Page 1 of A Wish for Jinnie
Chapter 1
‘It’s … erm … rather bijou.’Hannah stretched out her arms and pirouetted around the lounge. The fingers of one hand swiped two of the ‘Welcome to your New Home!’ cards off the dusty mantelpiece and onto the floor.
‘What you mean is there isn’t enough room to swing a bloody cat,’ grumbled Jinnie, gathering up the cards and dumping them on the coffee table.
Hannah deftly uncorked the bottle of Prosecco she’d brought along to celebrate Jinnie’s move to the village of Cranley and poured it into two chipped mugs. Most of Jinnie’s possessions were still packed in boxes, stacked in every available corner — which left very little room for anything bar the two friends, a coffee table and two metallic folding garden chairs.
‘Look, hun, I know it’s not ideal,’ said Hannah in a tone of voice that suggested a garden shed would be a better option. ‘The thing is, you needed somewhere fast — and cheap — and this fits the bill. Once you’re back on your feet, we can find something bigger and better.’
Clinking their mugs together, Jinnie and Hannah sat down and gazed around forlornly. Maybe it wouldn’t seemquiteso cramped once she’d unpacked everything. But Jinnie had neither the energy nor the motivation to get organised. Her ‘get up and go’ had ‘got up and gone’ when her boyfriend of three years (and fiancé of two) announced they were over.
She’d moved in with Mark shortly after they got engaged, delighted to trade her studio flat in Edinburgh for his luxurious three-bedroom flat in the West End. As the owner of a small chain of estate agents, Mark was comfortably off (also helped by having seriously loaded parents). They’d met when Jinnie landed a job at one of his agencies, her normally flawless interview skills derailed by Mark’s intense gaze and ridiculously good looks.
Staring into her fizzing mug, Jinnie recalled sitting in Mark’s office. He’d sat opposite, tapping a pen on his notepad. She’d fiddled with the strap of her handbag, feeling damp patches forming in her armpits. Every time she’d looked up, Mark gave a warm smile and nod, encouraging her to continue speaking. Which was easier said than done when her insides had turned to baby mush. He’d taken off his tie and loosened the top button of his shirt, at which point Jinnie blurted out, ‘Gosh, you’re hot too!’ And immediately wished the upholstered swivel chair would swallow her whole. Mark had just laughed, pushed aside her scanty CV and offered her the receptionist job.
Nothing had happened for the first few weeks, Jinnie convinced Mark was way out of her league. Until he strode into the office one sunny Monday morning, plonked a takeaway cup of her favourite coffee on the counter and gave her one of his icecap-melting smiles. It was only after he’d left that Jinnie noticed a scribbled message on the side of the cup.Dinner tonight? Lucca’s at 7.
It had been a relationship fuelled by incredible sex, fabulous holidays and weekend breaks — a world away from Jinnie’s humble upbringing in a council house her parents had scrimped and saved to buy during the Thatcher years. When Mark had slid the exquisite two-carat diamond ring on her finger, Jinnie’s heart had soared, along with her thoughts of vintage wedding dresses, making honeymoon love on a four-poster bed in the Maldives, and lots of adorable babies. Well maybe just a couple, as she was already thirty-five and on a biological countdown. And she’d prayed fervently that they’d inherit Mark’s ash-blonde hair rather than her mousy hue (which she had highlighted every six weeks), and his aquiline nose rather than hers. Jinnie’s was more Roman — or ‘roamin’ all over your face!’ — as her darling younger brother Archie used to say.
There had been times when Jinnie wondered what Mark saw in her. She’d witnessed other women’s reactions when he entered a room. And their looks of disbelief when Jinnie clung to his arm, the sparkling ring a warning that he was off-limits. Not that an engagement guaranteed faithfulness. Looking back, Jinnie realised there had been signs along the way. She’d chosen to ignore them. The late nights at the office; the whispered phone calls not meant for her ears. The dwindling of the incredible sex, Mark rolling over and protesting he was too tired.
