A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author
A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author
Isabel Wolff
Do fairytale dresses bring fairytale endings?Every dress has a history, so does Phoebe…Phoebe always dreamt of opening her own vintage dress shop. She imagined every detail, from the Vivienne Westwood bustiers hanging next to satin gowns, to sequinned cupcake dresses adorning the walls.At the launch of Village Vintage, Phoebe feels the tingle of excitement as customers snap up the fairytale dresses. Her dream has come true, but a secret from her past is casting a shadow over her new venture.Then one day she meets Therese, an elderly Frenchwoman with a collection to sell, apart from one piece that she won't part with …As Therese tells the story of the little blue coat, Phoebe feels a profound connection with her own life, one that will help her heal the pain of her past and allow her to love again.
A Vintage Affair
ISABEL WOLFF
In memory of my father
What a strange power there is in clothing
Isaac Bashevis Singer
Contents
Epigraph (#ue9e9b873-11c0-5c5c-b3ba-6e5d17f45f96)Prologue (#uf3d5f808-2eeb-543f-a046-a3cba462c129)Chapter One (#u7d4fe6a4-764a-5e2f-a54a-f134b4198099)Chapter Two (#u607a54cf-8cb2-59d8-88f3-6570bbd4c238)Chapter Three (#u347d16f0-496e-5731-afd8-a5221480c709)Chapter Four (#ub01f7d96-25a4-5d69-adb8-b8362f034f9c)Chapter Five (#u1a06aece-1865-5cf6-89e0-c4f44181c65a)Chapter Six (#uadcfe8ff-40eb-569d-9cfa-67f2f2a6934e)Chapter Seven (#uf47510a7-c766-5720-98fe-ef045e9c9b79)Chapter Eight (#u86723b4e-5f69-5b9b-9062-a7f8b007976d)Chapter Nine (#ud078bf54-6245-500d-a5fd-22d8caccdfae)Chapter Ten (#u8dc4b435-8222-5aca-929b-f5400061b06d)Chapter Eleven (#u2ba98d6b-104f-51f0-a232-bd9e48e5d295)Chapter Twelve (#u35aa3576-10e6-512a-a524-a7723d65dafa)Chapter Thirteen (#u3399ba4c-787d-5bcf-9ed6-4b3fc97b3ccd)Chapter Fourteen (#u7a943c35-0ef1-5c7a-a558-0f7746b291a3)Chapter Fifteen (#u0e9c0ffe-fdb4-5da5-adb4-1cbcff397356)Epilogue (#u8c7184d5-9976-5085-8369-2c50251051af)Bibliography (#udba292fc-b6f9-58f9-8b95-947475b69d32)Acknowledgements (#ud1ba114d-efcf-53d8-be03-031d4847cf00)About the Author (#uc9256df8-b5e4-5fae-8b10-3ae1d1c53cf9)By the same Author (#u758ac88d-c6f9-5df3-982d-9df6969864c5)Praise For Isabel Wolff: (#ua8681c43-f8a2-5b82-aa3e-fcbf5ca91800)Copyright (#u6d91cbcd-9fe9-5c0b-9b90-8f47b751d20d)About the Publisher (#u8d57af52-aa6d-5d01-9b31-6840b09faff5)
PROLOGUE (#u2ead5159-4ca4-58b7-8a61-f5cfd585c4ee)
Blackheath, 1983
‘… seven-teen, eight-een, nine-teen … twenty! Com-ing!’ I yell. ‘Ready or not …’ I uncover my eyes and begin the search. I start downstairs, half expecting to find Emma huddled behind the sofa in the sitting room or wrapped, like a sweet, in the crimson curtains, or crouched under the baby grand. I already think of her as my best friend although we’ve only known each other six weeks. ‘You have a new classmate,’ Miss Grey had announced on the first day of term. She’d smiled at the girl in the too-stiff blazer standing next to her. ‘Her name is Emma Kitts and her family have recently moved to London from South Africa.’ Then Miss Grey had led the newcomer to the desk next to mine. The girl was short for nine, and slightly plump with large green eyes, a scattering of freckles, and an uneven fringe above shiny brown plaits. ‘Will you look after Emma, Phoebe?’ Miss Grey had asked. I’d nodded. Emma had flashed me a grateful smile …
Now I cross the hall into the dining room and peer under the scratched mahogany table but Emma’s not there; nor is she in the kitchen with its old-fashioned dresser with its shelves of mismatched blue-and-white plates. I would have asked her mother which way she’d gone but Mrs Kitts has just ‘popped to play tennis’ leaving Emma and me on our own.
I walk into the big, cool larder and slide open a low cupboard that looks promisingly large but contains only some old Thermos flasks; then I go down the step into the utility room where the washing machine spasms in its final spin. I even lift the lid of the freezer in case Emma is lying amongst the frozen peas and ice cream. Now I return to the hall, which is oak-panelled and warm, smelling of dust and beeswax. To one side is a huge, ornately carved chair – a throne from Swaziland Emma had said – the wood so dark that it’s black. I sit on it for a moment, wondering where precisely Swaziland is, and whether it has anything to do with Switzerland. Then my eyes stray to the hats on the wall opposite; a dozen or so, each hanging from a curving brass peg. There’s an African head-dress in a pink and blue fabric and a Cossack hat that could be made of real fur; there’s a Panama, a trilby, a turban, a top hat, a riding hat, a cap, a fez, two battered boaters and an emerald green tweed hat with a pheasant feather stuck through it.
I climb the staircase with its wide, shallow treads. At the top is a square landing with four doors leading off it. Emma’s bedroom is the first on the left. I turn the handle then hover in the doorway to see if I can hear stifled giggles or tell-tale breathing: I hear nothing, but then Emma’s good at holding her breath – she can swim a width and a half underwater. I flip back her shiny blue eiderdown, but she’s not in the bed – or under it; all I can see there is her secret box in which I know she keeps her lucky Krugerrand and her diary. I open the big white-painted corner cupboard with its safari stencils, but she’s not in there either. Perhaps she’s in the room next door. As I enter it I realise, with an uncomfortable feeling, that this is her parents’ room. I look for Emma under the wrought-iron bed and behind the dressing table, the mirror of which is cracked in one corner; then I open the wardrobe and catch a scent of orange peel and cloves which makes me think of Christmas. As I stare at Mrs Kitts’ brightly printed summer dresses, imagining them under the African sun, I suddenly realise that I am not so much seeking as snooping. I retreat, feeling a vague sense of shame. And now I want to stop playing hide and seek. I want to play rummy, or just watch TV.
‘Bet you can’t find me, Phoebe! You’ll never, ever findme!’
Sighing, I cross the landing into the bathroom where I check behind the thick white plastic shower curtain and lift the lid of the laundry basket, which contains nothing but a faded-looking purple towel. Now I go to the window, and lift the semi-closed slats of the Venetian blind. As I peer down into the sun-filled garden a tiny jolt runs the length of my spine. There’s Emma – behind the huge plane tree at the end of the lawn. She thinks I can’t see her, but I can because she’s crouching down and one of her feet is sticking out. I dash down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the utility room, then I fling open the back door.
‘Found you!’ I shout as I run towards the tree. ‘Found you,’ I repeat happily, surprised by my euphoria. ‘Okay,’ I pant, ‘my turn to hide. Emma?’ I peer at her. She’s not crouching down, but lying down, on her left side, perfectly still, eyes closed. ‘Get up will you, Em?’ She doesn’t reply. And now I notice that one leg is folded beneath her at an awkward angle. With a sudden ‘thud’ in my ribcage I understand. Emma wasn’t hiding behind the tree, but in it. I glance up through its branches, glimpsing shreds of blue through the green. She was hiding in the tree, but then she fell.
‘Em …’ I murmur, stooping to touch her shoulder. I gently shake her but she doesn’t respond, and now I notice that her mouth is slightly agape, a thread of saliva glistening on her lower lip. ‘Emma!’ I shout. ‘Wake up!’ But she doesn’t. I put my hand to her ribs but can’t feel them rise and fall. ‘Say something,’ I murmur, my heart pounding now. ‘Please, Emma!’ I try to lift her up, but I can’t. I clap my hands by her ears. ‘Emma!’ My throat is aching and tears prick my eyes. I glance back at the house, desperate for Emma’s mother to come running over the grass, ready to make everything all right; but Mrs Kitts is still not back from her tennis, which makes me feel angry because we’re too young to have been left on our own. Resentment at Mrs Kitts gives way to terror at the thought of what she’s likely to say – that Emma’s accident was my fault because it was my suggestion that we play hide and seek. From inside my head I hear Miss Grey asking me to ‘look after’ Emma, then her disappointed tut-tutting.
‘Wake up, Em,’ I implore her. ‘Please.’ But she just lies there looking … crumpled, like a flung-down rag doll. I know I have to run and get help. But first I must cover her as it’s turning chilly. I pull off my cardigan and lay it across Emma’s upper body, quickly smoothing it over her chest and tucking it under her shoulders.
‘I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.’ I try not to cry.
Suddenly Emma sits bolt upright, grinning like a lunatic, her eyes popping with mischievous delight.
‘Fooled you!’ she sings, clapping her hands together then throwing back her head in glee. ‘I really fooled you there, didn’t I?’ she cries as she pushes herself to her feet. ‘You were worried, weren’t you, Phoebes? Admit it! You thought I was dead! I held my breath for ages,’ she gasps as she brushes down her skirt. ‘I’m right out of puff …’ She blows out her cheeks and her fringe lifts a little in the gust, then she smiles at me. ‘Okay, Heebee-Phoebee – your turn.’ She holds out my cardigan. ‘I’ll start counting – up to twenty-five, if you like. Here, Phoebes – take your cardi, will you.’ Emma stares at me. ‘What’s up?’
My fists are balled by my sides. My face feels hot. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’
Emma blinks with surprise. ‘It was only a joke.’
‘It was a horrible one!’ Tears start from my eyes.
‘I’m … sorry.’
‘Don’t ever do that again! If you do, I won’t talk to you any more – not ever!’
‘It was only a game,’ she protests. ‘You don’t have to be all …’ she throws up her hands, ‘silly … about it. I was only … playing.’ She shrugs. ‘But … I won’t do it again – if it upsets you. Honestly.’
I snatch my cardigan. ‘Promise.’ I glare at her. ‘You’ve got to promise.’
‘Ok-ay,’ she murmurs, then she takes a deep breath. ‘I, Emma Mandisa Kitts, promise that I won’t play that trick on you, Phoebe Jane Swift, ever again. I promise,’ she repeats then she makes an extravagant slashing gesture. ‘Cross my heart.’ Then, with this funny little smile that I have remembered all these years, she adds, ‘and hope … to … die!’
ONE (#u2ead5159-4ca4-58b7-8a61-f5cfd585c4ee)
September is at least a good time for a new start, I reflected as I left the house early this morning. I’ve always felt a greater sense of renewal at the beginning of September than I ever have in January. Perhaps, I thought as I crossed Tranquil Vale, it’s because September so often feels fresh and clear after the dankness of August. Or perhaps, I wondered as I passed Blackheath Books, its windows emblazoned with ‘Back to School’ promotions, it’s simply the association with the new academic year.
As I walked up the hill towards the Heath, the freshly painted fascia of Village Vintage came into view and I allowed myself a brief burst of optimism. I unlocked the door, picked the mail off the mat, and began preparing the shop for its official launch.
I worked non-stop until four, selecting the clothes from the stockroom upstairs and putting them out on the rails. As I draped a 1920s tea dress over my arm I ran my hand over its heavy silk satin then fingered its intricate beading and its perfect hand-stitching. This, I told myself, is what I love about vintage clothes. I love their beautiful fabric and their fine finish. I love knowing that so much skill and artistry have gone into their making.
I glanced at my watch. Only two hours to go until the party. I remembered that I’d forgotten to chill the champagne. As I dashed into the little kitchen and ripped open the cases I wondered how many people would come. I’d invited a hundred so I’d need at least seventy glasses at the ready. I stacked the bottles in the fridge, turned it up to ‘Frost’ then made myself a quick cup of tea. As I sipped my Earl Grey I looked around the shop, allowing myself to savour for a moment the transition from pipe dream to reality.
The interior of Village Vintage looked modern and light. I’d had the wooden floors stripped and limed, the walls painted a dove grey and hung with large silver-framed mirrors; there were glossy pot plants on chrome stands, a spangling of down-lighters on the white-painted ceiling and, next to the fitting room, a large cream-upholstered Bergère sofa. Through the windows Blackheath stretched into the far distance, the sky a giddying vault of blue patched with towering white clouds. Beyond the church, two yellow kites danced in the breeze while on the horizon the glass towers of Canary Wharf glinted and flashed in the late afternoon sunlight.
I suddenly realised that the journalist who was supposed to be interviewing me was over an hour late. I didn’t even know which paper he was from. All I could remember from yesterday’s brief phone conversation with him was that his name was Dan and that he’d said he’d be here at 3.30. My irritation turned to panic that he might not come at all – I needed the publicity. My insides lurched at the thought of my huge loan. As I tied the price tag on an embroidered evening bag I remembered trying to convince the bank that their cash would be safe.
‘So you were at Sotheby’s?’ the lending manager had said as she went through my business plan in a small office every square inch of which, including the ceiling and even the back of the door, seemed to be covered in thick, grey baize.
‘I worked in the textiles department,’ I’d explained, ‘evaluating vintage clothes and conducting auctions.’
‘So you must know a lot about it.’
‘I do.’
She scribbled something on the form, the nib of her pen squeaking across the glossy paper. ‘But it’s not as though you’ve ever worked in retail, is it?’
