The Queen of Wishful Thinking Read online

  This book is dedicated to my dog. Teddy was my darling ‘bear’. He sat behind my chair when I wrote so I couldn’t move, he sat on my feet when I watched TV, he even followed me into the loo to check I didn’t need a bodyguard to protect me from any harmful toilet rolls. We were together all the time and I feel his loss tremendously because he took a part of me with him when he died. No one in my house now looks as me as if I am an international catwalk model and nothing rushes at me in a red blur of excitement when I walk into the house as if I have been gone for months, when in reality, I’ve just nipped to the garage to get fish fingers out of the freezer. The space at the side of my desk is cold and empty because he was my writing buddy, a patient, loving, huge, warm presence.

  If you’re an animal person you’ll ‘get it’, if you’re not then your heart will be less broken in life but you’ll miss out on so much. I wouldn’t swap with you.

  Teddy Johnson, Eurasier,

  11.11.2008–11.10.2016

  First wish it.

  Then think of yourself doing it.

  Then do it.

  THE QUEEN OF WISHFUL THINKING

  Prologue

  All Lewis Harley could really remember about that night was thinking, Is this how it ends? His body was in chaos but his brain was running along a parallel track of clarity calmly observing what was going on across the way, deeply regretting that he had not had the chance to retire from the rat race and open up the antiques shop which had been in his plans since . . . well, since forever. All those years with his delicious secret ambition tucked up inside him and he’d been cut off at the pass. He’d been an idiot, presuming he’d never be the recipient of such a cruel curveball. And now it was too late.

  The pain was in his shoulders, his arms, his back – everywhere but in his chest strangely enough, the place he would have imagined a heart attack would choose as its centre. But still he knew he was having one, and that any moment now, he would be heading towards the famous tunnel of bright light on a one way ticket.

  So when Lewis Harley woke up in hospital to a trio of smiling medical faces, he resolved that he would take the gift of this second chance and live the life he had wished for himself.

  There will be a report from the Trumpet FM roving reporter Ailsa Shaw from the Plot of Gold Antiques, Summer Hill this Saturday. Proprietor Leslie Harley is providing a buffet to celebrate the first six months of being open and all are welcome. After having had a heart attack, Leslie had a total carrier change from investment bonking to antique dealing. There will also be a full written report in the Daily Trumpet in our Shop-till-you-Drop supplement next Wednesday.

  Chapter 1

  Bonnie Brookland tried to concentrate on polishing the smears out of the cabinet door and block out the nasal voice of her boss Ken Grimshaw spouting the biggest load of bull she’d heard all year, but he was nigh on impossible to ignore at that volume.

  ‘You see, it’s just a lot of old junk really, love, so twenty-five quid would be my final offer,’ he was saying to the little old lady who had just handed him a box full of what she’d hoped were treasures. People did it so often. They came through the doors hoping they’d leave ten minutes later as millionaires after watching a couple of Antiques Roadshows and Cash in the Attics. They presumed every decorated egg was a Fabergé, every cracked blue and white vase was a Ming. And even if they were, asking Ken Grimshaw to value them was a huge mistake because, Rolex or rubbish, he’d automatically say they were junk so he could offer peanuts. Bonnie couldn’t see all of what was in the old lady’s cache, but she did spot a white Holmegaard Gulvase vase on top which was quite rare and alone worth more than the twenty-five pounds which Grimshaw was offering her for everything. He didn’t know as much as he purported to about antiques, but he’d definitely identified that piece correctly because it had set off his facial tic, which is what usually happened when he recognised something of value and knew he was going to get it for a song.

