Читать книгу A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author - Isabel Wolff - Страница 7

TWO

I always wake in the early hours. I don’t need to look at the clock to know what time it is – it’s ten to four. I’ve been waking at ten to four every night for six months. My GP said it’s stress-induced insomnia, but I know it’s not stress. It’s guilt.

I avoid sleeping pills, so sometimes I’ll try to make the time pass by getting up and working. I might put on a wash – the machine’s always on the go; I might iron a few things, or do a repair. But I know it’s better to try and sleep so I usually lie there, attempting to lull myself back to oblivion with the World Service or some late-night phone-in. But last night I didn’t do that – I just lay there thinking about Emma. Whenever I’m not busy she goes round and round my mind, on a loop.

I see her at our little primary school in her stripy green summer dress; I see her diving into the swimming pool like a seal; I see her kissing her lucky Krugerrand before a tennis match. I see her at the Royal College of Art with her milliner’s blocks. I see her at Ascot, photographed in Vogue, beaming beneath one of her fantastic hats.

Then, as my bedroom began to fill with the grey light of dawn I saw Emma as I saw her for the very last time.

‘Sorry,’ I whispered.

You’re a fabulous friend.

‘I’m sorry, Em.’

What would I do without you …?

As I stood under the shower I forced my thoughts back to work and to the party. About eighty people had come including three former colleagues from Sotheby’s as well as one or two of my neighbours from here in Bennett Street and a few local shop-owners. Ted from the estate agent’s just along from the shop had popped in – he’d bought a silk waistcoat from the menswear rail; then Rupert who owns the florist’s had turned up and Pippa who runs the Moon Daisy Café dropped in with her sister.

One or two of the fashion journalists I’d invited were there. I hoped that they’d become good contacts, borrowing my clothes for shoots in return for publicity.

‘It’s very elegant,’ Mimi Long from Woman & Home said to me as I circulated with the champagne. She tipped her glass towards me for a refill. ‘I adore vintage. It’s like being in Aladdin’s cave – one has this wonderful sense of discovery. Will you be running the place on your own?’

‘No – I’ll need someone to help out part time so that I can be out and about buying stock, and taking things to be cleaned and repaired. So if you hear of anyone … They’ll need to have an interest in vintage,’ I added.

‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground,’ Mimi promised. ‘Ooh – is that real Fortuny I can see over there …?’

I’ll have to advertise for an assistant, I thought now as I dried myself and combed my wet hair. I could place an ad in a local paper – perhaps the one Dan worked for, whatever it was called.

As I dressed – in wide linen trousers and a short-sleeved fitted shirt with a Peter Pan collar – I realised that Dan had correctly identified my style. I do like the bias-cut dresses and wide-leg trousers of the late thirties and early forties; I like my hair shoulder length and falling over one eye. I like swing coats, clutch bags, peep toes and seamed stockings. I like fabric that drapes like oil.

I heard the clatter of the letter box and went downstairs where there were three letters on the mat. Recognising Guy’s handwriting on the first I tore it in half and dropped the pieces in the bin. I knew from his others what this one would say.

In the next envelope was a card from Dad. Good luck with your new venture, he’d written. I’ll be thinking of you, Phoebe. But please come and see me soon. It’s been too long.

That was true. I’d been so preoccupied that I hadn’t seen him since early February. We’d met at a café in Notting Hill for a conciliatory lunch. I hadn’t been prepared for him bringing the baby. The sight of my sixty-two-year-old father with a two-month-old clamped to his chest was, to put it mildly, a shock.

‘This is … Louis,’ he’d said awkwardly as he fumbled with the baby-sling. ‘How do you undo this thing?’ he muttered. ‘These damn clips … I can never … ah, got it.’ He sighed with relief then lifted the baby out and cradled him with a tender but somehow puzzled expression. ‘Ruth’s away filming so I had to bring him. Oh …’ Dad peered at Louis anxiously. ‘Do you think he’s hungry?’

I looked at Dad, appalled. ‘How on earth should I know?’

As Dad rummaged in the changing bag for a bottle I stared at Louis, his chin shining with dribble, not knowing what to think, let alone say. He was my baby brother. How could I not love him? At the same time, how could I love him, I wondered, when his conception was the cause of my mother’s distress?

Meanwhile Louis, unfazed by the complexities of the situation, had grasped my finger in his tiny hand and was smiling at me gummily.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I’d said …

The third envelope was from Emma’s mother. I recognised her writing. My thumb trembled as I ran it under the flap.