‘No,’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘That’s true. But I’ve found attractive, accessible premises in a pleasant, busy area where there are no other vintage dress shops.’ I handed her the estate agent’s brochure for Montpelier Vale.
‘It’s a nice site,’ she said as she studied it. My spirits rose. ‘And being on the corner gives it good visibility.’ I imagined the windows aglow with glorious dresses. ‘But the lease is expensive.’ The woman put the brochure down on the grey tabletop and looked at me grimly. ‘What makes you think you’ll be able to generate enough sales to cover your overheads, let alone make a profit?’
‘Because …’ I suppressed a frustrated sigh. ‘I know that the demand is there. Vintage has now become so fashionable that it’s almost mainstream. These days you can even buy vintage clothing in High Street stores like Miss Selfridge and Top Shop.’
There was silence while she scribbled again. ‘I know you can.’ She looked up again but this time she was smiling. ‘I got the most wonderful Biba fake fur in Jigsaw the other day – mint condition and original buttons.’ She pushed the form towards me then passed me her pen. ‘Could you sign at the bottom there, please?’…
Now I arranged the evening gowns on the formal-wear rail and put out the bags, belts and shoes. I positioned the gloves in their basket, the costume jewellery in its velvet trays, then, on a corner shelf, high up, I carefully placed the hat that Emma had given me for my thirtieth birthday.
I stepped back and gazed at the extraordinary sculpture of bronze straw; its crown seeming to sweep upwards into infinity.
‘I miss you, Em,’ I murmured. ‘Wherever you are now …’ I felt the familiar piercing sensation, as though there was a skewer in my heart.
There was a sharp rapping sound from behind me. On the other side of the glass door was a man of about my age, maybe a little younger. He was tall and well built with large grey eyes and a mop of dark blond curls. He reminded me of someone famous, but I couldn’t think who.
‘Dan Robinson,’ he said with a broad smile as I let him in. ‘Sorry to be a bit late.’ I resisted the urge to tell him that he was very late. He took a notebook out of his battered-looking bag.’ My previous interview overran, then I got caught in traffic, but this should only take twenty minutes or so.’ He shovelled his hand into the pocket of his crumpled linen jacket and produced a pencil. ‘I just need to get down the basic facts about the business and a bit about your background.’ He glanced at the hydra of silk scarves spilling over the counter and the half-dressed mannequin. ‘But you’re obviously busy, so if you haven’t got time I’d quite –’
‘Oh, I’ve got time,’ I interrupted. ‘Really – as long as you don’t mind me working while we chat.’ I slipped a sea green chiffon cocktail dress on to its velvet hanger. ‘Which paper did you say you were from?’ Out of the corner of my eye I registered the fact that his mauve striped shirt didn’t go with the sage of his chinos.
‘It’s a new twice-weekly free-sheet called the Black &Green – the Blackheath and Greenwich Express. The paper’s only been going a couple of months, so we’re building our circulation.’
‘I’m grateful for any coverage,’ I said as I put the dress at the front of the daywear rail.
‘The piece should go in on Friday.’ Dan glanced round the shop. ‘The interior’s nice and bright. You wouldn’t think it was old stuff that was being sold here – I mean, vintage,’ he corrected himself.
‘Thank you,’ I said wryly, though I was grateful for his observation.
As I quickly scissored the cellophane off some white agapanthus, Dan peered out of the window. ‘It’s a great location.’
I nodded. ‘I love being able to look out over the Heath, plus the shop’s very visible from the road so I hope to get passing trade as well as dedicated vintage buyers.’
‘That’s how I found you,’ said Dan as I put the flowers in a tall glass vase. ‘I was walking past yesterday and saw you’ – he reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out a pencil sharpener – ‘were about to open, and I thought it would make a good feature for Friday’s paper.’ As he sat on the sofa I noticed that he was wearing odd socks – one green and one brown. ‘Not that fashion’s really my thing.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I said politely as he gave the pencil a few vigorous turns. ‘Don’t you use a tape-recorder?’ I couldn’t help asking.
He inspected the newly pointed tip then blew on it. ‘I prefer speed writing. Right then.’ He pocketed the sharpener. ‘Let’s start. So …’ He bounced the pencil against his lower lip. ‘What should I ask you first …?’ I tried not to show my dismay at his lack of preparation. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Are you local?’
‘Yes.’ I folded a pale blue cashmere cardigan. ‘I grew up in Eliot Hill, closer to Greenwich, but for the past five years I’ve been living in the centre of Blackheath, near the station.’ I thought of my railwayman’s cottage with its tiny front garden.
‘Station,’ Dan repeated slowly. ‘Next question…’ This interview was going to take ages – it was the last thing I needed. ‘Do you have a fashion background?’ he asked. ‘Won’t the readers want to know that?’
‘Er … possibly.’ I told him about my History of Fashion degree at St Martin’s and my career at Sotheby’s.
‘So how long were you at Sotheby’s?’
‘Twelve years.’ I folded an Yves St Laurent silk scarf and laid it in a tray. ‘In fact I’d recently been made head of the costumes and textiles department. But then … I decided to leave.’
Dan looked up. ‘Even though you’d just been promoted?’
‘Yes …’ My heart turned over. I’d said too much. ‘I’d been there almost from the day I’d graduated, you see, and I needed …’ I glanced out of the window, trying to quell the surge of emotion that was breaking over me. ‘I felt I needed …’
‘A career break?’ Dan suggested.
‘A … change. So I went on a sort of sabbatical in early March.’ I draped a string of Chanel paste pearls round the neck of a silver mannequin. ‘They said they’d keep my job open until June, but in early May I saw that the lease here had come up for sale, so I decided to take the plunge and sell vintage myself. I’d been toying with the idea for some time,’ I added.
‘Some… time,’ Dan repeated quietly. This was hardly ‘speed writing’. I stole a glance at his odd squiggles and abbreviations. ‘Next question …’ He chewed the end of his pencil. The man was useless. ‘I know: Where do you find the stock?’ He looked at me. ‘Or is that a trade secret?’
‘Not really.’ I fastened the hooks on a café au lait-coloured silk blouse by Georges Rech. ‘I bought quite a bit from some of the smaller auction houses outside London, as well as from specialist dealers and private individuals who I already knew through Sotheby’s. I also got things at vintage fairs, on eBay, and I made two or three trips to France.’
‘Why France?’
‘You can find lovely vintage garments in provincial markets there – like these embroidered nightdresses.’ I held one up. ‘I bought them in Avignon. They weren’t too expensive because French women are less keen on vintage than we are in this country.’
‘Vintage clothing’s become rather desirable here, hasn’t it?’
‘Very desirable.’ I quickly fanned some 1950s copies of Vogue on to the glass table by the sofa. ‘Women want individuality, not mass production, and that’s what vintage gives them. Wearing vintage suggests originality and flair. I mean, a woman can buy an evening dress in the High Street for £200,’ I went on, warming to the interview now, ‘and the next day it’s worth almost nothing. But for the same money she could have bought something made of gorgeous fabric, that no one else would have been wearing and that will, if she doesn’t wreck it, actually increase in value. Like this –’ I pulled out a Hardy Amies petrol blue silk taffeta dinner gown, from 1957.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Dan, looking at its halter neck, slim bodice and gored skirt. ‘You’d think it was new.’
‘Everything I sell is in perfect condition.’
‘Condition …’ he muttered as he scribbled again.
‘Every garment is washed or dry-cleaned,’ I went on as I returned the dress to the rail. ‘I have a wonderful seamstress who does the big repairs and alterations; the smaller ones I can do here myself – I have a little “den” at the back with a sewing machine.’
‘And what do the things sell for?’
‘They range from £15 for a hand-rolled silk scarf, to £75 for a cotton day dress, to £200–300 for an evening dress and up to £1,500 for a couture piece.’ I pulled out a Pierre Balmain beaded gold faille evening gown from the early 1960s, embroidered with bugle beads and silver sequins. I lifted its protective cover. ‘This is an important dress, made by a major designer at the height of his career. Or there’s this –’ I took out a pair of silk velvet palazzo pants in a psychedelic pattern of sherbety pinks and greens. ‘This outfit’s by Emilio Pucci. It’ll almost certainly be bought as an investment piece rather than to wear, because Pucci, like Ossie Clark, Biba and Jean Muir, is very collectable.’
‘Marilyn Monroe loved Pucci,’ Dan said. ‘She was buried in her favourite green silk Pucci dress.’ I nodded, not liking to admit that I hadn’t known that. ‘Those are fun.’ Dan was nodding at the wall behind me hanging on which, like paintings, were four strapless, ballerina-length evening dresses – one lemon yellow, one candy pink, one turquoise and one lime – each with a satin bodice beneath which foamed a mass of net petticoats, sparkling with crystals.
‘I’ve hung those there because I love them,’ I explained. ‘They’re fifties prom dresses, but I call them “cupcake” dresses because they’re so glamorous and frothy. Just looking at them makes me feel happy.’ Or as happy as I can be now, I thought bleakly.
Dan stood up. ‘And what’s that you’re putting out there?’
‘This is a Vivienne Westwood bustle skirt.’ I held it up for him. ‘And this –’ I pulled out a terracotta silk kaftan, ‘is by Thea Porter, and this little suede shift is by Mary Quant.’
‘What about this?’ Dan had pulled out an oyster pink satin evening dress with a cowl neckline, fine pleating at the sides, and a sweeping fishtail hem. ‘It’s wonderful – it’s like something Katharine Hepburn would have worn, or Greta Garbo – or Veronica Lake,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘in The Glass Key.’
‘Oh. I don’t know that film.’
‘It’s very underrated – it was written by Dashiell Hammett in 1942. Howard Hawks borrowed from it for The Big Sleep.’
‘Did he?’
‘But you know what …’ He held the dress against me in a way that took me aback. ‘It would suit you.’ He looked at me appraisingly. ‘You have that sort of film noir languor.’
‘Do I?’ Again, he’d taken me aback. ‘Actually … this dress was mine.’
‘Really? Don’t you want it?’ Dan asked almost indignantly. ‘It’s rather beautiful.’
‘It is, but … I just … went off it.’ I returned it to the rail. I didn’t have to tell him the truth. That Guy had given it to me just under a year ago. We’d been seeing each other for a month and he’d taken me to Bath one weekend. I’d spotted the dress in a shop window and had gone in to look at it, mostly out of professional interest as it was £500. But later, while I’d been reading in the hotel room, Guy had slipped out and returned with the dress, gift-wrapped in pink tissue. Now I’d decided to sell it because it belonged to a part of my life that I was desperate to forget. I’d give the money to charity.
‘And what, for you, is the main appeal of vintage clothing?’ I heard Dan ask as I rearranged the shoes inside the illuminated glass cubes that lined the left-hand wall. ‘Is it that the things are such good quality compared to clothes made today?’
‘That’s a big part of it,’ I replied as I placed one 1960s green suede pump at an elegant angle to its partner. ‘Wearing vintage is a kick against mass production. But the thing I love most about vintage clothes …’ I looked at him. ‘Don’t laugh, will you.’
‘Of course not …’
I stroked the gossamer chiffon of a 1950s peignoir. ‘What I really love about them … is the fact that they contain someone’s personal history.’ I ran the marabou trim across the back of my hand. ‘I find myself wondering about the women who wore them.’
‘Really?’
‘I find myself wondering about their lives. I can never look at a garment – like this suit …’ I went over to the daywear rail and pulled out a 1940s fitted jacket and skirt in a dark blue tweed ‘… without thinking about the woman who owned it. How old was she? Did she work? Was she married? Was she happy?’ Dan shrugged. ‘The suit has a British label from the early forties,’ I went on, ‘so I wonder what happened to this woman during the war. Did her husband survive? Did she survive?’
I went over to the shoe display and took out a pair of 1930s silk brocade slippers, embroidered with yellow roses. ‘I look at these exquisite shoes, and I imagine the woman who owned them rising out of them and walking along, or dancing in them, or kissing someone.’ I went over to a pink velvet pillbox hat on its stand. ‘I look at a little hat like this,’ I lifted up the veil, ‘and I try to imagine the face beneath it. Because when you buy a piece of vintage clothing you’re not just buying fabric and thread – you’re buying a piece of someone’s past.’
Dan nodded. ‘Which you’re bringing into the present.’
‘Exactly – I’m giving these clothes a new lease of life. And I love the fact that I’m able to restore them,’ I went on. ‘Where there are so many things in life that can’t be restored.’ I felt the sudden, familiar pit in my stomach.
‘I’d never have thought of vintage clothes like that,’ said Dan after a moment. ‘I love your passion for what you do.’ He peered at his notepad. ‘You’ve given me some great quotes.’
‘Good,’ I replied quietly. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’ After a hopeless start, I was tempted to add.
Dan smiled. ‘Well … I’d better let you get on – and I ought to go and write this up, but …’ His voice trailed away as his eyes strayed to the corner shelf. ‘What an amazing hat. What period’s that from?’
‘It’s contemporary. It was made three years ago.’
‘It’s very original.’
‘Yes – it’s one of a kind.’
‘How much is it?’
‘It’s not for sale. It was given to me by the designer – a close friend of mine. I just wanted to have it here because …’ I felt a constriction in my throat.
‘Because it’s beautiful?’ Dan suggested. I nodded. He flipped shut his notebook. ‘And will she be coming to the launch?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘One last thing,’ he said, taking a camera out of his bag. ‘My editor asked me to get a photo of you to go with the piece.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘As long as it won’t take long. I’ve still got to tie balloons to the front, I have to change – and I haven’t poured the champagne: that’s going to take time and people will be arriving in twenty minutes.’
