

  Jenny

  Gold-edged, delicate, almost translucent – four perfect teacups sit on four perfect saucers and a small and shapely teapot gleams in between them. The tea service seems to light up the open boot of the bottle-green Morris Minor, and as I reach out a tentative hand to touch the china I’m pretty sure I can hear a gospel choir singing out. Yes. Here, in the hum and bustle of Charlesworth’s car boot sale, the Saturday bargain hunt that brings the residents of our old market town together, we’ve found each other at last.

  ‘Anything in particular you’re after, love?’ comes a gentle, welcome voice over my shoulder. My lord, is that a matching milk jug and sugar bowl I can see nestled among the yellowing newspaper? I peel a corner back to check. I’m right, and they all have the same pretty forget-me-not pattern below the gold rim. I’m transfixed. I wrestle my gaze away from the teacups and turn towards the voice, warm smile already in place – less a charm offensive to kick off the negotiations, more that I simply can’t stop grinning like a fool. I meet the stallholder’s world-weary eyes, grey-blue under unruly brows. I expect my hazel ones look a bit manic – because in my head I’m desperately trying to decide on a maximum price for something I’ve fallen budget-defyingly in love with. Then, before we’ve even exchanged a word, I see the old man’s gaze drift over my shoulder. Hang on …

  ‘Well now, not a customer all morning and then along come three lovely ladies at once.’

  I swivel round and see that two pairs of elegant hands have crept onto my teaset – touching the precious cups that, once I’d bought them, would make everything in my life just right. The women look up in surprise, drawing back from the open boot in unison, still clasping a teacup each. One cup is held protectively by a willowy redhead in a cream silk vest and khaki slacks, the other by a curvy brunette in a gingham dress and red lipstick, her hair pinned back in 1940s victory rolls with just a few curls escaping.

  ‘But …’ I start. I was here first, I long to protest. But then I see the expressions on their faces and I can’t bring myself to say the words. They both look every bit as forlorn to see me as I am to see them.

  ‘Listen,’ the redhead says, composing herself and fixing the stallholder with an assertive glare. He’s clearly about eighty, and I worry he might faint if a conflict escalates. ‘It looks like you’ll be going home with less stock and fuller pockets when you leave this car park today.’ Her green eyes sparkle, and I flinch – how on earth can I compete with this cream-silk-clad professional? She’s a crockery tiger. Retro brunette seems to be losing her nerve, she’s fiddling with her chunky red necklace and glancing around – though something tells me that she might have the cold hard cash to come up on the inside. And me … I look down at my worn jeans and Converse, suddenly aware of the girlishness of my blonde ponytail and petite figure, complete with blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cleavage. I feel twenty-six going on sixteen. Jenny Davis the amateur; my art deco engagement ring the only sign I’ve even dipped a toe in the antiques market before. But I do have passion – and that’s supposed to count for something, isn’t it? Even so, I can’t help fearing that neither my purchasing prowess nor the contents of my purse are going to be hefty enough to land me this teaset of dreams. I hope, at least, that the others can’t see that my heart is breaking a little bit.

  ‘But ladies,’ says the redhead, her auburn waves catching the light as she turns to face us, ‘something tells me that taking this set home would mean really quite a lot to each one of us. Am I right?’

  I’m so shocked by this curveball from the tiger, I just nod dumbly – tears prickling at my eyes. Instinctively I look back at the set. Yes, the sugar tongs need a good polish, but that somehow makes the whole thing even more perfect.

  ‘Yes, it looks like we’re all keen,’ I finally pipe up, turning towards the bemused pensioner. ‘Could you put a hold on the tea service for an hour?’

  That was how our summer started.

  Chapter 1

  Maggie

  ‘Two hundred bunches of cornflowers – yes, two hundred, ten blooms in each bunch.’ Maggie Hawthorne rested the phone against her shoulder, tipping her head slightly as she tied her auburn hair back with a band.

