Precious Things (8 page)

Maggie noticed the bedside table and saw the open drawer poking out a few inches. Taking a quick look over her shoulder, she slid it open a bit more. There were piles of ticket stubs, cheap pots of nail polish in various shades of neon and inky black, as well as a lighter. What was that doing in there? Maggie pulled out the drawer further and saw a soft pack of Marlboro Lights shoved towards the very back. Beside a ten-pack of coloured condoms, unopened.

Cripes!
Maggie thought. She knew Stella was a normal, hormonal teenager, but wasn't it a little soon to be getting into this already? Honestly, though, what did she know about modern teenagers? Fifteen did seem rather young, but it looked like someone would have to have a chat with Stella about birth control. She could just imagine what Tim would say – it had better be her who did it.

But why is this my responsibility?
Maggie thought with frustration, slamming the window shut.
I don't feel like I'm ready to deal with any of this yet. What about her own mother – where's she?
They had barely heard from Louisa once Stella moved in, and Stella remained steadfastly tight-lipped on anything to do with her. Neither Tim nor Maggie had any idea what had gone on between them, and Louisa was proving to be equally elusive on the matter.

Maggie chewed a fingernail, wondering if she should poke around a bit more, but nervous about what she might find. Just then, she heard her phone ringing on the nightstand. Running out of the room, she slammed the door shut behind her.

‘Hello?' Maggie said, snatching up the phone on the last ring and belatedly realising it was her friend Rachel.

‘Mags. Hi. Sorry to call you in the morning – I know it's always a bit of a struggle. But I need to talk. Have you got a sec?'

Maggie's eyes flickered to the alarm clock beside the bed. ‘Just a couple of minutes, actually – I have that television segment on this morning, I'm just about to leave.'

‘Oh! The one on
Mornings with Penelope Smiley
. . . I forgot, sorry. I won't keep you then.' Rachel sounded upset. ‘I'm just . . . I'm in a bit of a dilemma . . .'

‘It's okay, I've got a minute or two.'

As Rachel told her the news, Maggie's eyes widened and she found she had to sit down.

‘Where did you meet him, then?' she asked when Rachel eventually paused for breath.

‘At work.' Rachel rushed on. ‘Where else? Oh, Mags, I don't know what to do . . . He's just so gorgeous. And . . .'

‘And what?' Maggie asked, hearing the slightest tinge of sharpness enter her voice.

‘We've already . . . you know,' said Rachel. ‘Last night. What should I do?'

Maggie sighed. ‘Oh, Rachel . . .' The words escaped her lips before she could help herself. All she could think about was Rachel's wedding to John, a staff photographer for the
Daily Mail
, and their glamorous Henley-on-Thames ceremony just a year earlier. They had looked so happy together, Rachel with her flaming red curls, smiling up at John as he tipped her on the dance floor.

Maggie and Rachel had met years ago, while Maggie was still working as a loss adjuster for a large insurance firm and Rachel was interning in their public affairs department. Rachel now held a very senior role at Broadcast Music, an organisation responsible for collecting licence fees for British artists and composers. Maggie had always thought Rachel's day-to-day job sounded a little dull, but her friend was frequently invited to swanky affairs with the sort of guest list you'd trade your grandmother to be on, and she had acquired quite the gaggle of celebrity friends on her rise through the ranks.

‘Sorry, Rach, I don't know what to say . . .' Maggie struggled for words. ‘I'm just so . . . You've taken me by surprise. But you know how these things go, don't you? They never end well . . . And . . . well, how do you feel about John now?'

‘I love John, I do,' wailed Rachel. ‘I mean, I really thought I did. Oh, I don't know. Everyone said marriage would change things, that it was boring. But I didn't believe them, you know? I thought we'd be different somehow. But it's all papers in bed and the loo door left
open . . . all that overwhelming domesticity that you're so good with . . . It's all right for you and Tim, you're virtually joined at the hip, but I'm not sure I'm really cut out for it. Plus the sex has . . . waned over the past few months. We only do it a couple of times a week now. Not every night like we used to.'

