Mallory gives a bark of laughter. ‘I know, darling. You’d quite think someone had died.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘All from Rupert?’
She smiles. Her floaty, floral-sprigged dress and burnished hair make her look like a heroine from a Barbara Cartland romance. ‘What are brand new fiancés for if not to spoil a person?’
She got engaged to Rupert just after New Year and I’ll be photographing their wedding in December.
I’m really happy for her, although I can’t help thinking that it’s been a bit of a whirlwind. But she seems certain Rupert is the one for her, and I’m the last person who should be judging people’s compatibility in the romance stakes. My own track record hasn’t exactly been brilliant.
I hand over my birthday card and gift.
‘God, I’m thirty-four,’ Mallory groans.
Then she smiles and sniffs the freesias. ‘Thank you. They’re perfect!’
‘You’re welcome, Granny.’ I grin.
‘Oh, ha flipping ha! You’ll be just as ancient as me in six months’ time, darling.’
Mallory is pretty much the same age as me but she turns older first. Not that I’d ever point it out, of course. Well, not often. (Rub it in? Me? Never!)
‘Coffee?’ she asks.
‘Go on, then. But I can’t stay long.’
‘Meeting with Miss Polar Ice Cap?’
I giggle. ‘No, that’s tomorrow’s delight.’
She frowns in sympathy and reaches for the ancient stove-top coffee pot.
‘Cressida is a perfectly nice client,’ I say, grinning. ‘Not terribly warm or friendly, I grant you. But she can’t help being a complete control freak who will actually kill herself if the raisins in the wedding cake aren’t all exactly the same shade of chocolate brown.’
Mallory pours coffee into mismatched floral china cups. ‘You do realise you took your life in your hands when you agreed to do her photos?’
I sink down gloomily at the table. ‘True. If they’re not perfect, she’ll probably sue me for ruining her day.’
‘So why are we doing it?’
‘Silly question. I can’t afford not to.’
‘I know the feeling. Thank God I met Rupert, that’s all I can say.’
I flash her a dubious look and she grins. ‘Joke, darling.’
I laugh, thinking she’s probably only half joking. Mallory has a decidedly practical attitude to relationships that I actually rather admire. She thinks romance is highly overrated.
She puts a cup and saucer in front of me then sits down, lifting her dainty feet in ballet pumps onto a chair and flicking back her hair.
‘Come December, money is the very last thing you’ll have to worry about,’ I murmur.
She frowns. ‘His family aren’t that rich, you know. I mean, obviously they’re a lot more affluent than my folks, but then Daddy probably qualifies as the poorest baronet in the history of the aristocracy.’
Two hundred years ago, the Swanns were wealthy landowners, but a succession of heirs with a liking for booze, gambling and women chipped away at the money – and now, Mallory’s parents are probably even poorer than the mice in their basement.
Newington Hall swallows cash as eagerly as kids breaking out their chocolate eggs on Easter Sunday.
They’re always having to auction off paintings to cover the cost of repairs to the house.
I don’t know why they don’t just sell it.
But Mallory says it’s all to do with pride. Her father couldn’t forgive himself if he failed to hold on to the family seat for future generations.
I glance sideways at Mallory. ‘Speaking of your dad … have you heard from them?’
She barks out a laugh. ‘What do you think, darling? I’m lucky if they remember to phone me every alternate Christmas. I’ve given up expecting a birthday miracle.’ She takes a sip of coffee, her eyes clouding over, and we’re silent for a moment.
I really feel for her. I can’t imagine my lovely mum ever forgetting to include me in her Christmas plans. It would be unthinkable.
Mallory flicks a glance at me. ‘On the subject of wealth …’ She hesitates. ‘Did you manage to sell the piano?’
My heart lurches. ‘Yes. Some men came and carted it off.’ I glance down at the table. ‘Should have got rid of it a long time ago.’
There’s a pregnant silence as I continue to stare at the table, seeing its scratched surface through a blur.
Like Mum, Mallory knows that certain subjects are out of bounds and that this is one of them. I’m grateful for her silence.
And in the same vein, I know not to probe too much about her parents.
Roddy and Eleanor Swann are obsessed with travelling the world. It was what drew them together in the first place and the passion has never faded. Mallory, their only child, comes a pretty poor second to their treks in the foothills of the Himalayas and their voyages into the jungles of Borneo.
Her father, a botanist, is currently writing a book on the lesser-spotted haggis or something, and has decamped with Mallory’s mother to their converted bothy in the Highlands of Scotland. They’re tough, I’ll say that for them. It must be pretty chilly up there at this time of year.
Mallory once told me that her middle name, Beatrice, means ‘traveller’. She flicked her eyes to the ceiling and snorted. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? They name me “traveller”, then they bugger off on exotic trips and leave me behind. You can’t fault their brilliant sense of irony, though, can you?’
How these hardy adventurers made Mallory is a bit of a mystery. She’s very much a townie. Wouldn’t know what a ridge tent was if it climbed into bed with her and made her a sausage sandwich. The most pioneering she ever gets, at her own admission, is trekking along Willows Edge main street, searching out bargains in the two upmarket charity shops.
She trained in fashion and design after leaving school, and it was always her dream to have a shop selling vintage shoes and clothing. But the reality turned out to be a Saturday job in a vintage boutique, which eventually became a full-time career in retail.
Then, three years ago, Mallory finally took the plunge and – having saved a little money – set up her vintage clothing shop. On-line.
She works really hard, sourcing items from all over, and makes a modest income. But her dream is that one day, ‘Vintage Va-Va-Voom’ will hit the big time and become a household name.
The fact that she works for herself now, means she’s usually free to help me out at weddings, which is great. I can’t afford to pay her much but she enjoys the work and, as she keeps telling me, every little helps.
Which reminds me …
‘Are you still okay to help me at Ron and Andrea’s wedding?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’ She laughs. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Good old Kim and Kanye. What a hoot! Are you sure we can’t dress up as the 118 boys? We’d just need curly black wigs and shorts.’
‘No! We’re there to do a job. Don’t you dare!’
She snorts. ‘Spoilsport.’
‘We have to look professional.’
She grins. ‘I know. But I do think it’s time you stopped working quite so