The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows

Chapter 2 (#ulink_28e479f7-95e4-5997-8f0e-478bb38479d8)

4 months later

‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Maisie, as she unwound her mile-long knitted scarf, and finally liberated the chunky bright green coat buttons straining across her ample bosom. ‘There were no unpleasant scenes and no hysterical screaming.’ Largely because the screaming and shouting had been conducted in her head.

Nigel peered over to the door, watched as she disappeared back into the hall to hang up her coat, and waited patiently to hear more of the tale.

‘Actually, that’s not true.’ Her golden curls bounced up and down like slinky springs as she returned to the room. ‘Finding Gareth in the basement was a decidedly unpleasant scene.’ She shrugged. ‘So I now have no boyfriend and no job.’ Her sun-soaked expectations of the summer had curled up in a dark corner and were shivering with cold.

That afternoon, she’d been sent down to the archives to research the names of chief brewers from years gone by as the brewery looked to relaunch a historic ale. Entering the basement, she heard the huffing and puffing often associated with lifting down heavier box files from high shelving, but as she got closer, there were an awful lot of squelchy noises that didn’t fit the scenario. The naked bulb hanging from the high concrete ceiling failed to light the back row adequately and, as she turned the corner, she recognised the Hollister polo shirt she’d bought Gareth for his birthday. He was not only showing the new girl from HR around the archives but also giving her a guided tour of his tonsils. Maisie’s world stopped for that moment. She squeaked and dropped her notebook, Gareth turned and flushed traffic-light red, and the young girl slid out from under him and made for the fire exit.

Maisie brushed the unpleasant memories from her cluttered mind as she sat primly in her upholstered armchair. Time to move on, she told herself, and bit back treacherous tears.

Nigel took another nut from the ceramic bowl in front of him and popped it in his mouth. They made eye contact across the low-backed sofa where three aubergine satin cushions were set at precise forty-five-degree angles. The question he hadn’t asked hung in the air between them.

‘I could hardly stay. He’s my boss. Hashtag awkward,’ Maisie said, in her defence. ‘It’s fine. Another job will come along. I might even look for something different. Four years in the same office has been suffocating. You have to pick yourself up and embrace new things.’

Nigel looked momentarily worried, probably because the bowl in front of him was empty, more than an overriding concern for her crummy job and relationship statuses. He shuffled through the tummy-high sawdust, lay on his back and stuck his stumpy legs in the air. Never one for convention, he slid underneath his wheel to place his tiny limbs on the exterior of his well-nibbled exercise device, and a low droning rattle began as he scampered like mad, almost as if his tiny life depended on it.

Maisie Meadows wasn’t a why me? kinda gal. Gareth’s betrayal and her subsequent resignation were both upsetting but not insurmountable. However, as she placed a silver cracker across the solitary white dinner plate, she acknowledged this wasn’t how she’d planned to spend Christmas Day – alone. The original plan, Christmas dinner with Gareth at the local gastropub, had been struck through the calendar with such force the pen had ripped the paper. So, it was just her and Nigel, and he would remain in his cage until after the meal because she didn’t trust him with her Brussels sprouts.

Cutting herself off from Wickerman’s, she had also inadvertently cut herself off from her social life. She no longer wanted to be with the mutual friends she’d shared with Gareth, and because her absolute best friend and sister, Zoe, was as far away from Maisie as she could geographically be, she had no one to discuss her Christmas wish list with or share a laugh about her unrealistic New Year’s resolutions. As if in response to her thoughts, there was a scuffling from the corner of the room. At least she had Nigel.

An expensive Merlot breathed next to the hob, where she steamed a single portion of vegetables. A chicken breast fillet wrapped in maple-cured bacon – like an oversized pig in a blanket – roasted merrily in the oven with four crispy roast potatoes. There was already a half-drunk glass of pale cream sherry on the go and, as she sipped it, the leathery fruitiness added to the festive aromas swirling around the room.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have family. Goodness – she had more than enough to go around. Both parents were still alive and kicking, although should they ever find themselves alone in the same room, the kicking would be seven shades of something unpleasant out of each other. And she also had three older siblings. Problem was, she couldn’t even remember the last time they were all together. Part of it was logistics – they were scattered across the globe – but most of it was more … complicated.

Several years ago, she received separate Christmas dinner invitations from her parents. Not prepared to undertake the forty-mile round trip to keep them both happy, nor to accept one and refuse the other, an amicable solution was reached that had endured ever since. Christmas Eve with Mum (because she did the most fabulous stockings and even at twenty-five Maisie refused to relinquish the tradition) and Boxing Day with Dad and whichever lady happened to be hanging adoringly off his jaunty elbow at the time.

Her smart strawberry kitchen timer buzzed to announce her Mini-Me banquet was ready, so she stood it back on the worktop in a line of matching red appliances. (The kitchen was the first room she’d painted when she moved in the previous year; a study in monochrome with accents of scarlet – she’d even persuaded the landlord to go halves on a beautiful black and white chequerboard floor.) Ten minutes later, she sat down to her seasonal feast, flicked out the pure white linen napkin and let it drift gently down to her knees. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she toasted into the air as she sipped the sweet, plum-flavoured wine and then promptly burst into tears. There’s only so much positivity a person can muster in the face of such life-changing circumstances, especially when emotionally lubricated with a couple of glasses of sherry.