Maggie tried recalling the last time she and Tim had had sex, and found with a faint pang of sadness that she couldn't immediately remember. Was it last weekend? Or a week or so ago? They were both just so tired all the time. Domestic life didn't leave much time for being sexy, and Maggie sometimes felt, since having Pearl, that she and Tim were more like friends to each other – close ones, but friends all the same – rather than lovers. If anything, the papers in bed sounded quite nice at this point in her life. And the loo door left open . . . well, that happened. Her mind continued to wander until she realised Rachel was still talking

‘—and last night was kind of mind-blowing . . . Honestly, Maggie, the things he did to me . . .'

Maggie listened, wondering how Rachel had the space for all this . . .
passion
. It seemed so long ago she'd felt the same way about Tim.
It's because she doesn't have kids
, Maggie thought, the pit of her stomach feeling leaden.
They change everything.
She knew there was no point quizzing Rachel on whether she was doing the right thing. People had to make their own mistakes – Maggie had learned that lesson the hard way, long ago.

With a start, Maggie realised the time.

‘Rach, I'm so sorry, I've got to go. Can I call you back later?'

‘Of course, of course . . . you go. Call me this afternoon, though?'

‘I will,' Maggie promised. Then she hung up the phone and began tearing about like a mad thing, pulling out a pair of fresh tights and some underwear from her closet, and shimmying out of her flannelette pyjamas, which she left on the floor in a crumpled mess.

Five minutes later, going as quickly down the front stairs as she could in the tight sixties wiggle dress and spiky heels she'd chosen for the television interview, Maggie was juggling several carrier
bags and a box full of things for the show. Opening the car boot to dump everything inside, she couldn't help but think, as she always did whenever she noticed her car, what an embarrassment it was: the eleven-year-old Golf had dents in every panel and a different-coloured driver's side door, from when she'd pulled into traffic too hastily and a Range Rover had ploughed right into the side of her. Maggie thought wistfully of the classic car she'd been dreaming about for as long as she could remember; a 1967 Jaguar.
One day
, she thought,
one day.
Before she got too old and it looked like she was having a midlife crisis. Wouldn't that be nice?

At least the Golf is reliable
, Maggie thought with a sigh, plonking herself in the driver's seat. Maggie wondered when she'd ever own a car that didn't make her feel like an irresponsible student.

Jamming her handbag on the passenger seat, Maggie pulled her belt across her chest and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

She tried again.

Not even a splutter.

The key turned easily but the starter motor wouldn't turn over.

‘No!' she exclaimed, hitting her palm against the steering wheel. So much for German reliability. Pulling a lever to open the boot, Maggie got out and slammed the car door.

Of all days!
she thought, catching sight of her wild-eyed reflection in the window. Readying herself for a dash to the high street, Maggie spotted a grey minicab idling outside her neighbour's house, several doors down. The light on its roof lit up as a man got out.
Perfect
, she thought.
Perhaps my luck's not so rotten after all.
Maggie waved frantically at the driver, pulling her things out of the boot, and ran to open the minicab's door. Gratefully, she tumbled inside. ‘Waterloo, please!' she gasped, sinking back against the stained fabric seats in an attempt to catch her breath.

The driver nodded, and sped off towards Channel 4.

God, the coronet
, Maggie thought in a panic, her breath catching. Had she remembered to pack it? She scrambled through her bags until she found the piece, safely wrapped in layers of pink tissue paper.
‘Oh, thank goodness,' she said aloud. She hadn't been able to resist bringing it along for the segment. She opened up the layers to look at it. It was such a strange, beautiful thing, Maggie thought, gazing at the intricate beading and sequinned stitching, and the trailing ribbons she'd stitched onto the item's sides herself.