Now here she was with no fiancé, no wedding and little chance of motherhood in the immediate future. She’d had to move out of the flat and, with nothing in the way of savings, her only options were to move back in with her mum and dad or find something low-budget. The former was a no-no, not because she didn’t love them to bits, but because it would be yet another kick to her shattered self-esteem. Thirty-five and living with yourparents? She’d found this cottage through the agency, one of only a handful she could afford. Particularly as she’d quit her job a week after being dumped, squatting on Hannah’s sofa bed in the interim. The final kick in the teeth had been witnessing Mark carrying a takeaway cup of coffee into the office of his latest employee, a statuesque brunette called Kimberley with a cute button nose. A message was clearly scrawled on the cup in black marker pen. Jinnie packed up her belongings and marched out of the door with her head held high, and her heart in pieces. She’d received two months’ salary and blown a large chunk on wine, chocolate and a gorgeous little black dress she’d probably never wear. It hung on the door of her poky new bedroom, more mourning gown than party frock.
‘Jinnie, I know it’s all shite, but once you’ve got yourself sorted here and found yourself another job, it’ll be fine.’ Hannah had always been a glass half-full person, while Jinnie veered more towards the ‘need a bigger glass filled to the brim’ school of thought.
Finding another job was at the top of Jinnie’s to-do list, closely followed by saving enough money to allow her to move back to the city. However, with little in the way of qualifications (school really hadn’t been her thing), it was unlikely she’d earn enough before retirement age. Maybe she’d tolerate her cupboard-like existence until then, and hope for a place at an old folks’ home. Although didn’t they cost an arm and a leg too these days?
‘Earth to Jinnie, earth to Jinnie,’ intoned Hannah, flapping a hand in front of her face. ‘You were miles away, hun. Here, have a top-up.’ Hannah filled their mugs to the brim and raised hers in a toast. ‘To new beginnings and all that jazz. As my dear old mum always says, every cloud has a silver lining. Cheers!’
Jinnie half-heartedly clinked her mug in return. Right now, she felt as if her future was one enormous black thundercloud, prepared to drench her already sodden hopes and dreams…
Chapter 2
As villages went,Cranley ticked the usual boxes. Tiny post office cum corner shop (closed for two hours at lunchtime and open Saturday mornings till 11). Quaint olde-worlde pub called The Jekyll and Hyde. Very apt, as the author Robert Louis Stevenson was born in Edinburgh. Doubly apt, as the landlord swung between charm personified and the devil incarnate, as Jinnie had discovered on her few visits there. There was also a tiny hairdressing salon run by Peggy, whose repertoire comprised tight perms or Barbara Cartland-style bouffant dos which could withstand a force nine gale. In her current cash-strapped condition Jinnie couldn’t afford a trip to the capital to see the lovely Stephanie, who’d tended to her subtly highlighted mop of curls for years. Luckily, her last visit had been only a few weeks ago, so desperate measures weren’t called for yet.
Meandering along the high street, Jinnie took a swig of coffee from her stainless-steel flask. Gone were the days when she’d blithely blow a tenner a day on takeaway coffee — she’d developed a strong aversion to cardboard cups — with her caffeine fix now courtesy of a battered kettle and a jar of instant.
Pausing outside one of only a handful of shops, Jinnie looked at the window display. A hotchpotch of battered old books vied for attention with grubby mannequins wearing clothing that was less ‘vintage’, more moth bait. There was a small boutique at the far end of the street, its stock clearly designed for the older members of the community; elasticated-waist trousers and flowery frocks that could double up as tents at Glastonbury. Mind you, in the week or so since Jinnie had moved to Cranley she’d noticed that the average age of the population seemed to be late sixties to early seventies. Not that she believed older people should dress in a certain way, and she had spotted a few ladies decades her senior rocking skinny jeans and cute tops in funky colours. No doubt they hopped on the local train (which ran fairly regularly into Edinburgh) and came back laden with goodies.