I just wanted to wish you every success with your new venture, she’d written. Emma would have been so thrilled. I hope you’re all right, she’d gone on. Derek and I are still taking things one day at a time. For us the hardest part remains the fact that we were away when it happened – you can’t imagine our regret. ‘Oh yes, I can,’ I murmured. We still haven’t gone through Emma’s things… I felt my insides coil. Emma had kept a diary. But when we do, we’d like to give you some small thing of hers as a keepsake. I also wanted to let you know that there’ll be a little ceremony for Emma on the first anniversary – February 15th. I needed no reminder – the date would remain seared on my memory for the rest of my life. I’ll be in touch nearer the time but, until then, God bless you, Phoebe. Daphne.

She wouldn’t be blessing me if she knew the truth, I thought bleakly.

I collected myself, took some French embroidered nightdresses out of the washing machine, hung them to dry, then locked the house and walked to the shop.

There was still some clearing up to be done and as I opened the door I detected the sour scent of last night’s champagne. I returned the glasses to Oddbins in a cab, put the empty bottles out for recycling, swept the floor and squished Febreze on the sofa. Then as the church clock struck nine I turned over the ‘Closed’ sign.

‘This is it,’ I said to myself. ‘Day one.’

I sat behind the counter for a while repairing the lining of a Jean Muir jacket. By ten o’clock I was dismally wondering whether my mother might not be right. Perhaps I had made a huge mistake, I thought as I saw people pass by with no more than a glance. Perhaps I’d find sitting in a shop dull after the busyness of Sotheby’s. But then I reminded myself that I wouldn’t simply be sitting in a shop – I’d be going to auctions and seeing dealers and visiting private individuals to evaluate their clothes. I’d be talking to Hollywood stylists about sourcing dresses for their famous clients and I’d be making the odd trip to France. I’d also be running the Village Vintage website, as I’d be selling clothes directly from that. There’d be more than enough to do, I told myself as I re-threaded my needle. Then I reminded myself of how pressured my previous life had been.

At Sotheby’s I’d constantly been under the cosh. There was the continual pressure to put on successful auctions, and to conduct them competently; there was the fear of not having enough for the next sale. If I did manage to get enough then there was the worry that the clothes wouldn’t sell, or wouldn’t sell for a high enough price, or that the buyers wouldn’t pay their bills. There was the constant anxiety that things would get stolen or damaged. Worst of all was the habitual, gnawing fear that an important collection would go to a rival auction house – my directors would always want to know why.

Then February 15th happened and I couldn’t cope. I knew I had to get out.

Suddenly I heard the click of the door. I looked up expecting to see my first customer; instead it was Dan, in salmon-coloured cords and a lavender checked shirt. The man had zero colour sense. But there was something about him that was attractive; perhaps it was his build – he was comfortingly solid, like a bear, I now realised. Or perhaps it was his curly hair.

‘I don’t suppose I left my pencil sharpener here yesterday, did I?’

‘Er, no. I haven’t seen it.’

‘Damn,’ he muttered.

‘Is it … a special one?’

‘Yes. It’s silver. Solid,’ he added.

‘Really? Well … I’ll keep a look out for it.’

‘If you would. And how was the party?’

‘Good, thanks.’

‘Anyway …’ He held up a newspaper. ‘I just wanted to bring you this.’ It was the Black & Green and on the masthead was Dan’s photo of me, captioned PASSION FOR VINTAGE FASHION.

I looked at him. ‘I thought you said the article was for Friday’s paper.’

‘It was to have been, but then today’s lead feature had to be held back for various reasons, so Matt, my editor, put yours in instead. Luckily we go to press late.’ He handed it to me. ‘I think it’s come out quite well.’

I quickly glanced through the piece. ‘It’s great,’ I said trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. ‘Thanks for putting the website at the end and – oh.’ I felt my jaw slacken. ‘Why does it say that there’s a five per cent discount on everything for the first week?’

A red stain had crept up Dan’s neck. ‘I just thought an introductory offer might be … you know … good for business what with the credit crunch.’

‘I see. But, that’s a bit of a … cheek, to put it mildly.’

Dan grimaced. ‘I know … but I was busy writing it up and I suddenly thought of it, and I knew your party was going on so I didn’t want to phone you, and then Matt said he wanted to run the piece straight away and so … well …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said grudgingly. ‘I must say, you took me aback, but five per cent is … fine.’ In fact it would be good for business, I reflected, not that I was prepared to concede that. ‘Anyway,’ I sighed, ‘I was a little distracted when we were talking yesterday – who did you say gets this paper?’

‘It’s handed out at all the stations in this area on Tuesday and Friday mornings. It also goes through the doors of selected businesses and homes, so potentially it reaches a wide local audience.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ I smiled at Dan, genuinely appreciative now. ‘And have you worked for the paper long?’

He seemed to hesitate. ‘Two months.’

‘From the start then?’