  Bonnie had worked at Grimshaw’s since she was a schoolgirl, first just weekends then full-time after leaving school. Once upon a time it had been Sherman and Grimshaw’s because her dad, Brian Sherman, and Ken’s father Harry had been in partnership, but when Brian became ill, Harry had bought him out, though, as a mark of the respect in which he held his friend, he kept the Sherman name above the door alongside his own. Harry had been very good to Bonnie and she’d loved working for him and had learned a lot from him over the years. He’d been a fair man, a respected man and the shop had been beautiful. Then he’d died suddenly two years ago and his revolting son had taken over the business and it had gone downhill faster than an overweight bull on a bobsleigh. It was full of junk now, car boot stuff, give or take a few lovely but ridiculously overpriced bits of jewellery in cabinets. Bonnie knew that many of the gemstones in them were fake. People automatically presumed if a stone was set in gold, it was the real McCoy, even if the ‘ruby’ had scratch marks on it or there were tiny bubbles in a ‘sapphire’, but Ken had advertised them all as if they were. He was prepared to take a risk that he wouldn’t be found out. So far, he was winning.

  Harry Grimshaw had valued Bonnie’s extensive knowledge, her intuition and her wonderful way with people. Ken Grimshaw treated her like something nasty that he’d stood in. As far as he was concerned, she was there to sell things, clean up, make the tea and occasionally, when his cronies were in, to leer at. They’d make under-the-breath smutty comments about her as if they were all in a seventies sitcom. Bonnie hated the days when they came in, but she needed the job so she put up with them.

  Ken reached in his pocket and pulled out a creased tenner and when he went into the back room for the rest, Bonnie reckoned she had a window of thirty seconds tops. She darted over to the old lady and spoke rapidly to her in a low voice.

  ‘Don’t take his money. Go to another antique shop. That vase alone is worth much more than he’s offering.’

  ‘Really?’ came the reply, along with a plume of warm breath which showed up in the cold air because Ken didn’t waste money on heating.

  Bonnie raised her finger to her lips. ‘Shh. Don’t say I said anything.’

  She managed to be back into glass-cleaning position by the time Ken reappeared to see the old lady replacing her things in the box.

  ‘I think I’ll see if another shop is interested,’ she said. ‘You’re not paying me enough.’

  Ken shrugged. ‘Of course you’re at liberty to do that but I could have saved you some shoe leather. What about thirty quid then?’

  The old lady stole a glance over Ken’s shoulder at Bonnie who was shaking her head.

  ‘Thank you but there’s a nice antiques shop in Spring Hill Square,’ said the old lady. ‘I’ll try there.’

  Ken laughed. ‘You’ll get even less there, love. He’s only been in the game five minutes. Wouldn’t know a Vincent Van Gogh from a Dick Van Dyke.’

  The old lady pointed at Bonnie. ‘She said that vase was worth a lot by itself.’

  Ken Grimshaw’s head twisted sharply to Bonnie and she felt an instant stun of embarrassment. She knew that she was in for it as soon as they were alone. And she was right.

  Ken Grimshaw started shouting the moment the door had closed on the old lady.

  ‘You snidey bitch. You’ve got a nerve, haven’t you? If you think I’m paying you for sending people away to rivals you’ve got another pissing think com—’ He snapped off his rant as if he had just realised something. ‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you? No wonder I’ve got no frigging customers left.’

  ‘No I have not, though I admit I don’t know how I’ve stopped myself, but this was one step too far. You could have given that woman a fair price and still made a dece
nt enough profit. Your dad would be disgusted if he were here, Ken Grimshaw.’

  ‘Well he’s not here, is he, he’s dead,’ said Ken, spittle spraying from his mouth. ‘He and that stupid bastard of a father of yours might have been soft, but I’m not and I’m not paying you to send people to other fucking dealers. You should be working over there, love,’ and he stabbed his finger at the window towards the Hospice charity shop across the street. ‘In fact you can piss off and ask them for a job. Go on.’ He stomped into the small, scruffy office at the back of the shop and returned with Bonnie’s handbag which he threw on the floor at her feet. ‘Now fuck off and don’t come back, you cheeky cow.’

  Anger pulsed through Bonnie’s whole body. As much as she needed this job, she couldn’t work for this vile human being one more minute but she bit down on what she would have liked to have thrown at him because she needed her wage. It would be bad enough going home and telling Stephen she was now unemployed without having to add that she’d worked nearly a month for nothing.