‘Let me do that,’ I heard Dan say. ‘To make up for being late.’ He tucked his pencil behind his ear. ‘Where are the glasses?’
‘Oh. There are three boxes of them behind the counter, and there are twelve bottles of champagne in the fridge in the little kitchen there. Thanks,’ I added, anxiously wondering if Dan would manage to spill it everywhere; but he deftly filled the flutes with the Veuve Clicquot – vintage, of course, because it had to be – while I washed and changed into my outfit, a thirties dove grey satin cocktail dress with silver Ferragamo sling-backs; then I put on a little make-up and ran a brush through my hair. Finally I untied the cluster of pale gold helium balloons which floated from the back of a chair and attached them in twos and threes to the front of the shop where they jerked and bobbed in the stiffening breeze. Then as the church clock struck six I stood in the doorway, with a glass in my hand, while Dan took his photos.
After a minute he lowered the camera and looked at me, clearly puzzled.
‘Sorry, Phoebe – could you manage a smile?’
* * *
My mother arrived just as Dan was leaving.
‘Who was that?’ she asked as she headed straight for the fitting room.
‘A journalist called Dan,’ I replied. ‘He’s just interviewed me for a local paper. He’s a bit chaotic.’
‘He looked rather nice,’ she said as she stood in front of the mirror scrutinising her appearance. ‘He was hideously dressed, but I like curly hair on a man. It’s unusual.’ Her reflected face looked at me with anxious disappointment. ‘I wish you could find someone again, Phoebe – I hate you being on your own. Being on your own is no fun. As I can testify,’ she added bitterly.
‘I rather enjoy it. I intend to be on my own for a long time, quite possibly forever.’
Mum snapped open her bag. ‘That’s very likely to be my fate, darling, but I don’t want it to be yours.’ She took out one of her expensive new lipsticks. It resembled a gold bullet. ‘I know you’ve had a hard year, darling.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured.
‘And I know’ – she glanced at Emma’s hat – ‘that you’ve been … suffering.’ My mother could have no idea quite how much. ‘But,’ she said as she twisted up the colour, ‘I still don’t understand’ – I knew what was coming – ‘why you had to end things with Guy. I know I only met him three times, but I thought he was charming, handsome and nice.’
‘He was all those things,’ I agreed. ‘He was lovely. In fact, he was perfect.’
In the mirror Mum’s eyes met mine. ‘Then what happened between you?’
‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘My feelings just … changed. I told you that.’
‘Yes. But you’ve never said why.’ Mum drew the colour – a slightly garish coral – across her upper lip. ‘The whole thing seemed quite perverse, if you don’t mind my saying so. Of course, you were very unhappy at the time.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But then what happened to Emma …’ I closed my eyes to try and shut out the images that will haunt me forever. ‘Wel l… it was terrible,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t know how she could do that … And to think what she had going for her … so much.’
‘So much,’ I echoed bitterly.
Mum blotted her lower lip with a tissue. ‘But what I don’t understand is why it then followed, sad though you were, that you had to end what appeared to be a happy relationship with a very nice man. I think you had a sort of nervous breakdown,’ she went on. ‘It wouldn’t be surprising …’ She smacked her lips together. ‘I don’t think you knew what you were doing.’
‘I knew exactly,’ I retorted calmly. ‘But you know what, Mum, I don’t want to talk ab—’
‘How did you meet him?’ she suddenly asked. ‘You never told me that.’
I felt my face heat up. ‘Through Emma.’
‘Really?’ Mum looked at me. ‘How typically sweet of her,’ she said as she turned back to the mirror. ‘Introducing you to a nice man like that.’
‘Yes,’ I said uneasily …
‘I’ve met someone,’ Emma had said excitedly over the phone a year ago. ‘My head’s in a spin, Phoebe. He’s … wonderful.’ My heart had sunk, not just because Emma was always saying that she’d met someone ‘wonderful’, but because these men were usually anything but. Emma would be in raptures about them, then a month later she’d be avoiding them, saying they were ‘dreadful’. ‘I met him at a fund-raising do,’ she’d explained. ‘He runs an investment fund – but the good thing,’ she’d added with her usual, endearing artlessness, ‘is that it’s an ethical one.’
‘That sounds interesting. So he must be clever then.’
‘He got a first from the LSE. Not that he told me that,’ she added quickly. ‘I got it from Google. We’ve been on a few dates, but things are moving on so I’d like you to check him out.’
‘Emma,’ I sighed. ‘You are thirty-three years old. You are becoming very successful. You now dress the heads of some of the most famous women in the UK. Why do you need my approval?’
‘Well …’ I heard her clicking her tongue. ‘Because I guess old habits die hard. I’ve always asked your opinion about men, haven’t I?’ she mused. ‘Right from when we were teenagers.’
‘Yes – but we’re not teenagers now. You’ve got to have confidence in your own judgement, Em.’
‘I hear what you say. But I still want you to meet Guy.
I’ll have a little dinner party next week and sit you next to him, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I sighed …
I wish I didn’t have to be involved, I thought as I helped Emma in the kitchen of her rented house in Marylebone the following Thursday evening. From the sitting room came the sound of nine people laughing and talking. Emma’s idea of a ‘little’ dinner party was a five-course meal for twelve. As I got down the plates I thought of the men Emma had been ‘madly in love with’ over the past couple of years: Arnie the fashion photographer who’d two-timed her with a hand-model; Finian the garden designer who spent every weekend with his six-year-old daughter – and her mum. Then there’d been Julian, a bespectacled stockbroker with an interest in philosophy but precious little else. Emma’s latest attachment had been to Peter, a violinist with the London Philharmonic. That had looked promising – he was very nice and she could talk to him about music; but then he’d gone on a three-month world tour with the orchestra and had come back engaged to the second flute.
Maybe this chap Guy would be a better bet, I thought as I rummaged in a drawer for Emma’s napkins.
‘Guy is perfect,’ she said as she opened the oven, releasing a burst of steam and an aroma of roasting lamb. ‘He’s the one, Phoebe,’ she said happily.
‘That’s what you always say.’ I began folding the napkins.
‘Well, this time it’s true. I’m going to kill myself if it doesn’t work out,’ she added gaily.
I stopped mid-fold. ‘Don’t be so silly, Em. It’s not even as though you’ve known him that long.’
‘True – though I know what I feel. But he’s late,’ she wailed as she took the lamb out to rest it. She thumped the Le Creuset meat dish down on to the table, her face a mask of anxiety. ‘Do you think he’s going to turn up?’
‘Of course he is,’ I said. ‘It’s only eight forty-five – he’s probably just been held up at work.’
Emma kicked shut the oven door. ‘Then why didn’t he phone?’
‘Maybe he’s stuck on the tube …’ Anxiety contorted her features again. ‘Em – don’t worry …’
She began basting the meat. ‘I can’t help it. I’d love to be calm and collected like you usually are, but I’ve never had your poise.’ She straightened up. ‘How do I look?’
‘Beautiful.’
She smiled with relief. ‘Thanks – not that I believe you, as you always say that.’
‘Because it’s always true,’ I said firmly.
Emma was dressed in her usually eclectic way, in a Betsey Johnson floral silk dress, with canary yellow fishnets and black ankle boots. Her wavy auburn hair was held off her face by a silver band.
‘And does this dress definitely suit me?’ she asked.
‘Definitely. I like the sweetheart neckline, and the silhouette’s flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.
‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ Emma’s face fell. ‘Please don’t say that, Phoebe – not today of all days. I know I could do with losing a few pounds, but –’
‘No, no – I didn’t mean that. Of course you’re not fat, Em, you’re lovely, I just meant –’
‘Oh God!’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘I haven’t done the blinis!’
‘I’ll do them.’ I opened the fridge and got out the smoked salmon and the tub of crème fraîche.
‘You’re a fabulous friend, Phoebe,’ I heard Emma say. ‘What would I do without you,’ she added as she began sticking bits of rosemary into the lamb. ‘Do you know’ – she waved a sprig at me – ‘we’ve now known each other for a quarter of a century.’
‘Is it that long?’ I murmured as I began to chop the smoked salmon.
‘It is. And we’ll probably know each other for, what, another fifty?’
‘If we drink the right brand of coffee.’
‘We’ll have to go into the same old people’s home!’ Emma giggled.
‘Where you’ll still be getting me to check out your boyfriends. “Oh, Phoebe,”’ I said in a crotchety voice, ‘“he’s ninety-three – do you think he’s a bit old for me?”’
Emma snorted with laughter then chucked the bunch of rosemary at me.
Now I began grilling the blinis, trying not to burn my fingers as I quickly turned them over. Emma’s friends were talking so loudly – and someone was playing the piano – that I’d only dimly registered the ring of the door bell, but the sound electrified Emma.
‘He’s here!’ She checked her appearance in a small mirror, adjusting her hair-band; then she ran down the narrow staircase. ‘Hi! Oh, thanks,’ I heard her squeal. ‘They’re gorgeous. Come on up – you know the way.’ I’d registered the fact that Guy had been to the house before – that was a good sign. ‘Everyone’s here,’ I heard Emma say as they came up the stairs. ‘Were you stuck on the tube?’ By now I’d assembled the first batch of blinis. Then I reached for the peppermill and vigorously turned the top. Nothing. Damn. Where did Em keep the peppercorns? I began to look, opening a couple of cupboards before spotting a new tub of them on top of her spice rack.
‘Let me get you a drink, Guy,’ I heard Emma say. ‘Phoebe.’ I had taken the seal off the peppercorns and was trying to prise off the lid, but it was stuck. ‘Phoebe,’ Emma repeated. I turned round. She was standing in the kitchen, smiling radiantly, clutching a posy of white roses: just behind her, framed in the doorway, was Guy.
I looked at him in dismay. Emma had said that he was ‘gorgeous’, but it had meant nothing to me as she always said that, even if the man was hideous. But Guy was heart-stoppingly handsome. He was tall and broad shouldered, with an open face and fine, evenly spaced features, dark brown hair that was cut endearingly short and dark blue eyes that had an amused expression in them.
‘Phoebe,’ Emma said, ‘this is Guy.’ He smiled at me and I felt a little ‘thud’ in my ribcage. ‘Guy, this is my best friend, Phoebe.’
‘Hi!’ I said, smiling at him like a lunatic as I wrestled with the peppercorns. Why did he have to be so attractive? ‘God!’ The lid suddenly came off the peppercorns and they shot out in a black arc then scattered like gunshot across the worktops and floor. ‘Sorry, Em,’ I breathed. I grabbed a brush and began vigorously sweeping, if only to disguise my turmoil. ‘I’m sorry!’ I laughed. ‘What a twit!’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Emma said. She quickly put the roses into a jug then grabbed the plate of blinis. ‘I’ll take these in. Thanks, Phoebes – they look lovely.’
I’d expected Guy to follow her, instead of which he went to the sink, opened the cupboard underneath and got out the dustpan and brush. I registered with a pang the fact that he knew his way round Emma’s kitchen.
‘Don’t worry,’ I protested.
‘It’s okay – let me help you.’ Guy hitched up the knees of his City trousers then stooped down and began to sweep up the peppercorns.
‘They get everywhere,’ I wittered. ‘So silly of me.’
‘Do you know where pepper comes from?’ he suddenly asked.
‘No idea,’ I replied as I stooped to pick up a few in my fingertips. ‘South America?’
‘Kerala. Until the fifteenth century, pepper was so valuable that it could be used in lieu of money, hence “peppercorn rent”.’
‘Really?’ I said politely. Then I pondered the weirdness of finding myself crouched on the floor with a man I’d met a minute earlier, discussing the finer points of black pepper.
‘Anyway,’ Guy straightened up then emptied the dustpan into the pedal bin. ‘I guess I’d better go in.’
‘Yes …’ I smiled. ‘Emma will be wondering. But … thanks.’
The rest of the dinner party passed in a blur. As promised, Emma had put me next to Guy, and I struggled to control my emotions as I politely chatted to him. I kept praying that he’d say something off-putting – that he’d just come out of re-hab, for example, or that he had two ex-wives and five kids. I’d hoped that I’d find his conversation dull, but he only said things that increased his appeal. He talked interestingly about his work, and of his responsibility to invest his clients’ money in ways that not only were not injurious, they could even be positive in their effect on the environment and on human health and welfare. He spoke of his association with a charity that was working to end child labour. He talked affectionately about his parents and his brother, whom he played squash with at the Chelsea Harbour Club once a week. Lucky Emma, I thought. Guy seemed to be everything she’d claimed him to be. As the meal progressed she frequently glanced at him or made passing references to him.
‘We went to the opening of the Goya exhibition the other night, didn’t we, Guy?’ Guy nodded. ‘And we’re trying to get tickets for Tosca at the Opera House next week, aren’t we?’
‘Yes … that’s right.’
‘It’s been sold out for months,’ she explained, ‘but I’m hoping to get returns online.’
Emma’s friends were gradually picking up on the connection. ‘So how long have you two known each other?’ Charlie asked Guy with a sly smile. The words ‘you two’, which had produced in me a stab of envy, made Emma blush with pleasure.
‘Oh, not that long,’ Guy replied quietly, his reticence seeming only to confirm his interest in her…
‘So what did you think?’ Emma asked me over the phone the morning after her party.
I fiddled with my Rotadex. ‘What did I think of what?’
‘Of Guy, of course! Don’t you think he’s gorgeous?’
‘Oh … yes. He is … gorgeous.’