  ‘And I’ll also need a lot of wicker … Oh, you know a good supplier – great! It’s for giant croquet hoops, woven round with marguerites … and matching oversized mallets. Yes, I know, but this isn’t an ordinary wedding – OK, I do know it’s Sunday …’ she breathed out slowly, trying to stay patient. ‘Shall I send you an email and you can look at it tomorrow? Right, no, no, I understand. Let’s speak then.’

  Maggie sat back in her garden swing seat, settled her gin and tonic on the side table and brought her Netbook onto her lap. She tapped out an email to the Dutch supplier with the key points from last Friday’s meeting with her new clients, Lucy and Jack. Finding the teaset yesterday at the car boot had sparked off a lot of ideas and she could now picture exactly how the wedding would look. She just wanted to get started. But although she had the whole of today stretching in front of her, empty time, it seemed she’d have to wait for the start of the working week until she could get the details she needed.

  She knew – her friends and family were always telling her – that she should give herself the weekends to relax, but she couldn’t fight the urge to use the time to get ahead on her business projects. There was always a last-minute rush with weddings. Even after fifteen years in the flower business she hadn’t mastered the art of avoiding eleventh-hour panics – but the meticulous preparation she did ensured that, in her clients’ eyes at least, everything flowed seamlessly.

  The sun was warm on her face as she put the computer aside and took another sip of her drink. Pressing down the toes of her black suede pumps she set the swing seat in motion and leaned back. On a spring day, sitting out here was hard to beat. Friends were always surprised when they saw her garden – the layout was simple, with an emphasis on colour, rather than intricate design; the lawn was well kept, with azalias blooming around the edges. It was a world away from the exotic wedding flowers she often favoured, and a contrast to the way she had furnished the house indoors. But the classic blooms and uncluttered symmetry put her mind at ease. Out here, twenty minutes’ drive from the high street, the only sound was birdsong.

  She fiddled with the wide gold bracelet she’d put on to complement her fuchsia dress that morning. Today, even here, surrounded by nature at its loveliest, Maggie felt restless. What was it about weekends? Sometimes the pressure to relax, to just be yourself, felt immense. Why was relaxing so important anyway?

  Friday’s meeting had unsettled her, and even two days afterwards her garden couldn’t calm her like it usually did. She was used to doing big events – she’d been arranging flowers for them for years – but even by her standards the Darlington Hall wedding was quite something. When she’d driven through the gates in her convertible VW Beetle that first time, the sight of the stately home had taken her breath away. It was even more impressive than it looked in photos. The house itself was Georgian, with pillars by the door and stables off to the side in a nearby block,
and the grounds seemed to spread out for miles around. However, it was the bride, not the place, who had really knocked her for six. Lucy Mackintosh’s wedding vision was an Alice in Wonderland theme – with croquet on the lawn and a Mad Hatter’s tea party laid out next to toadstools. Money, it seemed, wasn’t a big consideration – Lucy was the only daughter of a self-made millionaire, and Maggie knew Lucy’s father was as keen to impress his friends as the bride-to-be was to raise the stakes for the exclusive photo rights.

  Hovering in Lucy’s shadow as she led Maggie around her father’s grounds had been the groom-to-be, Jack. In baggy jeans and a pair of scuffed trainers he had looked every bit the fish out of water. But with his chiselled good looks and gentle warmth (neither were lost on Maggie, despite the ten-year age gap) it was easy to see why Lucy had fallen for him.

  ‘Where do you get your flowers from?’ Jack had asked, looking over at Maggie and then quickly back at his shoes. He seemed genuinely curious.

  ‘From all over, really, Jack,’ Maggie had replied. ‘Holland are important suppliers, and we get our roses from South America … but I tailor things for each wedding, and with this being the biggest one I’ve handled it’s likely I’ll be sourcing flowers from all over the world. Did you have any specific ideas?’

  ‘Umm, no, no,’ he stumbled, ‘I’ll leave that to Luce, she’s good with that stuff, not me … I was just wondering, you know – what it’s like to run your own business.’

