‘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.
‘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