‘Beautiful blue eyes – especially with his dark hair. It’s a devastating combination.’
I glanced out of the window into New Bond Street. ‘Devastating.’
‘And he’s a good conversationalist. Don’t you agree?’
I could hear the hum of the traffic. ‘I … do.’
‘Plus he’s got such a nice sense of humour.’
‘Hmm.’
‘He’s so nice and normal compared to the other men I’ve dated.’
‘That’s certainly true.’
‘He’s a good person. Best of all,’ she concluded, ‘he’s keen!’
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Guy had phoned me an hour earlier to ask me out to dinner.
I hadn’t known what to do. Guy had tracked me down easily enough through Sotheby’s switchboard. I was elated, then horrified. I’d thanked him but said that I wouldn’t be able to come. He’d phoned me another three times just that day but I’d been unable to speak to him as I was frantically preparing for an auction of Twentieth-Century Fashion and Accessories. The fourth time Guy had phoned I’d spoken to him briefly, being careful to lower my voice in the open-plan office. ‘You’re very persistent, Guy.’
‘I am, but that’s because I … like you, Phoebe, and I think – if I don’t flatter myself – that you like me.’ I’d tied the lot number to a Pierre Cardin flecked green wool trouser suit from the mid seventies. ‘Why don’t you say yes?’ he pleaded.
‘Well … because … it’s a bit tricky, isn’t it?’
There was an awkward silence. ‘Look, Phoebe … Emma and I are just friends.’
‘Really?’ I inspected what looked suspiciously like a moth-hole on one leg. ‘You seem to have seen quite a bit of her.’
‘Well … that’s largely because Emma rings me and gets tickets for things, like the Goya opening. We’ve hung out together and had a few laughs, but I’ve never given her the impression that I’m …’ His voice trailed away.
‘But it was clear that you’d been to her flat before. You knew exactly where she kept her dustpan and brush,’ I whispered accusingly.
‘Yes – because last week she asked me to mend a leak under her sink and I had to take everything out of the cupboard.’
‘Oh.’ Relief swept through me. ‘I see. But …’
Guy emitted a sigh. ‘Look, Phoebe, I like Emma – she’s very talented and she’s fun.’
‘Oh, she is – she’s lovely.’
‘I find her a bit intense, though,’ he went on. ‘If not slightly bonkers,’ he confided with a nervous laugh. ‘But she and I aren’t … dating. She can’t really think that.’ I didn’t reply. ‘So will you please have dinner with me?’ I felt my resolve weaken. ‘How about next Tuesday?’ I heard him say. ‘At the Wolseley? I’ll book a table for seven thirty. Will you come, Phoebe?’
If I’d had any idea then where it would lead, I’d have said, ‘No. I won’t. Absolutely not. Never.’
‘Yes,’ I heard myself say …
I considered not telling Emma, but couldn’t bring myself to keep it from her, not least because it would be awful if she somehow found out. So I told her on the Saturday when we met at Amici’s, our favourite coffee shop in Marylebone High Street.
‘Guy’s asked you out?’ she repeated faintly. Her pupils seemed to retract with disappointment. ‘Oh.’ Her hand had trembled as she lowered her cup.
‘I haven’t … encouraged him,’ I explained gently. ‘I didn’t … flirt with him at your dinner party, and if you’d rather I didn’t go, then I won’t, but I couldn’t not tell you. Em?’ I reached for her hand, noticing how red her fingertips were from all the stitching and gluing and straw-stretching that she did. ‘Emma – are you okay?’ She stirred her cappuccino then stared out of the window. ‘Because I wouldn’t see him, even once, if you didn’t want me to.’
Emma didn’t reply at first. Her large green eyes strayed to a young couple walking hand in hand on the other side of the street. ‘It’s okay,’ she said after a moment. ‘After all … I hadn’t known him that long, as you pointed out – although he didn’t discourage me from thinking …’ Her eyes suddenly filled. ‘And those roses he brought me. I thought …’ She pressed a paper napkin to her eyes. It had ‘Amici’s’ printed on it. ‘Well,’ she croaked. ‘It doesn’t look as though I’ll be going to Tosca with him after all. Maybe you could take him, Phoebe. He said he was looking forward to it …’
I sighed with frustration. ‘Look, Em, I’m going to say no. If it’s going to make you miserable, then I’m not interested.’
‘No,’ Emma murmured after a moment. She shook her head. ‘You should go – if you like him, which I assume you do, otherwise we’d hardly be having this conversation. Anyway …’ She picked up her bag. ‘I’d better be off. I’ve got a bonnet to be getting on with – for Princess Eugenie, no less.’ She gave me a cheery wave. ‘I’ll speak to you soon.’
But she didn’t return my calls for six weeks …
‘I wish you’d ring Guy,’ I heard Mum say. ‘I think you meant a lot to him. In fact, Phoebe, there’s something I need to tell you …’
I looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Well … Guy phoned me last week.’ I felt a falling sensation, as though I were sliding down a steep incline. ‘He said he’d like to see you, just to talk to you – now don’t shake your head, darling. He feels you’ve been “unfair” – that was the word he used, though he wouldn’t say why. But I suspect you have been unfair, darling – unfair and, quite frankly, idiotic.’ Mum took a comb out of her bag. ‘It’s not as though it’s easy, finding a nice man. I think you’re lucky that he still holds a candle for you after the way you threw him over.’
‘I want nothing to do with him,’ I insisted. ‘I just don’t … feel the same about him.’ Guy knew why.
Mum ran the comb through her wavy blonde hair. ‘I just hope you won’t come to regret it. And I hope you won’t also come to regret leaving Sotheby’s. I still think it’s a shame. You had prestige there, and stability – the excitement of conducting auctions.’
‘The stress of it, you mean.’
‘You had the company of your colleagues,’ she added, ignoring me.
‘And now I’ll have the company of my customers – and of my part-time assistant, when I can find myself one.’ This was something I needed to pursue – there was a fashion auction coming up at Christie’s that I wanted to go to.
‘You had a regular income,’ Mum went on, swapping her comb for a powder compact. ‘And now here you are, opening this … shop.’ She managed to make the word sound like ‘bordello’. ‘What if it doesn’t work out? You’ve borrowed a small fortune, darling …’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
She dabbed powder on her nose. ‘And it’s going to be such hard work.’
‘Hard work will suit me just fine,’ I said evenly. Because then I’d have less time to think.
‘Anyway, I’ve said my piece,’ she concluded unctuously. She snapped shut her compact and returned it to her bag.
‘And how’s work going?’
Mum grimaced. ‘Not well. There’ve been problems with that huge house on Ladbroke Grove – John’s going insane, which makes it hard for me.’ Mum works as PA to a successful architect, John Cranfield, a job she’s been doing for twenty-two years. ‘It’s not easy,’ she said, ‘but then I’m very lucky to have a job at my age.’ She peered at herself in the mirror. ‘Just look at my face,’ she moaned.
‘It’s a lovely face, Mum.’
She sighed. ‘More furrows than Gordon Ramsay in a fury. None of those new creams seem to have made the slightest difference.’
I thought of Mum’s dressing table. It used to have a single bottle of Oil of Olay on it – now it resembles the unguents counter of a department store with its tubes of Retin A and Vitamin C, its pots of Derma Genesis and Moisture Boost, its pseudo-scientific capsules of slow-release Ceramides and Hyaluronic Acid with Cellular-Nurturing, Epoxy-Restoring this, that and the other.
‘Just dreams in a jar, Mum.’
She prodded her cheeks. ‘Perhaps a little Botox might help … I’ve been toying with the idea.’ She stretched up her brow with the index and middle fingers of her left hand. ‘Sod’s law, it would go wrong and I’d end up with my eyelids round my nostrils. But I do so loathe all these lines.’
‘Then learn to love them. It’s normal to have lines when you’re fifty-nine.’
Mum flinched, as though I’d slapped her. ‘Don’t. I’m dreading getting the bus pass. Why can’t they give us a “taxi pass” when we hit sixty? Then I wouldn’t mind so much.’
‘Anyway, lines don’t make beautiful women less beautiful,’ I went on as I put a stack of Village Vintage carriers behind the till. ‘Just more interesting.’
‘Not to your father.’ I didn’t reply. ‘Mind you, I thought he liked old ruins,’ Mum added dryly. ‘He is an archaeologist, after all. But now here he is with a girl barely older than you are. It’s grotesque,’ she muttered bitterly.
‘It was certainly surprising.’
Mum brushed an imaginary speck off her skirt. ‘You didn’t invite him tonight? Did you?’ In her hazel eyes I saw a heart-rending combination of panic and hope.
‘No I didn’t,’ I replied softly. Not least because she might have come. I wouldn’t have put it past Ruth. Or rather Ruthless.
‘Thirty-six,’ Mum said bitterly, as though it was the ‘six’ that offended her.
‘She must be thirty-eight now,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes – and he’s sixty-two! I wish he’d never done that wretched TV series,’ she wailed.
I took a forest green Hermès Kelly out of its dust bag and put it in a glass display case. ‘You couldn’t have known what would happen, Mum.’
‘And to think I persuaded him – at her behest!’ She picked up a glass of champagne and her wedding ring, which she continues to wear in defiance of my father’s desertion, gleamed in a beam of sunlight. ‘I thought it would help his career,’ she went on miserably. She sipped her fizz. ‘I thought that it would lift his profile and that he’d make more money which would come in handy in our retirement. Then off he goes to film The Big Dig – but the main thing he seems to have been digging’ – Mum grimaced – ‘was her.’ She sipped her champagne again. ‘It was just … ghastly.’
I had to agree. It was one thing for my father to have his first affair in thirty-eight years of marriage; it was quite another for my mother to find out about it in the diary section of the Daily Express. I shuddered as I remembered reading the caption beneath the photo of my father, looking uncharacteristically shifty, with Ruth, outside her Notting Hill flat:
TELLY PROF DUMPS WIFE AMIDST BABY RUMOURS.
‘Do you see much of him, darling?’ I heard Mum ask with forced casualness. ‘Of course, I can’t stop you,’ she went on. ‘And I wouldn’t want to – he’s your father; but, to be honest, the thought of you spending time with him, and her … and … and …’ Mum can’t bring herself to mention the baby.
‘I haven’t seen Dad for ages,’ I said truthfully.
Mum knocked back her champagne then carried the glass out to the kitchen. ‘I’d better not drink any more. It’ll only make me cry. Right,’ she said briskly as she came back, ‘let’s change the subject.’
‘Okay – tell me what you think of the shop. You haven’t seen it for weeks.’
Mum walked round, her elegant little heels tapping over the wooden floor. ‘I like it. It’s not remotely like being in a second-hand shop – it’s more like being somewhere nice, like Phase Eight.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ I lined up the flutes of champagne gently fizzing on the counter.
‘I like the stylish silver mannequins, and there’s a pleasantly uncluttered feel.’
‘That’s because vintage shops can be chaotic – the rails so crammed that you give yourself an upper-body workout just going through them. Here there’s enough light and air between the garments so that browsing will be a pleasure. If an item doesn’t sell, I’ll simply bring out something else. But aren’t the clothes lovely?’
‘Ye-es,’ Mum replied. ‘In a way.’ She nodded at the cupcake dresses. ‘Those are fun.’
‘I know – I adore them.’ I idly wondered who would buy them. ‘And look at this kimono. It’s from 1912. Have you seen the embroidery?’
‘Very pretty …’
‘Pretty? It’s a work of art. And this Balenciaga opera coat. Look at the cut – it’s made in just two pieces, including the sleeves. The construction is amazing.’
‘Hmm …’
‘And this coatdress – it’s by Jacques Fath. Look at the brocade with its pattern of little palm trees. Where could you find something like that today?’
‘That’s all very well, but –’
‘And this Givenchy suit: now this would look great on you, Mum. You can wear a knee-length skirt because you’ve got great legs.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d never wear vintage clothes.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve always preferred new things.’
‘I don’t know why.’
‘I’ve told you before, darling – it’s because I grew up in the era of rationing. I had nothing but hideous hand-me-downs – scratchy Shetland jumpers and grey serge skirts and coarse woollen pinafores that smelled like a damp dog when it rained. I used to long for things that no one else had owned, Phoebe. I still do – I can’t help it. Added to which I have a distaste for wearing things that other people have worn.’
‘But everything’s been washed and dry-cleaned. This isn’t a charity shop, Mum,’ I added as I gave the counter a quick wipe. ‘These clothes are in pristine condition.’
‘I know. And it all smells delightfully fresh – I detect no mustiness whatsoever.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Not the faintest whiff of a mothball.’
I plumped up the cushions on the sofa where Dan had been sitting. ‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘It’s the thought of wearing something that belonged to someone who’s probably …’ – she gave a little shudder – ‘died. I have a thing about it,’ she added. ‘I always have had. You and I are different in that way. You’re like your father. You both like old things … piecing them together. I suppose what you’re doing is a kind of archaeology, too,’ she went on. ‘Sartorial archaeology. Ooh, look, someone’s arriving.’
I picked up two glasses of champagne, then, with adrenaline coursing through my veins and a welcoming smile on my face, I stepped forward to greet the people walking through the door. Village Vintage was open for business …
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Isabel Wolff
Do fairytale dresses bring fairytale endings?Every dress has a history, so does Phoebe…Phoebe always dreamt of opening her own vintage dress shop. She imagined every detail, from the Vivienne Westwood bustiers hanging next to satin gowns, to sequinned cupcake dresses adorning the walls.At the launch of Village Vintage, Phoebe feels the tingle of excitement as customers snap up the fairytale dresses. Her dream has come true, but a secret from her past is casting a shadow over her new venture.Then one day she meets Therese, an elderly Frenchwoman with a collection to sell, apart from one piece that she won't part with …As Therese tells the story of the little blue coat, Phoebe feels a profound connection with her own life, one that will help her heal the pain of her past and allow her to love again.