She thought back to the Sunday just gone, when she'd uncovered its true beauty. Pearl had been dozing on the sofa in front of
Mary Poppins
as Maggie worked away on her laptop, hoping to catch up on emails before Pearl awoke. They all usually cooked and watched old films or played board games together on rainy weekends, but work had been so busy lately, especially since the promotion, that Maggie had let it start encroaching more and more on family time. At least they'd had time to play dress-ups that morning, with Maggie in a wolf mask chasing a willing Pearl as Little Red Riding Hood all around the downstairs rooms, pretending to bite her when she caught her, Pearl squealing with delight and screaming, ‘More, Mummy – more!'

Viewing a link in one of her messages (to an online boutique sent by a would-be client looking to clear out her collection of Belle Époque fashion and accessories) a random thought had popped into Maggie's head: where was that wotsit she'd found last week, in the box from Friday's auction? The scrunched-up looking item she'd cast inside her bag for later inspection? Maggie jumped up and went searching for her tote, feeling a little shiver of excitement at the thought of playing with the piece while Pearl slept.

‘Ah, there you are,' Maggie murmured under her breath as she withdrew the plastic bag from the depths of her cavernous leather bag. Closing the door gently behind her, Maggie switched on the light for the laundry and opened a cupboard above the huge porcelain sink, salvaged from an old dairy in Somerset. She placed a black rubber plug over the drain and turned on both taps, mingling the water with her hand until it reached the perfect lukewarm temperature. Pouring in a capful of nappy cleaner, Maggie swished it around to dissolve the white crystals. She had a whole cupboard filled to bursting with bottles containing white vinegar, baking soda, tea tree oil for removing
oily stains and various heavy-duty products for scouring, scraping, sponging, dusting, disinfecting and bathing her beloved bits and pieces as she carried out her specialised form of CPR.

She carefully emptied the contents of the plastic bag into the shallow bath and rubbed at the linen between her fingertips, tenderly working away at the old fabric with her fingers until it started turning the water inside the basin a greasy shade of yellowish-grey. Examining the diamantes through the suds, Maggie saw she'd removed some of the oily dust from the small prongs. Finding a toothbrush in an old jam jar, she delicately scrubbed at the gemstones and pearly beads, careful not to scrub away the mercury-hued shine of the sequins. As the suds dissolved around them, the sequins caught the light and seemed to wink up at her.
My precious
, Maggie thought with a smile, running cold water over the entire thing then holding it up to the light again, still dripping.

It appeared to be a collar of some kind, the curved shape suggesting it was once the focal point of some fantastic, larger masterpiece. Yet held at another angle, it reminded her of a crown. No, that wasn't right – it was more delicate than that.
What was the word?
she wondered as it came to her.
A coronet.
That's what it was. Something a maiden would wear. Or a bride, Maggie thought, enthralled.

She carefully laid the piece on the waist-high bench on a fluffy cotton towel to dry –
Best out of reach from small, inquisitive hands
, she thought. Pearl was at a gorgeous age, she truly was, but she wanted to touch everything in sight. Her daughter would have this delicate thing apart in minutes. Maggie was thrilled by how beautifully the piece had come up with just a small amount of treatment. The ravaged silk voile backing was damaged beyond repair, and the beading was fairly patchy in places with short, broken threads showing themselves between tight rows of stitching. But it was such an enchanting piece. She'd definitely been spot-on about its age, too – it was at least a hundred years old, maybe even older. English, or possibly French, she speculated. It had a real Gothic beauty about it, Maggie thought, feeling an odd pull, even stronger than when she'd first found it in the auction house.

She wondered, as she usually did with pieces she loved, about the life of the woman who'd made it. Perhaps she was a lady of leisure, who embroidered and created beautiful pieces for her daughters of a marriageable age? Or was it commissioned by a rich customer from a particularly talented seamstress, as a piece to wear to the opera, or to the theatre? A harried, sweet girl working from the front parlour of her home, her business opening onto a dirty London street running with rivulets of waste and rot, working her fingers to the bone to provide for her children?

‘We're here, miss,' said the minicab driver, interrupting her thoughts, and Maggie realised with a nervous jolt that they'd arrived at the television studios.