Читать книгу The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows - Jenni Keer - Страница 8

‘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 have similar things come up and I could keep an eye out and let her know if any appeared, and she said she appreciated that, but it’s really no trouble …’ The girl was taking tiny backwards steps, nodding and trying to extricate herself with the minimum of fuss.

‘… You know as well as I do that there’s no rhyme or reason to what turns up each week,’ he continued. ‘Sometimes I look at the lots and think my Pamela would snap up some of them dainty bits and pieces in an instant. And there’s always weird and wonderful things out the back. Why, only yesterday I helped the lads unload one of them red telephone boxes. Now that’s something that would look lovely in a—’

‘Arthur, my dear fellow, Ella is obviously busy, and totally inappropriately dressed to be standing about in this most inclement weather.’ Johnny turned his head and stage-whispered to Maisie. ‘What is she wearing? An avocado blouse with that ghastly shade of blue?’ The volume of his observation made Maisie feel uncomfortable so she tried to make sympathetic eye contact with the shivering girl, but she was eyes down, staring intently at her elegant knee-high boots. ‘Let her go about her work, please.’ Half-grateful, half-embarrassed, Ella gracefully picked her way across the pot-holed forecourt and stepped into the front office.

‘Sorry, Mr Gildersleeve, sir.’ The old man nodded in deference to his boss. Ah, so that was where the company name came from.

‘Arthur is our head porter,’ Johnny announced, his eyeballs inspecting the insides of his upper eyelids, as if to indicate the job title was possibly inappropriate. ‘And this charming young lady is Maisie. She’s applied for a position in our burgeoning empire and I’m giving her a guided tour of our salubrious premises in an attempt to woo her over.’ Johnny really liked his big words. If nothing else, her vocabulary would expand should she take the position.

‘Right lovely to meet you, Maisie.’ The old man stuck out his hand. As she tentatively reached out, Arthur grasped her fingers, but didn’t let go as he began another verbal ramble.

‘Coming for a job, you say? It would be smashing to have another bright young thing about. We always seem to have more jobs than staff. Everyone is so busy, with barely a moment to pass the time of day.’ There was a small cough from Johnny but Arthur continued, undeterred. ‘If you get the job, and I know you will because I can tell by looking at you what an asset you’d be to the company, come to me for anything you need help with. I’ve picked up an awful lot during my time here and it would be smashing to pass that knowledge on to someone else. Always new objects to research and interesting people coming and going …’

On cue, the clean-shaved man who’d bowled past her earlier appeared briefly in the doorway, bobbing his head around the barn door looking lost. He must be a customer either dropping off items for sale or collecting things he’d bought in the auction the previous week. He caught her eye and grinned. She felt her cheeks burn hot and looked away but no one seemed to notice her discomfort or the bobbing man.

Two porters, one bearded and one bald, appeared from a huge barn, wrestling with a heavy green upholstered sofa that resembled a bathtub.

‘Art Dee-co, that is,’ Arthur said, nodding towards the sofa knowledgeably and stressing the first syllable. ‘Heavier than it looks.’

‘Can you get the door to the storage shed?’ one of the porters panted.

‘Don’t be stressing. I’ll be there presently. And, before I forget,’ he said, turning back to Johnny, ‘I noticed a nice little Moorcroft vase in the sale – Mrs Collins said back in the summer how she was keeping an eye out for them, so I thought I might let her know. She doesn’t make it to the viewings now the weather’s turned nasty. What do you think?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Johnny. ‘Whatever you think best. Anyway, don’t let us hold you up, Arthur.’

The two men rested the sofa on the damp concrete path by a large shed and looked over to Arthur, who ambled towards them, rattling a bunch of keys, as if he had all the time in the world.

‘Head porter, you say?’ Maisie clarified, her forehead creased into a frown, as they walked over to two gigantic farm barns.

‘Don’t ask, dah-ling. Don’t ask.’

Maisie stood in the doorway to Saleroom Two. It was the upmarket version of the larger barn they’d just walked through. Saleroom One held household and modern effects; this was antiques. Both had the large central space divided by trestle tables, strewn with boxes. Larger items, such as furniture, stood around the edge and pictures and rugs hung from the walls.

At the far end stood a glass-fronted cabinet that contained small objects of value, every item proudly displaying a numbered sticker, which Johnny explained was cross-referenced in their printed catalogues. In her efforts to understand the system she looked up the lot number for a pair of silver cufflinks and read the description with a £130–£190 estimate. It seemed a frustratingly vague idea of their value to her.

Having never been to an auction, Maisie was wary of them as a concept. She liked the certainty of wanting an object, knowing its price and being able to purchase it without competition. There were too many elements of chance associated with the random and unstructured nature of bidding for her liking.

Johnny leaned an elbow on the top of the cabinet and ran a hand through his bouncy hair. There was a pause when all she could hear was the echoing footsteps of the porters at the back of the barn.

‘Look, I’ll be brutally honest,’ he said, ‘I’ve only had seven applicants and interviewed three. You are far and away the most impressive candidate and possibly over-qualified for this job. We need marketing skills like yours to help the company grow but you’ll also be asked to lift tables, offer practical help on auction days and even sweep up occasionally.’ His foot toyed with some dead leaves blown in by the wind, letting them crunch beneath his highly polished shoes.

The advert in the local paper had been optimistically worded: Growing firm of Auctioneers seeks individual with marketing and communications skills to contribute to vibrant team. Maisie was beginning to suspect General dogsbody who knows a bit about computers because we’re largely clueless, and who’ll probably be asked to clean the toilets if we’re a man down might be a more accurate job description.

‘However, I promise you won’t have anyone looking over your shoulder or making you account for your movements, and I will genuinely listen to any input and ideas you have. I liked your portfolio, particularly the unusual Wickerman’s beer mats you designed for the Felixstowe Beer Festival. You are clearly creative and focused. But more importantly, I like you.’

For the first time that morning, Johnny looked slightly nervous; tiny beads of sweat forming on his corned beef-coloured brow. He was wringing his hands together and looking intently at her face. ‘So, my darling, I fall procumbent at your alabaster feet, and ask if you are in or out?’

Not quite sure whether being procumbent was a good thing or not, Maisie gazed across the cluttered room of miscellaneous objects, contemplated the joy of a ten-minute commute, and the distinct and welcome lack of potential romantic partners in the workplace.

‘In,’ she said.