A Vintage Affair
ISABEL WOLFF
In memory of my father
What a strange power there is in clothing
Isaac Bashevis Singer
Contents
Epigraph (#ue9e9b873-11c0-5c5c-b3ba-6e5d17f45f96)Prologue (#uf3d5f808-2eeb-543f-a046-a3cba462c129)Chapter One (#u7d4fe6a4-764a-5e2f-a54a-f134b4198099)Chapter Two (#u607a54cf-8cb2-59d8-88f3-6570bbd4c238)Chapter Three (#u347d16f0-496e-5731-afd8-a5221480c709)Chapter Four (#ub01f7d96-25a4-5d69-adb8-b8362f034f9c)Chapter Five (#u1a06aece-1865-5cf6-89e0-c4f44181c65a)Chapter Six (#uadcfe8ff-40eb-569d-9cfa-67f2f2a6934e)Chapter Seven (#uf47510a7-c766-5720-98fe-ef045e9c9b79)Chapter Eight (#u86723b4e-5f69-5b9b-9062-a7f8b007976d)Chapter Nine (#ud078bf54-6245-500d-a5fd-22d8caccdfae)Chapter Ten (#u8dc4b435-8222-5aca-929b-f5400061b06d)Chapter Eleven (#u2ba98d6b-104f-51f0-a232-bd9e48e5d295)Chapter Twelve (#u35aa3576-10e6-512a-a524-a7723d65dafa)Chapter Thirteen (#u3399ba4c-787d-5bcf-9ed6-4b3fc97b3ccd)Chapter Fourteen (#u7a943c35-0ef1-5c7a-a558-0f7746b291a3)Chapter Fifteen (#u0e9c0ffe-fdb4-5da5-adb4-1cbcff397356)Epilogue (#u8c7184d5-9976-5085-8369-2c50251051af)Bibliography (#udba292fc-b6f9-58f9-8b95-947475b69d32)Acknowledgements (#ud1ba114d-efcf-53d8-be03-031d4847cf00)About the Author (#uc9256df8-b5e4-5fae-8b10-3ae1d1c53cf9)By the same Author (#u758ac88d-c6f9-5df3-982d-9df6969864c5)Praise For Isabel Wolff: (#ua8681c43-f8a2-5b82-aa3e-fcbf5ca91800)Copyright (#u6d91cbcd-9fe9-5c0b-9b90-8f47b751d20d)About the Publisher (#u8d57af52-aa6d-5d01-9b31-6840b09faff5)
PROLOGUE (#u2ead5159-4ca4-58b7-8a61-f5cfd585c4ee)
Blackheath, 1983
‘… seven-teen, eight-een, nine-teen … twenty! Com-ing!’ I yell. ‘Ready or not …’ I uncover my eyes and begin the search. I start downstairs, half expecting to find Emma huddled behind the sofa in the sitting room or wrapped, like a sweet, in the crimson curtains, or crouched under the baby grand. I already think of her as my best friend although we’ve only known each other six weeks. ‘You have a new classmate,’ Miss Grey had announced on the first day of term. She’d smiled at the girl in the too-stiff blazer standing next to her. ‘Her name is Emma Kitts and her family have recently moved to London from South Africa.’ Then Miss Grey had led the newcomer to the desk next to mine. The girl was short for nine, and slightly plump with large green eyes, a scattering of freckles, and an uneven fringe above shiny brown plaits. ‘Will you look after Emma, Phoebe?’ Miss Grey had asked. I’d nodded. Emma had flashed me a grateful smile …
Now I cross the hall into the dining room and peer under the scratched mahogany table but Emma’s not there; nor is she in the kitchen with its old-fashioned dresser with its shelves of mismatched blue-and-white plates. I would have asked her mother which way she’d gone but Mrs Kitts has just ‘popped to play tennis’ leaving Emma and me on our own.
I walk into the big, cool larder and slide open a low cupboard that looks promisingly large but contains only some old Thermos flasks; then I go down the step into the utility room where the washing machine spasms in its final spin. I even lift the lid of the freezer in case Emma is lying amongst the frozen peas and ice cream. Now I return to the hall, which is oak-panelled and warm, smelling of dust and beeswax. To one side is a huge, ornately carved chair – a throne from Swaziland Emma had said – the wood so dark that it’s black. I sit on it for a moment, wondering where precisely Swaziland is, and whether it has anything to do with Switzerland. Then my eyes stray to the hats on the wall opposite; a dozen or so, each hanging from a curving brass peg. There’s an African head-dress in a pink and blue fabric and a Cossack hat that could be made of real fur; there’s a Panama, a trilby, a turban, a top hat, a riding hat, a cap, a fez, two battered boaters and an emerald green tweed hat with a pheasant feather stuck through it.
I climb the staircase with its wide, shallow treads. At the top is a square landing with four doors leading off it. Emma’s bedroom is the first on the left. I turn the handle then hover in the doorway to see if I can hear stifled giggles or tell-tale breathing: I hear nothing, but then Emma’s good at holding her breath – she can swim a width and a half underwater. I flip back her shiny blue eiderdown, but she’s not in the bed – or under it; all I can see there is her secret box in which I know she keeps her lucky Krugerrand and her diary. I open the big white-painted corner cupboard with its safari stencils, but she’s not in there either. Perhaps she’s in the room next door. As I enter it I realise, with an uncomfortable feeling, that this is her parents’ room. I look for Emma under the wrought-iron bed and behind the dressing table, the mirror of which is cracked in one corner; then I open the wardrobe and catch a scent of orange peel and cloves which makes me think of Christmas. As I stare at Mrs Kitts’ brightly printed summer dresses, imagining them under the African sun, I suddenly realise that I am not so much seeking as snooping. I retreat, feeling a vague sense of shame. And now I want to stop playing hide and seek. I want to play rummy, or just watch TV.
‘Bet you can’t find me, Phoebe! You’ll never, ever findme!’
Sighing, I cross the landing into the bathroom where I check behind the thick white plastic shower curtain and lift the lid of the laundry basket, which contains nothing but a faded-looking purple towel. Now I go to the window, and lift the semi-closed slats of the Venetian blind. As I peer down into the sun-filled garden a tiny jolt runs the length of my spine. There’s Emma – behind the huge plane tree at the end of the lawn. She thinks I can’t see her, but I can because she’s crouching down and one of her feet is sticking out. I dash down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the utility room, then I fling open the back door.
‘Found you!’ I shout as I run towards the tree. ‘Found you,’ I repeat happily, surprised by my euphoria. ‘Okay,’ I pant, ‘my turn to hide. Emma?’ I peer at her. She’s not crouching down, but lying down, on her left side, perfectly still, eyes closed. ‘Get up will you, Em?’ She doesn’t reply. And now I notice that one leg is folded beneath her at an awkward angle. With a sudden ‘thud’ in my ribcage I understand. Emma wasn’t hiding behind the tree, but in it. I glance up through its branches, glimpsing shreds of blue through the green. She was hiding in the tree, but then she fell.
‘Em …’ I murmur, stooping to touch her shoulder. I gently shake her but she doesn’t respond, and now I notice that her mouth is slightly agape, a thread of saliva glistening on her lower lip. ‘Emma!’ I shout. ‘Wake up!’ But she doesn’t. I put my hand to her ribs but can’t feel them rise and fall. ‘Say something,’ I murmur, my heart pounding now. ‘Please, Emma!’ I try to lift her up, but I can’t. I clap my hands by her ears. ‘Emma!’ My throat is aching and tears prick my eyes. I glance back at the house, desperate for Emma’s mother to come running over the grass, ready to make everything all right; but Mrs Kitts is still not back from her tennis, which makes me feel angry because we’re too young to have been left on our own. Resentment at Mrs Kitts gives way to terror at the thought of what she’s likely to say – that Emma’s accident was my fault because it was my suggestion that we play hide and seek. From inside my head I hear Miss Grey asking me to ‘look after’ Emma, then her disappointed tut-tutting.
‘Wake up, Em,’ I implore her. ‘Please.’ But she just lies there looking … crumpled, like a flung-down rag doll. I know I have to run and get help. But first I must cover her as it’s turning chilly. I pull off my cardigan and lay it across Emma’s upper body, quickly smoothing it over her chest and tucking it under her shoulders.
‘I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.’ I try not to cry.
Suddenly Emma sits bolt upright, grinning like a lunatic, her eyes popping with mischievous delight.
‘Fooled you!’ she sings, clapping her hands together then throwing back her head in glee. ‘I really fooled you there, didn’t I?’ she cries as she pushes herself to her feet. ‘You were worried, weren’t you, Phoebes? Admit it! You thought I was dead! I held my breath for ages,’ she gasps as she brushes down her skirt. ‘I’m right out of puff …’ She blows out her cheeks and her fringe lifts a little in the gust, then she smiles at me. ‘Okay, Heebee-Phoebee – your turn.’ She holds out my cardigan. ‘I’ll start counting – up to twenty-five, if you like. Here, Phoebes – take your cardi, will you.’ Emma stares at me. ‘What’s up?’
My fists are balled by my sides. My face feels hot. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’
Emma blinks with surprise. ‘It was only a joke.’
‘It was a horrible one!’ Tears start from my eyes.
‘I’m … sorry.’
‘Don’t ever do that again! If you do, I won’t talk to you any more – not ever!’
‘It was only a game,’ she protests. ‘You don’t have to be all …’ she throws up her hands, ‘silly … about it. I was only … playing.’ She shrugs. ‘But … I won’t do it again – if it upsets you. Honestly.’
I snatch my cardigan. ‘Promise.’ I glare at her. ‘You’ve got to promise.’
‘Ok-ay,’ she murmurs, then she takes a deep breath. ‘I, Emma Mandisa Kitts, promise that I won’t play that trick on you, Phoebe Jane Swift, ever again. I promise,’ she repeats then she makes an extravagant slashing gesture. ‘Cross my heart.’ Then, with this funny little smile that I have remembered all these years, she adds, ‘and hope … to … die!’
ONE (#u2ead5159-4ca4-58b7-8a61-f5cfd585c4ee)
September is at least a good time for a new start, I reflected as I left the house early this morning. I’ve always felt a greater sense of renewal at the beginning of September than I ever have in January. Perhaps, I thought as I crossed Tranquil Vale, it’s because September so often feels fresh and clear after the dankness of August. Or perhaps, I wondered as I passed Blackheath Books, its windows emblazoned with ‘Back to School’ promotions, it’s simply the association with the new academic year.
As I walked up the hill towards the Heath, the freshly painted fascia of Village Vintage came into view and I allowed myself a brief burst of optimism. I unlocked the door, picked the mail off the mat, and began preparing the shop for its official launch.
I worked non-stop until four, selecting the clothes from the stockroom upstairs and putting them out on the rails. As I draped a 1920s tea dress over my arm I ran my hand over its heavy silk satin then fingered its intricate beading and its perfect hand-stitching. This, I told myself, is what I love about vintage clothes. I love their beautiful fabric and their fine finish. I love knowing that so much skill and artistry have gone into their making.
I glanced at my watch. Only two hours to go until the party. I remembered that I’d forgotten to chill the champagne. As I dashed into the little kitchen and ripped open the cases I wondered how many people would come. I’d invited a hundred so I’d need at least seventy glasses at the ready. I stacked the bottles in the fridge, turned it up to ‘Frost’ then made myself a quick cup of tea. As I sipped my Earl Grey I looked around the shop, allowing myself to savour for a moment the transition from pipe dream to reality.
The interior of Village Vintage looked modern and light. I’d had the wooden floors stripped and limed, the walls painted a dove grey and hung with large silver-framed mirrors; there were glossy pot plants on chrome stands, a spangling of down-lighters on the white-painted ceiling and, next to the fitting room, a large cream-upholstered Bergère sofa. Through the windows Blackheath stretched into the far distance, the sky a giddying vault of blue patched with towering white clouds. Beyond the church, two yellow kites danced in the breeze while on the horizon the glass towers of Canary Wharf glinted and flashed in the late afternoon sunlight.
I suddenly realised that the journalist who was supposed to be interviewing me was over an hour late. I didn’t even know which paper he was from. All I could remember from yesterday’s brief phone conversation with him was that his name was Dan and that he’d said he’d be here at 3.30. My irritation turned to panic that he might not come at all – I needed the publicity. My insides lurched at the thought of my huge loan. As I tied the price tag on an embroidered evening bag I remembered trying to convince the bank that their cash would be safe.
‘So you were at Sotheby’s?’ the lending manager had said as she went through my business plan in a small office every square inch of which, including the ceiling and even the back of the door, seemed to be covered in thick, grey baize.
‘I worked in the textiles department,’ I’d explained, ‘evaluating vintage clothes and conducting auctions.’
‘So you must know a lot about it.’
‘I do.’
She scribbled something on the form, the nib of her pen squeaking across the glossy paper. ‘But it’s not as though you’ve ever worked in retail, is it?’
‘No,’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘That’s true. But I’ve found attractive, accessible premises in a pleasant, busy area where there are no other vintage dress shops.’ I handed her the estate agent’s brochure for Montpelier Vale.