  Beyond the shyness and beneath the sweeping brown fringe nearly resting on his eyelashes, Maggie wondered if there might just be a budding entrepreneur. As she went to respond, Lucy cut in.

  ‘What I was thinking is we could have the tea party here, so when the guests arrive they’d be greeted with a cup – from some gorgeous vintage set. Did you get that, Maggie?’ As Lucy span around to face her, the emerald on her necklace glinted in the sun. ‘I mean, where you come in really is that I’d like to see that look echoed with cups filled with flowers all around. I don’t mean shop-bought, I mean proper bonafide vintage teacups. God, the wedding planner I started out with didn’t understand my vision on that at all.’ Lucy rolled her eyes and turned to Maggie, fixing her with a stare that ensured her point was crystal clear. ‘Dropped her like a bad habit. But you see things my way, don’t you, Maggie?’ Maggie nodded, then listened as her client continued. ‘You’d be sourcing the crockery, the wicker … Well, let’s just say that I expect the very best … if Bluebelle du Jour don’t wow me then we can’t expect my guests to be impressed either, can we?’

  Lucy was talking through her plans ten to the dozen now, twirling a strand of her immaculately highlighted hair, walking swiftly around the garden, pointing and gesticulating all the while. By the time they arrived back around at the front of the house Maggie was a little out of breath from rushing to keep up.

  ‘You have some really original ideas, Lucy,’ Maggie remarked, tactfully, biting her tongue before saying any more, something her years of experience had taught her. She couldn’t help glancing with sympathy at the young man who was about to sign up for a lifetime of not being able to get a word in edgeways. ‘I’ll get onto it right away, challenges like this are my speciality. Just one thing, though …’

  She hesitated. God, it went against every instinct she had to admit weakness, especially to someone so clearly used to getting their own way.

  ‘Your vision is fantastic, like I say, but these are fairly big plans, aren’t they? I mean, you know that I’ll deliver, at Bluebelle we always deliver … but things like big toadstools aren’t exactly my speciality – my experience is in the flower business, first and foremost.’

  Lucy let out a high-pitched laugh and threw her head back, shaking her hair-envy-inducing mane. Maggie waited for her client to calm down – the laughter didn’t seem very kind – and when she did, Lucy had her hand on Maggie’s arm. ‘Oh no, Maggie, darling.’ Maggie looked down at Lucy’s tanned wrist and pearl bracelet against her own pale Irish skin, conscious of a physical closeness that she hadn’t invited.

  ‘Jack’s friend Owen is handling all that. He’s a landscape gardener – isn’t that right, Jack?’ Jack nodded and smiled, shifting from one foot to the other.

  ‘Yep, that’s right – Owen’s just set up his own company too, you see that’s what got me thinking … But yes, Owen’s a great—’

  His fiancée interrupted with a whispered aside to Maggie. ‘Only qualified a year ago so he’s dirt cheap too.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Maggie said. She didn’t like what Lucy was implying, but her relief was genuine. She’d been wondering how on earth she was going to manage it all by herself. ‘That’s great. Look, I have to head off now, but it’s been wonderful to talk with you today. When I’ve got a few things firmed up perhaps we could schedule in a meeting? So that Owen and I can brief each other – and you – on our plans, I mean. Lucy, Bluebelle du Jour are going to make this day perfect for you. Trust me. Bespoke weddings are what we do best.’

  Standing next to Maggie’s car, they’d shaken hands and air-kissed. When Jack’s mouth briefly touched Maggie’s cheek, his stubble brushing against her skin, she had not been able to stifle a smile. He was such a genuine guy. Lucy would have to work hard to train him out of that.

