had a green Hennes headscarf to protect her hair, that she had given a little snip that morning to try and maintain the Trevor Sorbie cut as long as possible, and her fuchsia leather gloves, so that however much her hands might sweat, they would protect her nails.
‘You’re not handling priceless antiques, you know,’ Mrs Beedle noted as she clocked the gloves while ambling in to make the tea.
‘Oh I’m well aware of that,’ Anna replied, staring scathingly at the mound of junk before her.
‘Mind your mouth, young lady. I know your trick, do as little as possible and still get paid. Well if you’re not careful, I’ll start paying you by the square foot you clear. That’d get you moving, wouldn’t it?’
Anna glanced at what she’d done so far and realised if that became the case she’d have earned about £2.99.
Mrs Beedle pushed her glasses up her nose and watched as Anna upped her pace a touch. ‘Have you been to see your dad yet, young lady?’
Anna paused, then turned round with a box of novelty teaspoons in her hand. ‘Where should I put these? With the silver or do they warrant a space all of their own?’
Mrs Beedle narrowed her eyes. ‘I take it that’s a no.’ She shook her head. ‘Still a selfish little madam, I see.’ When Anna made no move to reply, she sighed and then said, ‘Put the spoons with the silver. I have to look at a cabinet in Ambercross, it’ll take me what?’ She looked at her watch. ‘Forty minutes. Do you think you can handle it here on your own or should I lock up?’
Anna scoffed. ‘Yes, I think I’ll manage,’ she said, unable to hold down a condescending raise of her brow.
‘I’m not sure.’ Stubby fingers on her hips, Mrs Beedle stared at Anna and then the counter behind her, contemplating the safety of leaving her behind, while Anna tried to remember if a customer had actually come in on the occasions she’d been in the shop.
‘It’ll be fine.’ She waved a gloved hand. ‘I’m good with people.’
It was Mrs Beedle’s turn to scoff. ‘I find that very hard to believe. OK, I’ll try and make it half an hour.’
‘Fine.’ Anna had turned away and focused on the next box to sort through, which seemed to be mainly more horrible old teaspoons each with the name or image of some different tourist landmark on the handle. She thought they were best suited to the bin, but instead tipped them into the box marked Silver, and made a show of moving relatively quickly onto the next one.
As soon as the bell over the door tinkled closed, however, she was out of that room, gloves off, Lapsang Souchong in hand, sitting in the tatty orange armchair and switching the CCTV to Murder She Wrote.
Then she picked up the shop’s phone and called her friend Hermione.
‘Darling.’ Hermione’s cut-glass accent boomed out of the receiver. ‘Hang on, I think there might be a pause, like you’re calling long distance.’
‘You’re hilarious.’
Hermione made a noise between a snort and a laugh at her own joke. ‘I try. How is it there? Have they driven you out of town with pitchforks yet?’
Anna snuggled down in the chair and smiled. ‘They’re just sharpening the prongs.’
‘Tines.’
‘What?’
‘They’re called tines. The prongy bits.’
‘Not on pitchforks.’
‘I think they are. Google it.’
‘I’m not Googling pitchforks.’ Anna took a slurp of tea.
‘So I laughed out loud at my desk when I got your email about having to hang out with Jackie. I can’t believe she’s still there. What’s wrong with people?’ Hermione’s voice clinked in her ears like champagne flutes touching. ‘But, you know what, I was so intrigued I’ve joined too.’
‘Joined what?’
‘Tinder.’
Anna sat up straight, a smile spreading across her face. ‘And have you said yes to anyone yet?’
‘Christ no, they’re all dreadful. All from bloody Milton Keynes. Ugly and poor.’
Anna snorted a laugh.
‘I just thought though, why should I sit at home in a fucking heatwave and not go on some dates. Especially if even Jackie’s doing it. But I’ve set my lower age limit to forty-five just so I don’t get Smelly Doug,’ Hermione went on.
‘Well no wonder you don’t like any of them.’ Anna casually started flicking through an antiques magazine on the counter.
‘I’m waiting for a silver fox.’ Hermione drawled. ‘I’m looking at them now, there are so many that are so dreadful. You should join.’
‘What?’
‘Just to keep me company while we’re on the phone.’
Anna ignored her and kept on flicking aimlessly through the magazine. ‘I think you should say yes to some even if you aren’t sure, Hermione. Just to warm up.’
Hermione snorted. ‘I’m warm enough thanks, Anna. I don’t want anyone not good enough to think they could have me. I’m not having some old duffer in the pub bragging that Hermione Somers-Brown said yes to the catalogue photo he’d uploaded instead of a picture of himself. Go on, join, it’ll give us something to talk about, otherwise I’m hanging up because I don’t really want to hear any of your depressing Nettleton news.’
Anna shut the magazine and looked around the shop. The idea of being stuck there on her own with nothing to do except sweat buckets in the stockroom and no one to talk to was enough to make her log onto the Vintage Treasure WiFi and download the Tinder app.
‘It links to your Facebook,’ she said after a minute, ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Oh who goes on Facebook any more.’ Hermione waved away her concern.
And as soon as Anna was up and running, any niggles were soon replaced by the sheer joy of happily discarding so many over-eager looking men.
‘Oh Jesus!’ She heard Hermione say, as she was swiping away a snowboarder doing a double thumbs-up for the camera.
‘What?’
‘Your dad’s on here.’
‘No!’ Anna made a face of horror.
‘Shall I put him in my Yes pile?’ Hermione laughed.
‘Don’t you dare.’
‘He’s a silver fox if ever I saw one. You know, I’d forgotten how handsome he is.’
‘Hermione, you’re talking about my father.’
‘I know and he’s a dish. Perhaps I could have a torrid fling with him.’
‘Hermione, don’t even thi—’ Anna paused, her hand hovering over the screen of her iPhone on the picture that had just appeared in front of her.
‘What?’
Anna didn’t reply.
‘What? What’s happened?’
She stared at the face that had popped up, thick dark hair all messy and lightened at the tips from too much time in the sun. Desert Storm fatigues, huge white-toothed grin, pale lips cracked, face tanned around goggle marks. ‘Nothing,’ she said to Hermione.
‘Don’t give me that. Who is it? Who have you seen?’
‘Luke.’
‘Luke Lloyd?’ She could hear the delight in Hermione’s tone. ‘The delightful Mr Lloyd back from saving the world and looking for sex. How marvellous. You must Yes him.’
Anna