‘It’s a nice site,’ she said as she studied it. My spirits rose. ‘And being on the corner gives it good visibility.’ I imagined the windows aglow with glorious dresses. ‘But the lease is expensive.’ The woman put the brochure down on the grey tabletop and looked at me grimly. ‘What makes you think you’ll be able to generate enough sales to cover your overheads, let alone make a profit?’
‘Because …’ I suppressed a frustrated sigh. ‘I know that the demand is there. Vintage has now become so fashionable that it’s almost mainstream. These days you can even buy vintage clothing in High Street stores like Miss Selfridge and Top Shop.’
There was silence while she scribbled again. ‘I know you can.’ She looked up again but this time she was smiling. ‘I got the most wonderful Biba fake fur in Jigsaw the other day – mint condition and original buttons.’ She pushed the form towards me then passed me her pen. ‘Could you sign at the bottom there, please?’…
Now I arranged the evening gowns on the formal-wear rail and put out the bags, belts and shoes. I positioned the gloves in their basket, the costume jewellery in its velvet trays, then, on a corner shelf, high up, I carefully placed the hat that Emma had given me for my thirtieth birthday.
I stepped back and gazed at the extraordinary sculpture of bronze straw; its crown seeming to sweep upwards into infinity.
‘I miss you, Em,’ I murmured. ‘Wherever you are now …’ I felt the familiar piercing sensation, as though there was a skewer in my heart.
There was a sharp rapping sound from behind me. On the other side of the glass door was a man of about my age, maybe a little younger. He was tall and well built with large grey eyes and a mop of dark blond curls. He reminded me of someone famous, but I couldn’t think who.
‘Dan Robinson,’ he said with a broad smile as I let him in. ‘Sorry to be a bit late.’ I resisted the urge to tell him that he was very late. He took a notebook out of his battered-looking bag.’ My previous interview overran, then I got caught in traffic, but this should only take twenty minutes or so.’ He shovelled his hand into the pocket of his crumpled linen jacket and produced a pencil. ‘I just need to get down the basic facts about the business and a bit about your background.’ He glanced at the hydra of silk scarves spilling over the counter and the half-dressed mannequin. ‘But you’re obviously busy, so if you haven’t got time I’d quite –’
‘Oh, I’ve got time,’ I interrupted. ‘Really – as long as you don’t mind me working while we chat.’ I slipped a sea green chiffon cocktail dress on to its velvet hanger. ‘Which paper did you say you were from?’ Out of the corner of my eye I registered the fact that his mauve striped shirt didn’t go with the sage of his chinos.
‘It’s a new twice-weekly free-sheet called the Black &Green – the Blackheath and Greenwich Express. The paper’s only been going a couple of months, so we’re building our circulation.’
‘I’m grateful for any coverage,’ I said as I put the dress at the front of the daywear rail.
‘The piece should go in on Friday.’ Dan glanced round the shop. ‘The interior’s nice and bright. You wouldn’t think it was old stuff that was being sold here – I mean, vintage,’ he corrected himself.
‘Thank you,’ I said wryly, though I was grateful for his observation.
As I quickly scissored the cellophane off some white agapanthus, Dan peered out of the window. ‘It’s a great location.’
I nodded. ‘I love being able to look out over the Heath, plus the shop’s very visible from the road so I hope to get passing trade as well as dedicated vintage buyers.’
‘That’s how I found you,’ said Dan as I put the flowers in a tall glass vase. ‘I was walking past yesterday and saw you’ – he reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out a pencil sharpener – ‘were about to open, and I thought it would make a good feature for Friday’s paper.’ As he sat on the sofa I noticed that he was wearing odd socks – one green and one brown. ‘Not that fashion’s really my thing.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I said politely as he gave the pencil a few vigorous turns. ‘Don’t you use a tape-recorder?’ I couldn’t help asking.
He inspected the newly pointed tip then blew on it. ‘I prefer speed writing. Right then.’ He pocketed the sharpener. ‘Let’s start. So …’ He bounced the pencil against his lower lip. ‘What should I ask you first …?’ I tried not to show my dismay at his lack of preparation. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Are you local?’
‘Yes.’ I folded a pale blue cashmere cardigan. ‘I grew up in Eliot Hill, closer to Greenwich, but for the past five years I’ve been living in the centre of Blackheath, near the station.’ I thought of my railwayman’s cottage with its tiny front garden.
‘Station,’ Dan repeated slowly. ‘Next question…’ This interview was going to take ages – it was the last thing I needed. ‘Do you have a fashion background?’ he asked. ‘Won’t the readers want to know that?’
‘Er … possibly.’ I told him about my History of Fashion degree at St Martin’s and my career at Sotheby’s.
‘So how long were you at Sotheby’s?’
‘Twelve years.’ I folded an Yves St Laurent silk scarf and laid it in a tray. ‘In fact I’d recently been made head of the costumes and textiles department. But then … I decided to leave.’
Dan looked up. ‘Even though you’d just been promoted?’
‘Yes …’ My heart turned over. I’d said too much. ‘I’d been there almost from the day I’d graduated, you see, and I needed …’ I glanced out of the window, trying to quell the surge of emotion that was breaking over me. ‘I felt I needed …’
‘A career break?’ Dan suggested.
‘A … change. So I went on a sort of sabbatical in early March.’ I draped a string of Chanel paste pearls round the neck of a silver mannequin. ‘They said they’d keep my job open until June, but in early May I saw that the lease here had come up for sale, so I decided to take the plunge and sell vintage myself. I’d been toying with the idea for some time,’ I added.
‘Some… time,’ Dan repeated quietly. This was hardly ‘speed writing’. I stole a glance at his odd squiggles and abbreviations. ‘Next question …’ He chewed the end of his pencil. The man was useless. ‘I know: Where do you find the stock?’ He looked at me. ‘Or is that a trade secret?’
‘Not really.’ I fastened the hooks on a café au lait-coloured silk blouse by Georges Rech. ‘I bought quite a bit from some of the smaller auction houses outside London, as well as from specialist dealers and private individuals who I already knew through Sotheby’s. I also got things at vintage fairs, on eBay, and I made two or three trips to France.’
‘Why France?’
‘You can find lovely vintage garments in provincial markets there – like these embroidered nightdresses.’ I held one up. ‘I bought them in Avignon. They weren’t too expensive because French women are less keen on vintage than we are in this country.’
‘Vintage clothing’s become rather desirable here, hasn’t it?’
‘Very desirable.’ I quickly fanned some 1950s copies of Vogue on to the glass table by the sofa. ‘Women want individuality, not mass production, and that’s what vintage gives them. Wearing vintage suggests originality and flair. I mean, a woman can buy an evening dress in the High Street for £200,’ I went on, warming to the interview now, ‘and the next day it’s worth almost nothing. But for the same money she could have bought something made of gorgeous fabric, that no one else would have been wearing and that will, if she doesn’t wreck it, actually increase in value. Like this –’ I pulled out a Hardy Amies petrol blue silk taffeta dinner gown, from 1957.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Dan, looking at its halter neck, slim bodice and gored skirt. ‘You’d think it was new.’
‘Everything I sell is in perfect condition.’
‘Condition …’ he muttered as he scribbled again.
‘Every garment is washed or dry-cleaned,’ I went on as I returned the dress to the rail. ‘I have a wonderful seamstress who does the big repairs and alterations; the smaller ones I can do here myself – I have a little “den” at the back with a sewing machine.’
‘And what do the things sell for?’
‘They range from £15 for a hand-rolled silk scarf, to £75 for a cotton day dress, to £200–300 for an evening dress and up to £1,500 for a couture piece.’ I pulled out a Pierre Balmain beaded gold faille evening gown from the early 1960s, embroidered with bugle beads and silver sequins. I lifted its protective cover. ‘This is an important dress, made by a major designer at the height of his career. Or there’s this –’ I took out a pair of silk velvet palazzo pants in a psychedelic pattern of sherbety pinks and greens. ‘This outfit’s by Emilio Pucci. It’ll almost certainly be bought as an investment piece rather than to wear, because Pucci, like Ossie Clark, Biba and Jean Muir, is very collectable.’
‘Marilyn Monroe loved Pucci,’ Dan said. ‘She was buried in her favourite green silk Pucci dress.’ I nodded, not liking to admit that I hadn’t known that. ‘Those are fun.’ Dan was nodding at the wall behind me hanging on which, like paintings, were four strapless, ballerina-length evening dresses – one lemon yellow, one candy pink, one turquoise and one lime – each with a satin bodice beneath which foamed a mass of net petticoats, sparkling with crystals.
‘I’ve hung those there because I love them,’ I explained. ‘They’re fifties prom dresses, but I call them “cupcake” dresses because they’re so glamorous and frothy. Just looking at them makes me feel happy.’ Or as happy as I can be now, I thought bleakly.
Dan stood up. ‘And what’s that you’re putting out there?’
‘This is a Vivienne Westwood bustle skirt.’ I held it up for him. ‘And this –’ I pulled out a terracotta silk kaftan, ‘is by Thea Porter, and this little suede shift is by Mary Quant.’
‘What about this?’ Dan had pulled out an oyster pink satin evening dress with a cowl neckline, fine pleating at the sides, and a sweeping fishtail hem. ‘It’s wonderful – it’s like something Katharine Hepburn would have worn, or Greta Garbo – or Veronica Lake,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘in The Glass Key.’
‘Oh. I don’t know that film.’
‘It’s very underrated – it was written by Dashiell Hammett in 1942. Howard Hawks borrowed from it for The Big Sleep.’
‘Did he?’
‘But you know what …’ He held the dress against me in a way that took me aback. ‘It would suit you.’ He looked at me appraisingly. ‘You have that sort of film noir languor.’
‘Do I?’ Again, he’d taken me aback. ‘Actually … this dress was mine.’
‘Really? Don’t you want it?’ Dan asked almost indignantly. ‘It’s rather beautiful.’
‘It is, but … I just … went off it.’ I returned it to the rail. I didn’t have to tell him the truth. That Guy had given it to me just under a year ago. We’d been seeing each other for a month and he’d taken me to Bath one weekend. I’d spotted the dress in a shop window and had gone in to look at it, mostly out of professional interest as it was £500. But later, while I’d been reading in the hotel room, Guy had slipped out and returned with the dress, gift-wrapped in pink tissue. Now I’d decided to sell it because it belonged to a part of my life that I was desperate to forget. I’d give the money to charity.
‘And what, for you, is the main appeal of vintage clothing?’ I heard Dan ask as I rearranged the shoes inside the illuminated glass cubes that lined the left-hand wall. ‘Is it that the things are such good quality compared to clothes made today?’
‘That’s a big part of it,’ I replied as I placed one 1960s green suede pump at an elegant angle to its partner. ‘Wearing vintage is a kick against mass production. But the thing I love most about vintage clothes …’ I looked at him. ‘Don’t laugh, will you.’
‘Of course not …’
I stroked the gossamer chiffon of a 1950s peignoir. ‘What I really love about them … is the fact that they contain someone’s personal history.’ I ran the marabou trim across the back of my hand. ‘I find myself wondering about the women who wore them.’
‘Really?’
‘I find myself wondering about their lives. I can never look at a garment – like this suit …’ I went over to the daywear rail and pulled out a 1940s fitted jacket and skirt in a dark blue tweed ‘… without thinking about the woman who owned it. How old was she? Did she work? Was she married? Was she happy?’ Dan shrugged. ‘The suit has a British label from the early forties,’ I went on, ‘so I wonder what happened to this woman during the war. Did her husband survive? Did she survive?’
I went over to the shoe display and took out a pair of 1930s silk brocade slippers, embroidered with yellow roses. ‘I look at these exquisite shoes, and I imagine the woman who owned them rising out of them and walking along, or dancing in them, or kissing someone.’ I went over to a pink velvet pillbox hat on its stand. ‘I look at a little hat like this,’ I lifted up the veil, ‘and I try to imagine the face beneath it. Because when you buy a piece of vintage clothing you’re not just buying fabric and thread – you’re buying a piece of someone’s past.’
Dan nodded. ‘Which you’re bringing into the present.’
‘Exactly – I’m giving these clothes a new lease of life. And I love the fact that I’m able to restore them,’ I went on. ‘Where there are so many things in life that can’t be restored.’ I felt the sudden, familiar pit in my stomach.
‘I’d never have thought of vintage clothes like that,’ said Dan after a moment. ‘I love your passion for what you do.’ He peered at his notepad. ‘You’ve given me some great quotes.’
‘Good,’ I replied quietly. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’ After a hopeless start, I was tempted to add.
Dan smiled. ‘Well … I’d better let you get on – and I ought to go and write this up, but …’ His voice trailed away as his eyes strayed to the corner shelf. ‘What an amazing hat. What period’s that from?’
‘It’s contemporary. It was made three years ago.’
‘It’s very original.’
‘Yes – it’s one of a kind.’
‘How much is it?’
‘It’s not for sale. It was given to me by the designer – a close friend of mine. I just wanted to have it here because …’ I felt a constriction in my throat.
‘Because it’s beautiful?’ Dan suggested. I nodded. He flipped shut his notebook. ‘And will she be coming to the launch?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘One last thing,’ he said, taking a camera out of his bag. ‘My editor asked me to get a photo of you to go with the piece.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘As long as it won’t take long. I’ve still got to tie balloons to the front, I have to change – and I haven’t poured the champagne: that’s going to take time and people will be arriving in twenty minutes.’
‘Let me do that,’ I heard Dan say. ‘To make up for being late.’ He tucked his pencil behind his ear. ‘Where are the glasses?’