‘More or less.’

‘And are you from round here?’

‘Just down the road in Hither Green.’ There was an odd little pause, and I was just waiting for him to say that he ought to be on his way when he said, ‘You must come Hither.’

I looked at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

He smiled. ‘All I mean is you must come round sometime.’

‘Oh.’

‘For a drink. I’d love you to see my …’ What? I wondered. Etchings?

‘Shed.’

‘Your shed?’

‘Yes. I’ve got a fantastic shed,’ he said evenly.

‘Really?’ I imagined a jumble of rusty gardening tools, cobwebbed bicycles and broken flowerpots.

‘Or it will be when I’ve finished.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Well …’ Dan tucked the pencil behind his ear. ‘I guess I’d better find my sharpener.’

‘Good luck.’ I smiled. ‘See you around.’ He left the shop, then gave me a little wave through the window. I waved back. ‘What an oddball,’ I said under my breath.

Within ten minutes of Dan’s departure a trickle of people began to arrive, at least two of them holding copies of the Black & Green. I tried not to annoy them with offers of help or to watch them too obviously. The Hermès bags and the more expensive jewellery were in lockable glass cases, but I hadn’t put electronic tags on the clothes for fear of damaging the fabric.

By twelve, I’d had about ten people through the door and had made my first sale – a 1950s seersucker sundress with a pattern of violets. I felt like framing the receipt.

At a quarter past one a petite red-haired girl in her early twenties came in with a well-dressed man in his mid to late thirties. While she looked through the clothes he sat on the sofa, one silk-socked ankle resting on his knee, thumbing his BlackBerry. The girl went through the evening-wear rail, finding nothing; then her eye was drawn to the cupcake dresses hanging on the wall. She pointed to the lime green one – the smallest of the four.

‘How much is that?’ she asked me.

‘It’s £275.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s silk,’ I explained, ‘with hand-sewn crystals. Would you like to try it on? It’s a size eight.’

‘Well …’ She glanced anxiously at her boyfriend. ‘What do you think, Keith?’ He looked up from his BlackBerry and the girl nodded to the dress, which I was now taking off the wall.

‘That won’t do,’ he said bluntly.

‘Why not?’

‘Too colourful.’

‘I like bright colours,’ the girl protested meekly.

He turned back to his BlackBerry. ‘It’s not appropriate for the occasion.’

‘But it’s a dance.’

‘It’s too colourful,’ he insisted. ‘Plus it’s not smart enough.’ My dislike of the man turned to detestation.

‘Let me try it.’ She smiled pleadingly. ‘Go on.’

He looked at her. ‘Ok-ay.’ He sighed extravagantly. ‘If you must …’

I showed the girl into the changing room and drew the curtain round the rail. A minute later she emerged. The dress fitted her perfectly and showed off her small waist, lovely shoulders and slim arms. The vibrant lime complimented her red-blonde hair and creamy skin, while the corseting flattered her bust. The green tulle petticoats floated in layers around her, the crystals winking in the sunlight.

‘It’s … gorgeous,’ I murmured. I couldn’t imagine any woman looking more beautiful in it. ‘Would you like to try a pair of shoes on with it?’ I added. ‘Just to see how it would look with heels?’

‘Oh, I won’t need to,’ she said as she stared at herself, on tiptoe, in a side mirror. She shook her head. ‘It’s … fantastic.’ She seemed overwhelmed, as though she’d just discovered some wonderful secret about herself.

Behind her another customer had come in – a slim, dark-haired woman of about thirty in a leopard-print shirtdress with a gold chain belt worn low on the hips and gladiator sandals. She stopped in her tracks, gazing at the girl. ‘You look glorious,’ she exclaimed. ‘Like a young Julianne Moore.’

The girl smiled delightedly. ‘Thanks.’ She stared at herself in the mirror again. ‘This dress makes me feel … as though I’m in …’ She hesitated. ‘A fairytale.’ She glanced nervously at her boyfriend. ‘What do you think, Keith?’

He looked at her, shook his head then returned to his BlackBerry. ‘Like I say – much too bright. Plus it makes you look like you’re going to hop about in the ballet, not go to a sophisticated dinner dance at the Dorchester. Here –’ He stood up, went over to the evening rail and pulled out a Norman Hartnell black crepe cocktail dress and held it up to her. ‘Try this.’

The girl’s face fell, but she retreated into the fitting room, emerging in the dress a minute later. The style was far too old for her and the colour drained her complexion. She looked as though she was going to a funeral. I saw the woman in the leopard-print dress glance at her then discreetly shake her head before turning back to the rails.