Thinking wistfully of her own lunchtime and after-work shopping sprees, when she’d stagger home with armfuls of clothes and cosmetics, Jinnie sighed. She’d chopped up her maxed-out credit cards on her second day here, and shoved the bills to the back of the kitchen drawer. She needed to start earning money — and soon — but job prospects here were thin on the ground. Jinnie knew her parents would give her money without hesitation, but she wasn’t going to ask. They were hardly rolling in it themselves, and they subsidised her brother Archie's musical career. Five years out of university, he was still twanging his battered guitar at open mic nights and producing stuff he declared ‘ground-breaking’ but not yet ready for the masses to hear. He lived in a tiny bedsit just a couple of miles from their parents and was expert in putting them off from visiting. Just as well, as it made Jinnie’s current abode look like the height of luxury. What little floor space there was played host to Archie’s wardrobe, his philosophy being to shed garments like a snake shed its skin. Only when he was down to his last pair of boxers, and even the cockroaches were beating a retreat in disgust, would he haul a bin bag of washing to the local launderette. Or, more often, round to Kath and Rob, otherwise known as the bank of Mum and Dad. Jinnie loved her family, but her younger brother needed to pull his hygienically challenged socks up.
The smell of fresh bread tickled her nostrils as she arrived outside the only bakery/tea room in the village.A Bit of Crumpet was its rather saucy name, inscribed in swirly letters against a cream and pink background. The door was wedged open, the day unseasonably warm for November, and a quick glance inside saw most of the dozen or so tables occupied. A couple of young mums with pushchairs, pensioners tucking into scones or cakes, and a group of women roughly her own age tapping frantically on their phones. Jinnie’s stomach gave an almighty rumble, reminding her she hadn’t eaten that morning. And last night’s dinner of fish fingers and peas hadn’t exactly hit the spot.
‘Jinnie! What are you doing loitering out there? Come in and try one of my new sausage rolls. Makes those shop-bought monstrosities taste like soggy cardboard.’ Owner Joanna — ‘call me Jo, love’ — ushered Jinnie inside. She bent down to remove the doorstop then nudged Jinnie towards a vacant table.
Jinnie had only met Jo briefly twice; once when buying bread and the second time when a dose of the blues could only be fixed by a slice of apple pie. OK, awholepie, washed down by a bottle of cheap plonk which induced both headache and heartburn. Jo was one of those women who you felt you’d known forever, kindness and concern radiating from every pore. Jinnie had given her an edited version of her life story, saying she’d broken up with her boyfriend and was trying to start afresh somewhere new. If Jo was puzzled as to why Jinnie had chosen Cranley, she didn’t comment. Now she set down a plate with a gigantic sausage roll and a mug of tea and pulled up a chair.
‘On the house, love,’ she said, as Jinnie pulled out her purse. Jinnie didn’t need to look inside to know there was very little cash. Blushing furiously, she thanked Jo.
‘No worries. I know you’ve been looking for work and there’s not a lot going around here. But I did hear of something that might interest you.’
Curiosity piqued, Jinnie leant forward, taking a bite of the sausage roll. Flakes of incredibly light and delicious pastry cascaded down her front. Brushing them away with a napkin, she listened intently.
‘You’ve probably not come across it yet, but there’s an antique shop tucked away down a side street near the pub,’ said Jo, nodding at a new customer who’d just walked in. ‘With you in a sec!’ she chirruped before continuing. ‘The owner’s looking for an assistant, someone to man the till and what have you when he’s off gallivanting around the country looking for more tat — I mean, objets d’art — to flog. I think it’s only part-time, but it might be worth checking out.’ Jo patted Jinnie on the shoulder before heading back to the counter. After fixing a coffee for the customer, she returned with a card in her hand.
‘You could ring him, but probably easiest if you just dropped by. He should be there now.’
Jinnie thanked Jo again and finished off the sausage roll, washed down with the rest of the tea. She looked at the card:Samuel A. Addin, Out of the Attic Antiques, with an address and phone numbers. Jinnie couldn’t imagine herself working in such a place, but job offers weren’t going to flutter down from the sky like December snowflakes. There was no harm in going for a chat, was there? Decision made, Jinnie gathered up her things, waved at Jo, and headed off before she could change her mind.