‘Oh. There are three boxes of them behind the counter, and there are twelve bottles of champagne in the fridge in the little kitchen there. Thanks,’ I added, anxiously wondering if Dan would manage to spill it everywhere; but he deftly filled the flutes with the Veuve Clicquot – vintage, of course, because it had to be – while I washed and changed into my outfit, a thirties dove grey satin cocktail dress with silver Ferragamo sling-backs; then I put on a little make-up and ran a brush through my hair. Finally I untied the cluster of pale gold helium balloons which floated from the back of a chair and attached them in twos and threes to the front of the shop where they jerked and bobbed in the stiffening breeze. Then as the church clock struck six I stood in the doorway, with a glass in my hand, while Dan took his photos.
After a minute he lowered the camera and looked at me, clearly puzzled.
‘Sorry, Phoebe – could you manage a smile?’
* * *
My mother arrived just as Dan was leaving.
‘Who was that?’ she asked as she headed straight for the fitting room.
‘A journalist called Dan,’ I replied. ‘He’s just interviewed me for a local paper. He’s a bit chaotic.’
‘He looked rather nice,’ she said as she stood in front of the mirror scrutinising her appearance. ‘He was hideously dressed, but I like curly hair on a man. It’s unusual.’ Her reflected face looked at me with anxious disappointment. ‘I wish you could find someone again, Phoebe – I hate you being on your own. Being on your own is no fun. As I can testify,’ she added bitterly.
‘I rather enjoy it. I intend to be on my own for a long time, quite possibly forever.’
Mum snapped open her bag. ‘That’s very likely to be my fate, darling, but I don’t want it to be yours.’ She took out one of her expensive new lipsticks. It resembled a gold bullet. ‘I know you’ve had a hard year, darling.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured.
‘And I know’ – she glanced at Emma’s hat – ‘that you’ve been … suffering.’ My mother could have no idea quite how much. ‘But,’ she said as she twisted up the colour, ‘I still don’t understand’ – I knew what was coming – ‘why you had to end things with Guy. I know I only met him three times, but I thought he was charming, handsome and nice.’
‘He was all those things,’ I agreed. ‘He was lovely. In fact, he was perfect.’
In the mirror Mum’s eyes met mine. ‘Then what happened between you?’
‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘My feelings just … changed. I told you that.’
‘Yes. But you’ve never said why.’ Mum drew the colour – a slightly garish coral – across her upper lip. ‘The whole thing seemed quite perverse, if you don’t mind my saying so. Of course, you were very unhappy at the time.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But then what happened to Emma …’ I closed my eyes to try and shut out the images that will haunt me forever. ‘Wel l… it was terrible,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t know how she could do that … And to think what she had going for her … so much.’
‘So much,’ I echoed bitterly.
Mum blotted her lower lip with a tissue. ‘But what I don’t understand is why it then followed, sad though you were, that you had to end what appeared to be a happy relationship with a very nice man. I think you had a sort of nervous breakdown,’ she went on. ‘It wouldn’t be surprising …’ She smacked her lips together. ‘I don’t think you knew what you were doing.’
‘I knew exactly,’ I retorted calmly. ‘But you know what, Mum, I don’t want to talk ab—’
‘How did you meet him?’ she suddenly asked. ‘You never told me that.’
I felt my face heat up. ‘Through Emma.’
‘Really?’ Mum looked at me. ‘How typically sweet of her,’ she said as she turned back to the mirror. ‘Introducing you to a nice man like that.’
‘Yes,’ I said uneasily …
‘I’ve met someone,’ Emma had said excitedly over the phone a year ago. ‘My head’s in a spin, Phoebe. He’s … wonderful.’ My heart had sunk, not just because Emma was always saying that she’d met someone ‘wonderful’, but because these men were usually anything but. Emma would be in raptures about them, then a month later she’d be avoiding them, saying they were ‘dreadful’. ‘I met him at a fund-raising do,’ she’d explained. ‘He runs an investment fund – but the good thing,’ she’d added with her usual, endearing artlessness, ‘is that it’s an ethical one.’
‘That sounds interesting. So he must be clever then.’
‘He got a first from the LSE. Not that he told me that,’ she added quickly. ‘I got it from Google. We’ve been on a few dates, but things are moving on so I’d like you to check him out.’
‘Emma,’ I sighed. ‘You are thirty-three years old. You are becoming very successful. You now dress the heads of some of the most famous women in the UK. Why do you need my approval?’
‘Well …’ I heard her clicking her tongue. ‘Because I guess old habits die hard. I’ve always asked your opinion about men, haven’t I?’ she mused. ‘Right from when we were teenagers.’
‘Yes – but we’re not teenagers now. You’ve got to have confidence in your own judgement, Em.’
‘I hear what you say. But I still want you to meet Guy.
I’ll have a little dinner party next week and sit you next to him, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I sighed …
I wish I didn’t have to be involved, I thought as I helped Emma in the kitchen of her rented house in Marylebone the following Thursday evening. From the sitting room came the sound of nine people laughing and talking. Emma’s idea of a ‘little’ dinner party was a five-course meal for twelve. As I got down the plates I thought of the men Emma had been ‘madly in love with’ over the past couple of years: Arnie the fashion photographer who’d two-timed her with a hand-model; Finian the garden designer who spent every weekend with his six-year-old daughter – and her mum. Then there’d been Julian, a bespectacled stockbroker with an interest in philosophy but precious little else. Emma’s latest attachment had been to Peter, a violinist with the London Philharmonic. That had looked promising – he was very nice and she could talk to him about music; but then he’d gone on a three-month world tour with the orchestra and had come back engaged to the second flute.
Maybe this chap Guy would be a better bet, I thought as I rummaged in a drawer for Emma’s napkins.
‘Guy is perfect,’ she said as she opened the oven, releasing a burst of steam and an aroma of roasting lamb. ‘He’s the one, Phoebe,’ she said happily.
‘That’s what you always say.’ I began folding the napkins.
‘Well, this time it’s true. I’m going to kill myself if it doesn’t work out,’ she added gaily.
I stopped mid-fold. ‘Don’t be so silly, Em. It’s not even as though you’ve known him that long.’
‘True – though I know what I feel. But he’s late,’ she wailed as she took the lamb out to rest it. She thumped the Le Creuset meat dish down on to the table, her face a mask of anxiety. ‘Do you think he’s going to turn up?’
‘Of course he is,’ I said. ‘It’s only eight forty-five – he’s probably just been held up at work.’
Emma kicked shut the oven door. ‘Then why didn’t he phone?’
‘Maybe he’s stuck on the tube …’ Anxiety contorted her features again. ‘Em – don’t worry …’
She began basting the meat. ‘I can’t help it. I’d love to be calm and collected like you usually are, but I’ve never had your poise.’ She straightened up. ‘How do I look?’
‘Beautiful.’
She smiled with relief. ‘Thanks – not that I believe you, as you always say that.’
‘Because it’s always true,’ I said firmly.
Emma was dressed in her usually eclectic way, in a Betsey Johnson floral silk dress, with canary yellow fishnets and black ankle boots. Her wavy auburn hair was held off her face by a silver band.
‘And does this dress definitely suit me?’ she asked.
‘Definitely. I like the sweetheart neckline, and the silhouette’s flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.
‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ Emma’s face fell. ‘Please don’t say that, Phoebe – not today of all days. I know I could do with losing a few pounds, but –’
‘No, no – I didn’t mean that. Of course you’re not fat, Em, you’re lovely, I just meant –’
‘Oh God!’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘I haven’t done the blinis!’
‘I’ll do them.’ I opened the fridge and got out the smoked salmon and the tub of crème fraîche.
‘You’re a fabulous friend, Phoebe,’ I heard Emma say. ‘What would I do without you,’ she added as she began sticking bits of rosemary into the lamb. ‘Do you know’ – she waved a sprig at me – ‘we’ve now known each other for a quarter of a century.’
‘Is it that long?’ I murmured as I began to chop the smoked salmon.
‘It is. And we’ll probably know each other for, what, another fifty?’
‘If we drink the right brand of coffee.’
‘We’ll have to go into the same old people’s home!’ Emma giggled.
‘Where you’ll still be getting me to check out your boyfriends. “Oh, Phoebe,”’ I said in a crotchety voice, ‘“he’s ninety-three – do you think he’s a bit old for me?”’
Emma snorted with laughter then chucked the bunch of rosemary at me.
Now I began grilling the blinis, trying not to burn my fingers as I quickly turned them over. Emma’s friends were talking so loudly – and someone was playing the piano – that I’d only dimly registered the ring of the door bell, but the sound electrified Emma.
‘He’s here!’ She checked her appearance in a small mirror, adjusting her hair-band; then she ran down the narrow staircase. ‘Hi! Oh, thanks,’ I heard her squeal. ‘They’re gorgeous. Come on up – you know the way.’ I’d registered the fact that Guy had been to the house before – that was a good sign. ‘Everyone’s here,’ I heard Emma say as they came up the stairs. ‘Were you stuck on the tube?’ By now I’d assembled the first batch of blinis. Then I reached for the peppermill and vigorously turned the top. Nothing. Damn. Where did Em keep the peppercorns? I began to look, opening a couple of cupboards before spotting a new tub of them on top of her spice rack.
‘Let me get you a drink, Guy,’ I heard Emma say. ‘Phoebe.’ I had taken the seal off the peppercorns and was trying to prise off the lid, but it was stuck. ‘Phoebe,’ Emma repeated. I turned round. She was standing in the kitchen, smiling radiantly, clutching a posy of white roses: just behind her, framed in the doorway, was Guy.
I looked at him in dismay. Emma had said that he was ‘gorgeous’, but it had meant nothing to me as she always said that, even if the man was hideous. But Guy was heart-stoppingly handsome. He was tall and broad shouldered, with an open face and fine, evenly spaced features, dark brown hair that was cut endearingly short and dark blue eyes that had an amused expression in them.
‘Phoebe,’ Emma said, ‘this is Guy.’ He smiled at me and I felt a little ‘thud’ in my ribcage. ‘Guy, this is my best friend, Phoebe.’
‘Hi!’ I said, smiling at him like a lunatic as I wrestled with the peppercorns. Why did he have to be so attractive? ‘God!’ The lid suddenly came off the peppercorns and they shot out in a black arc then scattered like gunshot across the worktops and floor. ‘Sorry, Em,’ I breathed. I grabbed a brush and began vigorously sweeping, if only to disguise my turmoil. ‘I’m sorry!’ I laughed. ‘What a twit!’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Emma said. She quickly put the roses into a jug then grabbed the plate of blinis. ‘I’ll take these in. Thanks, Phoebes – they look lovely.’
I’d expected Guy to follow her, instead of which he went to the sink, opened the cupboard underneath and got out the dustpan and brush. I registered with a pang the fact that he knew his way round Emma’s kitchen.
‘Don’t worry,’ I protested.
‘It’s okay – let me help you.’ Guy hitched up the knees of his City trousers then stooped down and began to sweep up the peppercorns.
‘They get everywhere,’ I wittered. ‘So silly of me.’
‘Do you know where pepper comes from?’ he suddenly asked.
‘No idea,’ I replied as I stooped to pick up a few in my fingertips. ‘South America?’
‘Kerala. Until the fifteenth century, pepper was so valuable that it could be used in lieu of money, hence “peppercorn rent”.’
‘Really?’ I said politely. Then I pondered the weirdness of finding myself crouched on the floor with a man I’d met a minute earlier, discussing the finer points of black pepper.
‘Anyway,’ Guy straightened up then emptied the dustpan into the pedal bin. ‘I guess I’d better go in.’
‘Yes …’ I smiled. ‘Emma will be wondering. But … thanks.’
The rest of the dinner party passed in a blur. As promised, Emma had put me next to Guy, and I struggled to control my emotions as I politely chatted to him. I kept praying that he’d say something off-putting – that he’d just come out of re-hab, for example, or that he had two ex-wives and five kids. I’d hoped that I’d find his conversation dull, but he only said things that increased his appeal. He talked interestingly about his work, and of his responsibility to invest his clients’ money in ways that not only were not injurious, they could even be positive in their effect on the environment and on human health and welfare. He spoke of his association with a charity that was working to end child labour. He talked affectionately about his parents and his brother, whom he played squash with at the Chelsea Harbour Club once a week. Lucky Emma, I thought. Guy seemed to be everything she’d claimed him to be. As the meal progressed she frequently glanced at him or made passing references to him.
‘We went to the opening of the Goya exhibition the other night, didn’t we, Guy?’ Guy nodded. ‘And we’re trying to get tickets for Tosca at the Opera House next week, aren’t we?’
‘Yes … that’s right.’
‘It’s been sold out for months,’ she explained, ‘but I’m hoping to get returns online.’
Emma’s friends were gradually picking up on the connection. ‘So how long have you two known each other?’ Charlie asked Guy with a sly smile. The words ‘you two’, which had produced in me a stab of envy, made Emma blush with pleasure.
‘Oh, not that long,’ Guy replied quietly, his reticence seeming only to confirm his interest in her…
‘So what did you think?’ Emma asked me over the phone the morning after her party.
I fiddled with my Rotadex. ‘What did I think of what?’
‘Of Guy, of course! Don’t you think he’s gorgeous?’
‘Oh … yes. He is … gorgeous.’
‘Beautiful blue eyes – especially with his dark hair. It’s a devastating combination.’
I glanced out of the window into New Bond Street. ‘Devastating.’
‘And he’s a good conversationalist. Don’t you agree?’
I could hear the hum of the traffic. ‘I … do.’
‘Plus he’s got such a nice sense of humour.’
‘Hmm.’