‘That’s more like it,’ Keith said. He made a circulating gesture with his index finger and with a sigh the girl slowly spun round, her eyes upturned. At that I saw the other customer purse her lips. ‘Perfect,’ said Keith. He thrust his hand into his jacket. ‘How much?’ I glanced at the girl. Her mouth was quivering. ‘How much?’ he repeated as he opened his wallet.

‘But it’s the green one I like,’ she murmured.

‘How much?’ he repeated.

‘It’s £150.’ I felt my face flush.

‘I don’t want it,’ the girl pleaded. ‘I like the green one, Keith. It makes me feel … happy.’

‘Then you’ll just have to buy it yourself. If you can afford it,’ he added pleasantly. He looked at me again. ‘So that’s £150?’ He tapped the newspaper. ‘And it says here that there’s a five per cent discount, which makes it £142.50, by my reckoning.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, impressed by the speed of his calculation and wishing that I could charge him twice the amount and give the girl the cupcake dress.

‘Keith. Please,’ she moaned. Her eyes were shining with tears.

‘C’mon, Kelly,’ he groaned. ‘Give me a break. That little black number’s just the ticket and I’ve got some top people coming so I don’t want you looking like bloody Tinker Bell do I?’ He glanced at his expensive-looking watch. ‘We’ve got to get back – I’ve got that conference call about the Kilburn site at two thirty, remember. Now – am I buying the black dress or not? Because if I’m not, then you won’t be coming to the Dorchester on Saturday, I can tell you.’

She looked out of the window then nodded mutely.

As I tore the receipt off the terminal the man held his hand out for the bag then slotted his card back in his wallet. ‘Thanks,’ he said briskly. Then, with the girl trailing disconsolately behind him, he left.

As the door clicked shut the woman in the leopard-print dress caught my eye.

‘I wish she’d had the fairytale dress,’ she said. ‘With a “prince” like that, she needs it.’ Not sure that I should be seen to be knocking my customers, I smiled a rueful smile of agreement then put the green cupcake dress back on the wall. ‘She isn’t just his girlfriend – she works for him,’ the woman went on as she inspected a Thierry Mugler hot pink leather jacket from the mid eighties.

I looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because he’s so much older than her, because of his power over her and her fear of offending him… her knowledge of his diary. I like people-watching,’ she added.

‘Are you a writer?’

‘No. I love writing, but I’m an actor.’

‘Are you in anything at the moment?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m “resting”, as they say – in fact, I’ve had more rest than Sleeping Beauty lately, but’ – she heaved a theatrical sigh – ‘I refuse to give up.’ She looked at the prom dresses again. ‘They really are lovely. I don’t have the curves for them, sadly, even if I had the cash. They’re American, aren’t they?’

I nodded. ‘Early fifties. They’re a bit too frothy for post-war Britain.’

‘Gorgeous fabric,’ the woman said, squinting at them. ‘Dresses like that are usually made of acetate with nylon petticoats, but these ones are all silk.’ So she had knowledge and a good eye.

‘Do you buy much vintage?’ I asked as I re-folded a lavender cashmere cardigan and put it on the knitwear stand.

‘I buy as much as I can afford – and if I get bored of anything I can always sell – not that I do, because in the main I’ve always bought well. I’ve never forgotten the thrill of my first find,’ she went on as she put the Thierry Mugler back on the rail. ‘It was a Ted Lapidus leather coat bought in Oxfam in ’92 – it still looks good.’

I thought about my first vintage find. A Nina Ricci guipure lace shirt bought in Greenwich Market when I was fourteen. Emma had pounced on it for me on one of our Saturday foraging trips.

‘Your dress is Cerutti, isn’t it?’ I said to the girl. ‘But it’s been altered. It should be ankle length.’

She smiled. ‘Spot on. I got it in a jumble sale ten years ago, but the hem was ripped so I shortened it.’ She brushed an imaginary speck off the front. ‘Best fifty pence I ever spent.’ She went over to the daywear rail and picked out a turquoise crepe de Chine tiered dress from the early seventies. ‘This is Alice Pollock, isn’t it?’

I nodded. ‘For Quorum.’

‘I thought so.’ She glanced at the price. ‘Out of my reach, but I can never resist looking, and when I read in the local paper that you’d opened I just had to come and see what you had. Oh well,’ she sighed. ‘I can dream.’ She gave me a friendly smile. ‘I’m Annie, by the way.’

‘I’m Phoebe. Phoebe Swift.’ I stared at her. ‘I’m just wondering … are you working at the moment?’

‘I’m temping,’ she replied. ‘Just doing whatever comes along.’

‘And are you local?’

‘Yes.’ Annie looked at me curiously. ‘I live in Dartmouth Hill.’

‘The reason I’m asking … Look, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in working for me, would you? I need a part-time assistant.’ I explained why.