In recent weeks, the television had bombarded her with images of picture-perfect, happy families gathering to share banquet-sized meals of gastronomic perfection. The culinary aspect she could do standing on her wavy blonde head, but where were all the people she cared about? Because there had been a time, many moons ago, when her life had mirrored these saccharine adverts, long before the Meadows family members were scattered to the four winds.

The last family Christmas she could remember, Maisie had been six. Mum had woken at silly o’clock because the ostrich-sized turkey had to go in at half five and then she’d busied herself with table-laying, present adjustment and tree titivation. She always maintained once she was up, she was up. With all the crashing and banging drifting up the stairs, a bleary-eyed Maisie stirred to find Father Christmas had been. Her pillowcase was stuffed with exciting, oddly shaped parcels and the pine-green fabric stocking at the end of her bed was overflowing with sweets and treats. She stumbled her slippered feet downstairs to show everyone her Sylvanian Rose Cottage – which proved what she’d said all along – she had been a good girl this year. (No one knew about the hair-pulling incident at school. Not even Santa, apparently.)

Everywhere she looked there were delicious piles of food. The sideboard was covered in bowls of nuts and crisps, the fridge was bursting at the hinges, saucepans overflowed with pre-prepared veg, and the whole back worktop was loaded with bottles of wine and spirits. But most exciting of all, presents cascaded from underneath the Christmas tree like a waterfall of cheery wrapping paper. (This year, she’d only poked exploratory holes in a couple because she was a big girl now and had learned through bitter experience that anticipation was part of the fun.)

Dad was doing silly dances in a Santa hat and naked-lady apron to the loud music throbbing from the kitchen. Lisa, her eldest sibling, who had been her usual sarcastic and grumpy teenage self all morning, was unusually human by lunchtime – having found some festive joy from somewhere. Her brother, Ben, sat upstairs, contentedly bashing away at his drums. The beats echoed through the house, and even though they weren’t in time to Mum’s cheesy Christmas CD, it was all happy noises and general jollity. Maisie’s morning was spent either sneaking small fistfuls of salted peanuts from the sideboard or flat on her tummy arranging and rearranging Rose Cottage, only getting shouted at once by Lisa, who tripped over her sprawled legs when she came through to flop in front of the television.

Both sets of grandparents arrived in time for lunch, showed great interest in all Maisie’s presents (Granddad even playing board games with her) and then fell asleep en masse in the armchairs after the Queen’s speech – the only truly boring bit of the whole day. Later, the elderly contingent was roused for tea but decided to go home early. Maisie guessed all the excitement and post-dinner brandies were too much for them. Daylight ebbed away, and Zoe, older than her by five years, played with her instead – which was a first as she usually whined that Maisie was too babyish to play with. As Mum laid out another magnificent spread of food that everyone was too full to eat but still managed to devour, Dad took his parents home. Granddad had given up driving when his eyesight started to deteriorate but they lived locally and her dad told Maisie to save him a caramel square as he winked and slipped out the front door. Two hours later, he burst back into the house, laden with surprise presents for everyone and a huge bunch of flowers for Mum. The day was so full on that it seemed to Maisie it had ended almost as soon as it had begun. Lisa disappeared to bed uncharacteristically early, shortly followed by Maisie, who was full of delicious food and totally content. It was, she fondly recalled, how a Christmas Day should be …

Pulled out of her reverie by the buzzing of her mobile on the kitchen worktop, Maisie put down her nearly empty wine glass and walked over to the counter.

‘Merry Christmas, baby doll.’ It was Zoe Skyping across a vast expanse of ocean and continents.

‘Merry Christmas.’ Maisie leaned her bottom on the edge of the worktop, her heart temporarily lifted by Zoe’s beaming face. ‘What are you still doing up? It must be midnight there?’

‘I suddenly realised I hadn’t spoken to you, but now that I come to think of the time zones, you’re probably in the middle of a romantic Christmas dinner with that hot bloke of yours.’

‘Not at all. I’ve always got time for you.’ It wasn’t necessary to bring the mood down with Gareth’s tongue-thrusting exploits.

‘I miss you.’ Zoe reached a hand out to the screen and Maisie mirrored it with her own. ‘It seems ages since your visit.’

The three-week trip to South Australia was one Maisie would never forget even though it nearly bankrupted her. Despite the memorable art gallery, the adorable pandas at Adelaide Zoo and the winery tour in the Barossa Valley, spending intensive, quality time with her sister had only made her miss Zoe all the more upon her return.

‘Who are you chatting to?’ There was a chirpy voice in the background and a man’s mid-section appeared in front of the screen; the yellow cotton T-shirt and dark shorts of her favourite non-family member. The figure bent down and a beaming upside-down face appeared.

‘Cheers.’ A glass of red was waved in her direction. ‘How’s it going?’ Oliver was like a second brother to Maisie – a slightly less grunty and more interactive one.

‘It’s good.’ It was all the positivity she could muster. ‘I’m full of glorious food and about to kick back, pour another glass of wine and toast absent friends.’

‘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.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_fcf9e453-1a7e-59d9-95c5-5e93caf9c9c9)

‘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 …’