  ‘You owe me three and a half weeks’ money please,’ she said, her voice riding a tremble. ‘I’ll take that, then I’ll go.’ She held out her hand, reading from his expression that she had about as much chance of getting it as Oliver Twist had of getting a second bowl of gruel.

  He pushed his face into hers and let loose a loud ‘Ha’, his breath rank from the cigarettes he chain-smoked. ‘You’re sacked, love. Gross misconduct. Here, that’s all you’re getting because it’s all you’re frigging worth.’ He picked up a two pence piece from the counter and tossed it at her. ‘You can whistle for the rest. Take me to fucking court, I dare you.’

  If only her dad or Joel had still been around. They’d have flown up here for her as soon as she told them about this and not only would she have had her wages but Ken Grimshaw would be missing his front teeth. But her dad was gone and so was Joel and the man she was now married to would equate such confrontation with Neanderthals.

  Bonnie bent down to pick up her things. She was aware that Ken was watching, enjoying the sight of her bending in front of him, scooping up the items that had spilled from her bag when he’d thrown it. She walked as steadily to the door as her shaky limbs would let her, feeling his eyes burn holes in her back. It was of small consolation that he’d have no one to manage the shop whilst he was on a stag week in Benidorm at the end of the month. He’d be furious later on, when he thought of that.

  Chapter 2

  Bonnie was too shaken to go straight home, plus Stephen was on an afternoon off and would be no doubt playing Wagner at full blast in the lounge, which was not conducive to unwinding. She unlocked her car door, belted herself in and set off in her ancient Vauxhall. It had been a faithful old rust-bucket, but it was nearing the end of its days and she doubted very much it would get through its next MOT in August without a small fortune being spent on it. The thought of having to ask Stephen for things she needed always filled her with dread. He made it into such an ordeal, she felt like Bob Cratchit asking Scrooge for a day off at Christmas. The last time she’d needed a front tyre, she’d had to ‘apply’ for the money as if he were a bank. He had made her shop around for prices and list them and then, after all that, he’d taken the car to a garage and had a part-worn one fitted. It was Stephen who put the most money into their joint savings account, therefore he was in charge of it, he said.

  Bonnie knew her dad would be spinning in his grave about her situation. He’d saved all his life hoping to leave her enough money to be comfortable, only for most of it to be spent on his nursing home costs. Bonnie could have found a cheaper home but her dad deserved the best and she made sure he had it. He’d been so strong, the illness which crippled his brain so quickly had taken years to kill his body. The little that hadn’t been absorbed, Stephen had taken care of for her, adding it to the joint savings that she wasn’t allowed to touch.

  She drove away from town and found herself on the Penistone road where Spring Hill was situated. She hadn’t heard of it before and was pleasantly surprised to find a square of shops around a pretty central garden area. There was a florist, an old-fashioned toyshop, a gift shop and next to a quaint-looking teashop in the corner, an antiques shop. So the old lady had been right then. The Pot of Gold, it was called. It had a painted wooden sign hanging from elaborately scrolled metalwork. There was a rainbow arcing over the lettering and adjacent to the last ‘d’, a small golden pot complete with radiating lines of shimmer. Bonnie had nothing to lose and everything to gain by going in and asking if they had a job, but the way her luck had been going the last few years, she expected an instant rebuff.

  As she passed by the window, she noticed there were a couple of customers in so she went into the teashop instead to wait until they had gone, plus it would calm her down having a breather and a coffee. Her nerves were pulled to the tautness of harp strings. She was forty-two and had never had to apply for a job in her life until now.

  The teashop was pretty from the outside with its hanging baskets full of pink and cream scented flowers, but inside it was even lovelier. The pink and cream theme was repeated on the painted walls and there were standing cabinets full of gorgeous book-themed gifts: handbags, journals, scarves, quills. Behind the teashop counter was a slim, smiling lady in an apron and a reed-thin boy scratching his chin and hiding a grin. A tall, handsome man with a twinkle in his eye was standing cross-armed and teasing the lad about his stubble.