‘Two days a week?’ Annie echoed. ‘That might suit me very well – I could do with some regular work – as long as I could go to auditions. Not that I have many to go to,’ she added ruefully.

‘I’d be flexible about the hours – and there’d be some weeks when I’d need you for more than two days – and did you say you can sew?’

‘I’m fairly nifty with a needle.’

‘Because it would be helpful if you could do a few small repairs in the quiet times, or a bit of ironing. And if you could help me dress the windows – I’m not much good with mannequins.’

‘I’d enjoy all that.’

‘And you wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not you and I would get on, because when you were here I’d mostly be out, which would be the whole point of it. But here’s my number.’ I handed Annie a Village Vintage postcard. ‘Have a think.’

‘Well … actually …’ She laughed. ‘I don’t have to. It would be right up my street. But you ought to get a reference for me,’ she added, ‘if only to make sure I’m not going to run off with the stock, because it would be extremely tempting.’ She smiled. ‘But apart from that, when would I start?’

So this morning, Monday, Annie began work, having provided letters from two previous employers extolling her honesty and industry. I’d asked her to come early so that I could show her how everything worked before I left for Christie’s.

‘Spend some time familiarising yourself with the clothes,’ I advised her. ‘Evening wear is here. This is lingerie … there’s some menswear here … shoes and bags are on this stand. Knitwear on this table … Let me open the till.’ I fiddled with the electronic key. ‘And if you could do a little mending …’

‘Sure.’ I went into the ‘den’ to pick up a Murray Arbeid skirt that needed a small repair. ‘That’s an Emma Kitts, isn’t it?’ I heard Annie say. I came back into the shop. She was gazing up at the hat. ‘That was so sad. I read about it in the papers.’ She turned to me. ‘But why do you have it here, given that it’s not vintage and it says it’s not for sale?’

For a split second I fantasised about confessing to Annie that looking at the hat every day was a form of penance.

‘I knew her,’ I explained as I put the skirt on the counter with the sewing box. ‘We were friends.’

‘That’s hard,’ said Annie softly. ‘You must miss her.’

‘Yes …’ I coughed to cover the sob that I could feel rising in my throat. ‘Anyway … this seam here – there’s a little split.’ I breathed deeply. ‘I’d better get going.’

Annie took the lid off the sewing box and selected a reel of thread. ‘What time does the auction start?’

‘At ten. I went to the preview last night.’ I picked up the catalogue. ‘The lots I’m interested in won’t come up until after eleven, but I want to get there in good time so that I can see what’s selling well.’

‘What are you going to bid for?’

‘A Balenciaga evening gown.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 110.

Annie peered at it. ‘How elegant.’

The long sleeveless indigo silk dress was cut very simply, its scooped neckline and gently raised hem encrusted in a wide band of fringed silver glass beading.

‘I want to buy it for a private client,’ I explained. ‘She’s a Beverly Hills stylist. I know exactly what her customers want, so I’m sure she’ll take it. Then there’s this dress by Madame Grès that I’m dying to get for my own collection.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 112, a Neo-classical sheath of cream silk jersey falling in dozens of fine pleats from an empire-line bust with crossover straps and a chiffon train floating from each shoulder. I emitted a wistful sigh.

‘It’s magnificent,’ Annie murmured. ‘It would make a fabulous wedding dress,’ she added teasingly.

I smiled. ‘That’s not why I want it. I simply love the incomparable draping of Madame Grès’ gowns.’ I picked up my bag. ‘Now I really must go – oh, one other thing –’ and I was just about to tell Annie what to do if anyone brought clothes in to sell when the phone rang.

I picked up. ‘Village Vintage …’ The novelty of saying it still gave me a thrill.

‘Good morning,’ said a female voice. ‘My name is Mrs Bell.’ The woman was clearly elderly and her accent was French, though almost imperceptibly so. ‘I saw from the local newspaper that you have just opened your shop.’

‘That’s right.’ So Dan’s article was still having an effect. I felt a rush of good will towards him.

‘Well … I have a selection of clothes I no longer want – some quite lovely things that I am never going to wear again. There are also some bags and shoes. But I am elderly. I cannot bring them …’

‘No, of course not,’ I interjected. ‘I’d be happy to come over to you, if you’d like to give me your address.’ I reached for my diary. ‘The Paragon?’ I repeated. ‘That’s very near. I could walk up. When shall I come?’

‘Is there any chance that you could come today? I am in the mood to dispose of my things sooner rather than later. I have an appointment this morning, but would three o’clock be possible?’

I’d be back from the auction by then, and I had Annie to mind the shop. ‘Three o’clock would be fine,’ I said as I scribbled down the house number.