‘He’s so nice and normal compared to the other men I’ve dated.’
‘That’s certainly true.’
‘He’s a good person. Best of all,’ she concluded, ‘he’s keen!’
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Guy had phoned me an hour earlier to ask me out to dinner.
I hadn’t known what to do. Guy had tracked me down easily enough through Sotheby’s switchboard. I was elated, then horrified. I’d thanked him but said that I wouldn’t be able to come. He’d phoned me another three times just that day but I’d been unable to speak to him as I was frantically preparing for an auction of Twentieth-Century Fashion and Accessories. The fourth time Guy had phoned I’d spoken to him briefly, being careful to lower my voice in the open-plan office. ‘You’re very persistent, Guy.’
‘I am, but that’s because I … like you, Phoebe, and I think – if I don’t flatter myself – that you like me.’ I’d tied the lot number to a Pierre Cardin flecked green wool trouser suit from the mid seventies. ‘Why don’t you say yes?’ he pleaded.
‘Well … because … it’s a bit tricky, isn’t it?’
There was an awkward silence. ‘Look, Phoebe … Emma and I are just friends.’
‘Really?’ I inspected what looked suspiciously like a moth-hole on one leg. ‘You seem to have seen quite a bit of her.’
‘Well … that’s largely because Emma rings me and gets tickets for things, like the Goya opening. We’ve hung out together and had a few laughs, but I’ve never given her the impression that I’m …’ His voice trailed away.
‘But it was clear that you’d been to her flat before. You knew exactly where she kept her dustpan and brush,’ I whispered accusingly.
‘Yes – because last week she asked me to mend a leak under her sink and I had to take everything out of the cupboard.’
‘Oh.’ Relief swept through me. ‘I see. But …’
Guy emitted a sigh. ‘Look, Phoebe, I like Emma – she’s very talented and she’s fun.’
‘Oh, she is – she’s lovely.’
‘I find her a bit intense, though,’ he went on. ‘If not slightly bonkers,’ he confided with a nervous laugh. ‘But she and I aren’t … dating. She can’t really think that.’ I didn’t reply. ‘So will you please have dinner with me?’ I felt my resolve weaken. ‘How about next Tuesday?’ I heard him say. ‘At the Wolseley? I’ll book a table for seven thirty. Will you come, Phoebe?’
If I’d had any idea then where it would lead, I’d have said, ‘No. I won’t. Absolutely not. Never.’
‘Yes,’ I heard myself say …
I considered not telling Emma, but couldn’t bring myself to keep it from her, not least because it would be awful if she somehow found out. So I told her on the Saturday when we met at Amici’s, our favourite coffee shop in Marylebone High Street.
‘Guy’s asked you out?’ she repeated faintly. Her pupils seemed to retract with disappointment. ‘Oh.’ Her hand had trembled as she lowered her cup.
‘I haven’t … encouraged him,’ I explained gently. ‘I didn’t … flirt with him at your dinner party, and if you’d rather I didn’t go, then I won’t, but I couldn’t not tell you. Em?’ I reached for her hand, noticing how red her fingertips were from all the stitching and gluing and straw-stretching that she did. ‘Emma – are you okay?’ She stirred her cappuccino then stared out of the window. ‘Because I wouldn’t see him, even once, if you didn’t want me to.’
Emma didn’t reply at first. Her large green eyes strayed to a young couple walking hand in hand on the other side of the street. ‘It’s okay,’ she said after a moment. ‘After all … I hadn’t known him that long, as you pointed out – although he didn’t discourage me from thinking …’ Her eyes suddenly filled. ‘And those roses he brought me. I thought …’ She pressed a paper napkin to her eyes. It had ‘Amici’s’ printed on it. ‘Well,’ she croaked. ‘It doesn’t look as though I’ll be going to Tosca with him after all. Maybe you could take him, Phoebe. He said he was looking forward to it …’
I sighed with frustration. ‘Look, Em, I’m going to say no. If it’s going to make you miserable, then I’m not interested.’
‘No,’ Emma murmured after a moment. She shook her head. ‘You should go – if you like him, which I assume you do, otherwise we’d hardly be having this conversation. Anyway …’ She picked up her bag. ‘I’d better be off. I’ve got a bonnet to be getting on with – for Princess Eugenie, no less.’ She gave me a cheery wave. ‘I’ll speak to you soon.’
But she didn’t return my calls for six weeks …
‘I wish you’d ring Guy,’ I heard Mum say. ‘I think you meant a lot to him. In fact, Phoebe, there’s something I need to tell you …’
I looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Well … Guy phoned me last week.’ I felt a falling sensation, as though I were sliding down a steep incline. ‘He said he’d like to see you, just to talk to you – now don’t shake your head, darling. He feels you’ve been “unfair” – that was the word he used, though he wouldn’t say why. But I suspect you have been unfair, darling – unfair and, quite frankly, idiotic.’ Mum took a comb out of her bag. ‘It’s not as though it’s easy, finding a nice man. I think you’re lucky that he still holds a candle for you after the way you threw him over.’
‘I want nothing to do with him,’ I insisted. ‘I just don’t … feel the same about him.’ Guy knew why.
Mum ran the comb through her wavy blonde hair. ‘I just hope you won’t come to regret it. And I hope you won’t also come to regret leaving Sotheby’s. I still think it’s a shame. You had prestige there, and stability – the excitement of conducting auctions.’
‘The stress of it, you mean.’
‘You had the company of your colleagues,’ she added, ignoring me.
‘And now I’ll have the company of my customers – and of my part-time assistant, when I can find myself one.’ This was something I needed to pursue – there was a fashion auction coming up at Christie’s that I wanted to go to.
‘You had a regular income,’ Mum went on, swapping her comb for a powder compact. ‘And now here you are, opening this … shop.’ She managed to make the word sound like ‘bordello’. ‘What if it doesn’t work out? You’ve borrowed a small fortune, darling …’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
She dabbed powder on her nose. ‘And it’s going to be such hard work.’
‘Hard work will suit me just fine,’ I said evenly. Because then I’d have less time to think.
‘Anyway, I’ve said my piece,’ she concluded unctuously. She snapped shut her compact and returned it to her bag.
‘And how’s work going?’
Mum grimaced. ‘Not well. There’ve been problems with that huge house on Ladbroke Grove – John’s going insane, which makes it hard for me.’ Mum works as PA to a successful architect, John Cranfield, a job she’s been doing for twenty-two years. ‘It’s not easy,’ she said, ‘but then I’m very lucky to have a job at my age.’ She peered at herself in the mirror. ‘Just look at my face,’ she moaned.
‘It’s a lovely face, Mum.’
She sighed. ‘More furrows than Gordon Ramsay in a fury. None of those new creams seem to have made the slightest difference.’
I thought of Mum’s dressing table. It used to have a single bottle of Oil of Olay on it – now it resembles the unguents counter of a department store with its tubes of Retin A and Vitamin C, its pots of Derma Genesis and Moisture Boost, its pseudo-scientific capsules of slow-release Ceramides and Hyaluronic Acid with Cellular-Nurturing, Epoxy-Restoring this, that and the other.
‘Just dreams in a jar, Mum.’
She prodded her cheeks. ‘Perhaps a little Botox might help … I’ve been toying with the idea.’ She stretched up her brow with the index and middle fingers of her left hand. ‘Sod’s law, it would go wrong and I’d end up with my eyelids round my nostrils. But I do so loathe all these lines.’
‘Then learn to love them. It’s normal to have lines when you’re fifty-nine.’
Mum flinched, as though I’d slapped her. ‘Don’t. I’m dreading getting the bus pass. Why can’t they give us a “taxi pass” when we hit sixty? Then I wouldn’t mind so much.’
‘Anyway, lines don’t make beautiful women less beautiful,’ I went on as I put a stack of Village Vintage carriers behind the till. ‘Just more interesting.’
‘Not to your father.’ I didn’t reply. ‘Mind you, I thought he liked old ruins,’ Mum added dryly. ‘He is an archaeologist, after all. But now here he is with a girl barely older than you are. It’s grotesque,’ she muttered bitterly.
‘It was certainly surprising.’
Mum brushed an imaginary speck off her skirt. ‘You didn’t invite him tonight? Did you?’ In her hazel eyes I saw a heart-rending combination of panic and hope.
‘No I didn’t,’ I replied softly. Not least because she might have come. I wouldn’t have put it past Ruth. Or rather Ruthless.
‘Thirty-six,’ Mum said bitterly, as though it was the ‘six’ that offended her.
‘She must be thirty-eight now,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes – and he’s sixty-two! I wish he’d never done that wretched TV series,’ she wailed.
I took a forest green Hermès Kelly out of its dust bag and put it in a glass display case. ‘You couldn’t have known what would happen, Mum.’
‘And to think I persuaded him – at her behest!’ She picked up a glass of champagne and her wedding ring, which she continues to wear in defiance of my father’s desertion, gleamed in a beam of sunlight. ‘I thought it would help his career,’ she went on miserably. She sipped her fizz. ‘I thought that it would lift his profile and that he’d make more money which would come in handy in our retirement. Then off he goes to film The Big Dig – but the main thing he seems to have been digging’ – Mum grimaced – ‘was her.’ She sipped her champagne again. ‘It was just … ghastly.’
I had to agree. It was one thing for my father to have his first affair in thirty-eight years of marriage; it was quite another for my mother to find out about it in the diary section of the Daily Express. I shuddered as I remembered reading the caption beneath the photo of my father, looking uncharacteristically shifty, with Ruth, outside her Notting Hill flat:
TELLY PROF DUMPS WIFE AMIDST BABY RUMOURS.
‘Do you see much of him, darling?’ I heard Mum ask with forced casualness. ‘Of course, I can’t stop you,’ she went on. ‘And I wouldn’t want to – he’s your father; but, to be honest, the thought of you spending time with him, and her … and … and …’ Mum can’t bring herself to mention the baby.
‘I haven’t seen Dad for ages,’ I said truthfully.
Mum knocked back her champagne then carried the glass out to the kitchen. ‘I’d better not drink any more. It’ll only make me cry. Right,’ she said briskly as she came back, ‘let’s change the subject.’
‘Okay – tell me what you think of the shop. You haven’t seen it for weeks.’
Mum walked round, her elegant little heels tapping over the wooden floor. ‘I like it. It’s not remotely like being in a second-hand shop – it’s more like being somewhere nice, like Phase Eight.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ I lined up the flutes of champagne gently fizzing on the counter.
‘I like the stylish silver mannequins, and there’s a pleasantly uncluttered feel.’
‘That’s because vintage shops can be chaotic – the rails so crammed that you give yourself an upper-body workout just going through them. Here there’s enough light and air between the garments so that browsing will be a pleasure. If an item doesn’t sell, I’ll simply bring out something else. But aren’t the clothes lovely?’
‘Ye-es,’ Mum replied. ‘In a way.’ She nodded at the cupcake dresses. ‘Those are fun.’
‘I know – I adore them.’ I idly wondered who would buy them. ‘And look at this kimono. It’s from 1912. Have you seen the embroidery?’
‘Very pretty …’
‘Pretty? It’s a work of art. And this Balenciaga opera coat. Look at the cut – it’s made in just two pieces, including the sleeves. The construction is amazing.’
‘Hmm …’
‘And this coatdress – it’s by Jacques Fath. Look at the brocade with its pattern of little palm trees. Where could you find something like that today?’
‘That’s all very well, but –’
‘And this Givenchy suit: now this would look great on you, Mum. You can wear a knee-length skirt because you’ve got great legs.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d never wear vintage clothes.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve always preferred new things.’
‘I don’t know why.’
‘I’ve told you before, darling – it’s because I grew up in the era of rationing. I had nothing but hideous hand-me-downs – scratchy Shetland jumpers and grey serge skirts and coarse woollen pinafores that smelled like a damp dog when it rained. I used to long for things that no one else had owned, Phoebe. I still do – I can’t help it. Added to which I have a distaste for wearing things that other people have worn.’
‘But everything’s been washed and dry-cleaned. This isn’t a charity shop, Mum,’ I added as I gave the counter a quick wipe. ‘These clothes are in pristine condition.’
‘I know. And it all smells delightfully fresh – I detect no mustiness whatsoever.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Not the faintest whiff of a mothball.’
I plumped up the cushions on the sofa where Dan had been sitting. ‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘It’s the thought of wearing something that belonged to someone who’s probably …’ – she gave a little shudder – ‘died. I have a thing about it,’ she added. ‘I always have had. You and I are different in that way. You’re like your father. You both like old things … piecing them together. I suppose what you’re doing is a kind of archaeology, too,’ she went on. ‘Sartorial archaeology. Ooh, look, someone’s arriving.’
I picked up two glasses of champagne, then, with adrenaline coursing through my veins and a welcoming smile on my face, I stepped forward to greet the people walking through the door. Village Vintage was open for business …
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Isabel Wolff
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Do fairytale dresses bring fairytale endings?Every dress has a history, so does Phoebe…Phoebe always dreamt of opening her own vintage dress shop. She imagined every detail, from the Vivienne Westwood bustiers hanging next to satin gowns, to sequinned cupcake dresses adorning the walls.At the launch of Village Vintage, Phoebe feels the tingle of excitement as customers snap up the fairytale dresses. Her dream has come true, but a secret from her past is casting a shadow over her new venture.Then one day she meets Therese, an elderly Frenchwoman with a collection to sell, apart from one piece that she won′t part with …As Therese tells the story of the little blue coat, Phoebe feels a profound connection with her own life, one that will help her heal the pain of her past and allow her to love again.