  In her garden, Maggie shivered. A cloud was starting to block out the sun, and without a wrap over her pink dress she felt the sudden cold. Gathering up the phone, her Netbook and her empty glass she headed back inside through the French doors of her two-storey 1920s cottage. Mork, her Burmese cat, snaked his way between her feet before dashing inside ahead of her. There was a Mindy, too, her sister Carrie’s cat from the same litter – Mork had the cushier deal, as Mindy had to endure quite a bit of tail-pulling from toddlers.

  Maggie closed the doors carefully behind her and switched on the stereo. Billie Holiday’s soothing tones started to fill the room. The notes started low and wove upwards. They seemed to reach out to each of the magnificent orchids that filled the living room and the adjacent kitchen. Maggie picked up the plant spray and began her daily routine, singing along to the melody and spritzing each orchid in turn. From fragile white petals to delicate pinks and bold purples – each bloom had her full attention for a moment as she assessed its position, movement and colouring, and looked out for any flaws or damage.

  Maggie wondered what would happen if she ever took the time to assess her own body in the same detail. At thirty-six she was still looking pretty good … but when she stepped out of the bath each night the steps that followed were hasty. She’d rub on body moisturiser in swift strokes and dodge the view in the wide mirror. She questioned now why she’d ever thought that mirror was a good idea. Linger too long and she knew what she’d see – dimpled skin, thread veins and stretch marks, her life’s adventures mapped out across her thighs, stomach and bum. She knew how to dress her figure well; in fitted but forgiving jeans, and linen, silk and cottons in cool shades; but the naked truth was another story – wasn’t it for every woman?

  The orchids, however – young and old, perfect and flawed – were all beautiful to her. She stepped up on a little wooden stool and spritzed her favourite of all – a bright pink bloom that she’d placed in a gilt birdcage she’d bought years ago in Islington. Maggie was a London girl. She’d lived just off Camden Passage once, the cobbled street that every weekend became an antiques heaven. Back then, she’d been learning the ropes at a friend’s flower shop nearby and singing with a band in bars and clubs most evenings. With time things had changed though, and apart from the birdcage, very little from her previous life had come with her to the Charlesworth house.

  Maggie’s mind snapped back to the music playing – the iPod plugged into her stereo was flicking through the Bs, from Billie Holiday to Blondie, and something told her that her orchids weren’t going to respond as well to ‘Atomic’ as they did to ‘Summertime’. She chose one of her favourite Aretha songs instead. As she put the iPod down, a memory nagged at her; there’d been a day when half of her
music collection had been quite different; once upon a time her flowers had listened to the Strokes and old Led Zeppelin tracks, whether they liked it or not. She forced the thought away – that had been a lifetime ago, and each month that passed she felt more distant from the woman she’d been back then. She’d thrown away the photos; her early thirties weren’t a time she needed to revisit. Bluebelle du Jour, exhausting as it could sometimes be, kept her busy and energised, and Charlesworth had really begun to feel like home. The best thing of all was that she had complete control over everything in her life, from the timing of her breakfast coffee to the way her flowers framed the lawn. When she plumped her cushions they stayed that way. Maggie had worked hard to find the balance she had now – and while it looked like Lucy Mackintosh was going to be a tough customer, it would take far more than her demands to unsettle that.

  She bent over her Netbook one last time, unable to resist checking if the supplier had been able to reply to her message after all.

  There was a new email, but not the one she’d been expecting. From: Dylan Leonard. Maggie sat down in her wicker chair, to steady herself. A cool chill rushed over her skin. Christ, she thought. Some things just won’t stay buried.

  Chapter 2

  Jenny

  ‘“A Vintage Affair … retro accessories, mother-of-the-bride out-fits”? What’s this, eh, Jenny?’

  Oh crap. I looked up from my screen to clock my boss Zoe leaning down over me, our faces nearly touching. The eyebrow she’d raised had disappeared under her blunt-cut black fringe. I’d watched her go out for a cigarette five minutes ago but must have missed her come back in, darn it. I clicked to minimise the wedding fair website, silently cursing the open-plan layout in our office. I took in a lungful of the familiar cloud of tobacco and Chanel that clung to Zoe.