As I walked down the hill to Blackheath station I reflected on the art of evaluating a collection of clothes in someone’s home. The usual scenario is that a woman has died and you’re dealing with her relatives. They can be very emotional, so you have to be tactful. They’re often offended if you leave some garments out; then they can be upset if you offer less than they’d hoped for those things you do choose. ‘Only £40?’ they’ll say. ‘But it’s by Hardy Amies.’ And I’ll gently point out that the lining’s ripped, that three buttons are missing, and that it’ll have to go to the specialist dry cleaners for the stains on the cuff.

Sometimes the family can find it hard to part with the garments at all and resent your presence, especially if the estate is being sold to pay tax. In those cases, I reflected as I waited on the station platform, you’re made to feel like an intruder. Quite often, when I’ve gone to do a valuation of this kind in a grand country house, I’ve had the maid or valet standing there weeping, or telling me – and this is very annoying – not to touch the clothes. If I’m with a widower he’ll often go into minute detail about everything that his wife wore, and how much he paid for it in Dickins & Jones in 1965 and how beautiful she looked in it on the QE2.

The easiest scenario by far, I thought as the train pulled in, is where a woman is getting divorced and wants to be shot of everything that her husband ever bought her. In those cases I can justifiably be brisk. But when it comes to seeing elderly women who are selling their entire wardrobe it can be emotionally draining. As I say, these are more than clothes – they’re the fabric, almost literally, of someone’s life. But however much I like to hear the stories I have to remind myself that my time is limited. I therefore try to keep my visits to no more than an hour, which is what I resolved to do with Mrs Bell.

As I came out of the underground at South Kensington I called Annie. She sounded upbeat, having already sold a Vivienne Westwood bustier and two French nightdresses. She also told me that Mimi Long from Woman & Home had asked if she could borrow some clothes for one of her shoots. Cheered by this, I walked down the Brompton Road to Christie’s then turned into the foyer, which was crowded as the fashion sales are popular. I queued to register then picked up my bidding ‘paddle’.

The Long Gallery was about two-thirds full. I sat at the end of an empty row halfway down on the right, then looked around for my competitors, which is always the first thing I do when I go to an auction. I saw a couple of dealers I know and a woman who runs a vintage dress shop in Islington. I recognised the fashion editor of Elle sitting in the fourth row and to my right I spotted Nicole Farhi. The air seemed clogged with expensive scent.

‘Lot number 102,’ announced the auctioneer. I sat bolt upright. Lot 102? But it was only ten thirty. When I was conducting auctions I never messed about, but this man had torn through the list. Pulse racing, I looked at the Balenciaga gown in the catalogue then flicked forward to the Madame Grès. It had a reserve of £1,000 but was likely to go for more. I knew I shouldn’t be buying anything I wasn’t planning to sell, but told myself that this was an important piece that would only appreciate in value. If I could get it for £1,500 or less, I would.

‘Lot 105 now,’ said the auctioneer. ‘An Elsa Schiaparelli “shocking pink” silk jacket from her “Circus” collection of 1938. Note the original metallic buttons in the shape of acrobats. Bidding for this item starts at £300. Thank you. And £320, and £340 … £360, thank you, madam … Do I hear £380?’ The auctioneer peered over his glasses then nodded at a blonde woman in the front row. ‘So, for £360 …’ The gavel came down with a ‘crack’. ‘Sold. To …?’ The woman held up her bidding paddle.’ Buyer number 24. Thank you, madam. On now to Lot 106 …’

Despite my years as an auctioneer my heart was pounding as ‘my’ first lot approached. I glanced anxiously round the room, wondering who my rivals for it might be. Most of the buyers were women, but at the very end of my row was a distinguished-looking man in his mid forties. He was flicking through the catalogue, marking it here and there with a gold fountain pen. I idly wondered what he was going to bid for.

The next three lots were each despatched in less than a minute with telephone bids. The Balenciaga was about to come up. I felt my fingers tighten around my bidding paddle.

‘Lot number 110,’ announced the auctioneer. ‘An elegant Cristóbal Balenciaga evening gown of dark blue silk, made in 1960.’ An image of the dress was projected on to the two huge flat screens on either side of the podium. ‘Note the typical simplicity of the cut and the slightly raised hem, to reveal shoes. I’m going to start the bidding at £500.’ The auctioneer looked around the room. ‘Do I hear £500?’ As there were no bids, I waited. ‘Who’ll offer me £450?’ He peered at us all over his glasses. To my surprise there were no raised hands. ‘Do I hear £400 then?’ A woman in the front row nodded so I nodded too. ‘I have £420 … £440 … £460. Do I hear £480?’ The auctioneer looked at me. ‘Thank you, madam – the bid is yours, at £480. Any advance above £480?’ He looked at the other bidder but she was shaking her head. ‘Then £480 it is.’ Down came the gavel. ‘Sold for £480 to buyer number …’ he peered at me over his glasses and I held up my paddle ‘… 220. Thank you, madam.’