  ‘Ah, you don’t need a razor for that. You could wipe it off with a cloth.’ The man was laughing, his accent strong Northern Irish.

  ‘You take no notice of him, Ryan. He’s just jealous of your youthful charm . . . Hello,’ the lady with the apron called to Bonnie. ‘Please take a seat, I’ll be over in a minute.’

  There was just one table empty, next to a wall covered in postcards from all over the world. Bonnie sat down on the heart-backed iron chair at the side of a large ginger cat in a basket which she thought was a stuffed toy, until it yawned and then settled its great head back down onto its paws. She picked up a menu. Charlotte Brontë Brandy Snap Basket, she noticed. That sounded lovely, maybe one day she’d come back and treat herself. But for now a coffee would suffice.

  Bonnie let the calm air of the teashop work its magic on her frazzled nerves. She realised she’d left a cardigan and the book she read in her lunch hours back at Ken Grimshaw’s shop. Well, they’d have to stay put because she would never set foot in there again. She felt sick about not getting her wage, although the loss of the money was secondary to the prospect of the lecture she’d get from Stephen about it. She wished she didn’t have to go home today. Or ever. Her dad had told her many times that her mum said if you could imagine doing something in your head, you could do it in real life. She’d been wrong though. Bonnie had been picturing herself leaving Stephen and his house for years, yet she was still there.

  She finished her coffee and waved a thank you at the lady with the apron and crossed her fingers that the antiques shop was empty now. It was. She tried to will some steel into her backbone by reciting a precis of her mother’s favourite saying. Come on, Bonnie. Wish. Think. Do. Her whole body felt as if it were shaking when she opened the door of the Pot of Gold.

  Chapter 3

  The Pot of Gold antiques shop in Spring Hill Square belonged to Lewis Harley and it was everything he had planned it to be during his months of recuperation. He had created a bygone haven of tranquillity with his choice of decor. The walls were painted in period colours of smoky green, creamy ivory, bronze red, muted gold; the solid display cabinets were predominately dark wood. Clocks charmed the walls, their chimes aged and mellow, bright but gentle lighting complimented everything it touched and the perfume of polish and old books pervaded the air. More than once Lew had been told by customers that they felt as if they had gone back in time when they had crossed over his threshold.

  Footfall was building but much more slowly than he had hoped for. It wasn’t viable for the large L-shaped shop to be filled
with Lew’s finds alone so he rented out space for traders to sell their goods. Some only leased a single cabinet, a few wanted larger chunks of floor space to display furniture but so far the fees collected didn’t cover the rent that Lew paid out to the landlord Mr McCarthy. Too many units were empty for any profit to be made. He needed customers to attract dealers, he needed dealers to attract customers and he hadn’t worked out yet how best to break the cycle. But he would, because Lew was determined to make it work. The Pot of Gold was a dream come true for him. He loved walking in through the doors every morning to the sight of all the beautiful old treasures, he loved the smell, the noise, the peace of his new world after his fraught, pressured past world of investment banking. There was just the one major fly in the ointment: his sales assistant Vanda Clegg.

  It was a very different Vanda Clegg who came in for the interview last year to the one who now worked in the shop. ‘Interview Vanda’ was smiling and genteel, professional and knowledgeable. ‘Shop Vanda’ was moody, moany, lazy and didn’t seem to know her arts from her nouveau. Thinking back to that interview, Vanda had steered the ship of their conversation to waters in which she was obviously safe, sailing in between familiar islands of Clarice Cliff, Cranberry glass and Cloisonné. He’d been too easily impressed by what, he now suspected, was a scripted performance. And, on second reading, her carefully written references looked a little suspect too. ‘Vanda would suit many work environments,’ said one, as if Vanda would suit many – but not theirs. The references supplied were all written with a cold pen, he now felt, filled with telling phrases such as: ‘generally pleasant’, and Vanda apparently had ‘a considerable effect on workplace morale’ in her two months working at Hobbyworld. It didn’t say that effect was a positive one. He also wondered if the same author who wrote ‘full of chatter’ really wanted to write ‘could talk a glass eye to sleep’.