The Vintage Girl by Hester Browne Read Free Book Online Page A

see ghosts of old McAndrew warriors and damsels floating through the panels in ancient kilts, trailing long tartan sashes and melancholy and
history
.
    Not literally, but you know what I mean.
    “We’ve just got a few people round for Sunday night drinkies,” Duncan went on, sweeping me, suitcase in tow, through a section of hall bedecked with disembodied antlers and medieval weaponry as far as the eye could see. “Hope you don’t mind. Bit of a local tradition. Well, a new tradition. One we’ve started!”
    “Let me take your coat, Evie,” said Ingrid heavily.
    “Um, I might just hang on to it for a while,” I said, picturing the moment when I’d have to reveal my jeans to a drawing room full of cocktail party guests, probably all wearing bow ties and possibly toting cigarette holders. I racked my brains for the etiquette; were cocktails more or less formal than dinner?
    It didn’t help that my eyes kept flitting from the amazing tattered old Scottish flag hanging over the balcony to the lamp in the shape of a giant brass fish to a huge emerald witch ball suspended above the balustrade.
    “If it’s not too rude,” I went on, dragging my attention back to the matter at hand, “maybe I should go and freshen up before I—”
    Duncan grabbed my elbow and steered me toward a closed door. “No, what you need is a drink and a warm-up by the fire. Ingrid? Tell Mhairi to take Evie’s case up to the Gordon Suite.”
    Ooh. The
Gordon Suite
.
    I glowed at the thought of my case being whisked away by staff, just like in a Merchant Ivory film, until I remembered exactly how heavy it was. Not having spent much time in stately homes outside National Trust opening hours, I’d fallen back on my extensive knowledge of period dramas and packed for most eventualities, up to and including some impromptu shooting and light croquet.
    As Ingrid went to take it from me, I stepped back protectively. I’d sat on it for hours to get that “traveling light” look.
    “There’s no need,” I said. “I’ll take it up myself.”
    “No, no!” said Duncan, and I remembered too late that you weren’t supposed to porter your own luggage in posh houses. I hoped I wasn’t being scored on this.
    “Now, do come through. So many people are dying to meet you,” Duncan was saying, while Ingrid telegraphed something to an invisible maid over the top of his head.
    “What do you mean, ‘so many people—’ ” I began, but he’d pushed open the door and shoved me inside (“Come on, come on, don’t let the heat out!”), slamming the door behind us, nearly trapping my heels in the process.
    At once, conversation ceased as all eyes swung my way.
    I blinked hard. There was a lot to take in.
    Twenty or so guests were gathered in the green-and-maroon drawing room, most wearing tartan trousers or cashmere twinsets or, in a couple of cases, both. All were standing as close as they could to the big marble fireplace, in which a modest basket of firewood was burning valiantly, and were clutching tiny sherry glasses.
    A normal drinks party, in other words, give or take the palatial setting. But what really sent a shiver of ice down my spine were the other things most guests were clutching.
    A carriage clock. A Clarice Cliff teapot. A violin case. And, in several cases, plastic supermarket carrier bags.
    It was a drive-by valuation party. And I was trapped.

Five
    Some people have nightmares about retaking their A-level school exams stark naked. I had a recurring nightmare about being forced to do on-the-spot valuations in front of a room full of expectant people clutching fake Lalique vases. The trouble was, unlike nude exams, it did sometimes happen in real life.
    For me, a party wasn’t a party until someone demanded I value their earrings. Max warned me about it: as soon as you mentioned you worked in antiques, everyone was emptying their handbags to show you the silver Edwardian letter opener their granny gave them that they now used to