My euphoria at having got the Balenciaga at such a good price was swiftly replaced by stomach-churning anxiety as bidding for the Madame Grès approached. I shifted on my seat.

‘Lot number 112,’ I heard the auctioneer say. ‘An evening gown, circa 1936, by the great Madame Grès, famed for her masterful pleating and draping.’ An aproned porter carried the dress, which had been put on to a mannequin, up to the podium. I cast a nervous glance around the room. ‘I’m going to start at £1,000,’ the auctioneer announced. ‘Do I hear £1,000?’ To my relief only one other hand went up with my own. ‘And £1,100. And £1,150.’ I bid again. ‘And £1,200. Thank you – and £1,250?’ The auctioneer looked at us in turn – the other bidder was shaking her head – then returned his gaze to me. ‘Still at £1,250. The bid is with you, madam.’ I held my breath – £1,250 would be a great price. ‘Last call. Last call then,’ the auctioneer repeated. Thank you, God. I closed my eyes with relief. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Confounded, I looked to my left. To my irritation the man at the end of my row was now bidding. ‘Do I hear £1,300?’ enquired the auctioneer. He glanced at me and I nodded. ‘And £1,350? Thank you, sir.’ I felt my pulse race. ‘And £1,400? Thank you, madam. Do I hear £1,500 now?’ The man nodded. Damn. ‘And £1,600?’ I raised my hand. ‘And will you give me £1,700, sir? Thank you.’ I threw another glance at my rival, noting his calm expression as he drove up the price. ‘Do I hear £1,750?’ This suave-looking creep wasn’t going to stop me from getting the dress. I raised my hand again. ‘At £1,750 – still with the lady at the end of the row there. Thank you, sir – with you now at £1,800. And £1,900? Are you still in, madam?’ I nodded, but beneath my excitement I was seething. ‘And £2,000…? Will you bid, sir?’ The man nodded again. ‘Who’ll give me £2,100?’ I raised my hand. ‘And £2,200? Thank you, sir. Still with you, sir, at £2,200 now…’ The man gave me a sideways glance. I raised my hand again. ‘I have £2,300 now,’ said the auctioneer happily. ‘Thank you, madam. And £2,400…?’ The auctioneer stared fixedly at me, whilst extending his right hand to my rival as though to keep us locked in competition – a familiar trick. ‘£2,400?’ he repeated. ‘It’s the gentleman against you, madam.’ I nodded now, adrenaline scorching my veins. ‘£2,600?’ said the auctioneer. I could hear people behind me shift on their seats as the tension mounted. ‘Thank you, sir. Do I hear £2,800? Madam – will you bid £2,800?’ I nodded, as if in a dream. ‘And £2,900, sir? Thank you.’ There were whispers from behind. ‘Do I hear £3,000 … £3,000?’ The auctioneer peered at me as I raised my hand. ‘Thank you very much, madam – £3,000 then.’ What was I doing? ‘At £3,000 …’ I didn’t have £3,000 – I’d have to let the dress go. ‘Any advance on £3,000?’ It was sad, but there it was. ‘£3,100?’ I heard the auctioneer repeat. ‘No, sir? You’re out?’ I looked at my rival. To my horror he was shaking his head. Now the auctioneer turned to me. ‘So the bid is still with you then, madam, at £3,000…’ Oh my God. ‘Going once …’ The auctioneer raised his gavel. ‘Twice …’ He flicked his wrist, and with a strange mix of euphoria and dismay I watched the gavel come down. ‘Sold then for £3,000 to buyer – what was the number again, please? –’ I held up my paddle with a shaking hand ‘– 220. Thank you everyone. Terrific bidding there. Now on to lot 113.’

I stood up, feeling sick. With the buyer’s premium, the total cost of the dress would be £3,600. How, with all my experience, not to mention my supposed sangfroid, could I have got so carried away?

As I looked at the man who’d bid against me an irrational hatred overwhelmed me. He was a City slicker, polished in his Savile Row pin-stripe and his hand-made shoes. No doubt he’d wanted the dress for his wife – his trophy wife, in all probability. Irrationally, I conjured her, a vision of blonde perfection in this season’s Chanel.

I left the saleroom, my heart still thudding. I couldn’t possibly keep the dress. I could offer it to Cindi, my Hollywood stylist – it would be a perfect red-carpet gown for one of her clients. For a moment I imagined Cate Blanchett wearing it to the Oscars – she’d do it justice. But I didn’t want to sell it, I told myself as I headed downstairs to the cashier. It was sublimely beautiful and I had battled to get it.

As I queued to pay I nervously wondered whether my Mastercard would combust on contact with the machine. I calculated that there was just enough credit on it to make the transaction possible.

As I waited my turn I looked up and saw Mr Pin-Stripe coming down the stairs, his phone pressed to his ear.

‘No, I didn’t,’ I heard him say. He had a very pleasant voice, I noticed, with a slight huskiness to it. ‘I just didn’t,’ he repeated wearily. ‘I’m sorry about that, darling.’ Trophy Wife – or possibly Mistress – was clearly furious with him for not getting the Madame Grès. ‘Bidding was intense,’ I heard him explain. He glanced at me. ‘I had stiff competition.’ At that, to my astonishment, he threw me a wink. ‘Yes, I know it’s disappointing, but there’ll be lots of other lovely dresses, sweetie.’ He was obviously getting it right in the neck. ‘But I did get the Prada bag that you liked. Yes, of course, darling. Look, I have to go and pay now. I’ll call you later, okay?’

He snapped shut his phone with a slightly conspicuous air of relief then came and stood behind me. I pretended not to know he was there.

‘Congratulations,’ I heard him say.

I turned around. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Congratulations,’ he repeated. ‘You’ve got the lot,’ he added jovially. ‘The wonderful white dress by … who was it again?’ He opened the catalogue. ‘Madame Grès – whoever she was.’ I was outraged. He didn’t even know what it was that he’d been bidding for. ‘You must be pleased,’ he added.

‘Yes.’ I resisted the temptation to tell him that I was far from pleased with the price.

He tucked the catalogue under his arm. ‘To be honest, I could have gone on bidding.’

I stared at him. ‘Really?’

‘But then I looked at your face, and when I saw how intensely you seemed to want it, I decided to let you have it.’

‘Oh.’ I nodded politely. Was the wretch expecting me to thank him? If he’d quit the race earlier, he’d have saved me two grand.

‘Are you going to wear it to some special occasion?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I replied frigidly. ‘I just … adore Madame Grès. I collect her gowns.’

‘Then I’m delighted that you got this one – anyway.’ He adjusted the knot of his Hermès silk tie. ‘That’s me done for the day.’ He glanced at his watch and I caught a glint of antique Rolex. ‘Will you be bidding for anything else?’

‘Good God, no – I’ve blown the budget.’

‘Oh dear – so it was a case of hammer horror, was it?’

‘It was rather.’

‘Well … I guess that’s my fault.’ He gave me an apologetic smile and I noticed that his eyes were large and deep brown with hooded lids that gave him a slightly sleepy expression.

‘Of course it’s not your fault.’ I shrugged. ‘That’s how auctions work.’ As I knew only too well.

‘Yes please, madam?’ I heard the cashier say.

I turned round and handed her my credit card. As I did so I asked her to make out the invoice to Village Vintage, then I sat on the blue leather bench and waited for my lots to be brought out.

Mr Pin-Stripe completed his payment then came and sat next to me while he waited for his purchases. As we sat there, side by side, not talking now because he was reading his BlackBerry – with a slightly intense air I couldn’t help noticing – I found myself wondering how old he was. I stole a glance at his profile. His face was quite lined. Whatever his age, he was attractive with his iron filings hair and aquiline nose. He was forty-three-ish, I decided as a porter handed us our respective carrier bags. I felt a thrill of ownership as my bag was handed to me. I quickly checked the contents then gave Mr Pin-Stripe a valedictory smile.

He stood up. ‘Do you know …?’ he glanced at his watch ‘… all that bidding has made me hungry. I’m going to pop into the café over the road. I don’t suppose you’d feel like joining me, would you? Having bid so vigorously against you, the least I can do is to buy you a sandwich.’ He extended his hand. ‘My name’s Miles, by the way. Miles Archant.’

‘Oh. I’m Phoebe. Swift. Hi,’ I added impotently as I shook his hand.

‘So?’ He was looking at me enquiringly. ‘Can I interest you in an early lunch?’

I was amazed at the man’s audacity. He a) didn’t know me from Eve and b) clearly had a wife or girlfriend – a fact he knew that I knew because I’d overheard him on his mobile.

‘Or just a cup of coffee?’

‘No, thank you,’ I said calmly. I presumed he made a habit of picking up women in auction houses. ‘I have to … get back now.’

‘To … work?’ he enquired pleasantly.

‘Yes.’ I didn’t have to say where.

‘Well, enjoy the dress. You’ll look stunning in it,’ he added as I turned to leave.

Unsure whether to be indignant or delighted I gave him an uncertain smile. ‘Thanks.’