Читать книгу A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author - Isabel Wolff - Страница 9

FOUR

This morning as I drove to see my seamstress, Val, in unexpected drizzle my mind kept returning to the little blue coat. It was sky blue – the blue of freedom – yet it had been hidden away. As I crawled up Shooter’s Hill Road in nose-to-tail traffic I tried to imagine what the reason might be. Sometimes – and now I remembered my mother’s remark about sartorial archaeology – I can work out a garment’s history from the way it’s been worn. When I was at Sotheby’s, for example, someone brought me three dresses by Mary Quant. They were all in good condition, except that each had a threadbare patch on the right sleeve. The woman who’d brought them in told me that they had belonged to her aunt, a novelist, who wrote all her books in longhand. A pair of Margaret Howell linen trousers with a worn left hip had been owned by a model who’d had three babies in the space of four years. But now, as I flicked on the windscreen wipers, I could come up with no theory for Mrs Bell’s coat. Who, in 1943, had needed it more than she did? And why had Mrs Bell never told anyone the story – not even her adored husband?

I hadn’t mentioned it to Annie when she’d arrived for work this morning. I’d simply said that I’d be buying quite a few things from Mrs Bell.

‘Is that why you’re going to your seamstress?’ she asked as she re-folded the knitwear. ‘To have some of them altered?’

‘No. I’ve got some repairs to collect. Val phoned me last night.’ I picked up my car keys. ‘She doesn’t like things hanging around once they’re done.’

Val, who’d been recommended to me by Pippa at the Moon Daisy Café, is extremely quick and very reasonable. She is also a dressmaking genius and can restore even a wrecked garment to its former glory.

By the time I parked outside her house in Granby Road at the nicer end of Kidbrooke the drizzle had become pelting rain. I peered through the misted windscreen and watched the raindrops bounce off the bonnet like ball bearings. I’d need my umbrella just to get to Val’s porch.

She opened the door – a tape measure slung round her neck – and her pointy little face folded into a smile. Then she noticed my umbrella and looked at it suspiciously. ‘You won’t put that up in here, will you?’

‘Of course not,’ I replied as I lowered it. I gave it a good shake. ‘I know you think it would be…’

‘Unlucky.’ Val shook her head. ‘It would be – especially as it’s black.’

‘Is that worse then?’ I stepped inside.

‘Much worse. And you won’t drop it on the floor, will you?’ she added anxiously.

‘No – but why not?’

‘Because if you drop a brolly it means there’ll be a murder in the house in the near future, and I’d rather avoid it, especially as my husband’s been driving me up the wall lately. I don’t want to…’

‘Push your luck?’ I suggested as I placed the umbrella in her stand.

‘Exactly.’ I followed her down the passage.

Val is short, sharp and thin – like a pin. She is also superstitious to the point of it being a compulsion. It isn’t just that she – by her own admission – salutes solitary magpies left, right and centre, bows to the full moon and strenuously avoids greeting black cats. She has an encyclopaedic knowledge of superstition and folklore. In the four months that I’ve known her I have discovered that it’s unlucky to eat a fish from the tail towards the head, to try and count the stars, or to wear pearls on your wedding day. It’s unlucky to drop your comb while doing your hair – it portends disappointment – or to stick knitting needles through balls of yarn.

On the other hand it’s lucky to find a nail, eat an apple on Christmas Eve, and to accidentally put a garment on inside out.

‘Right then,’ Val said as we went into her sewing room, every surface of which was stacked up with shoe boxes brimming with cotton reels and zips, sewing patterns, cards of ribbon, swatches of fabric and spools of bias binding. She reached under the table and produced a large carrier bag. ‘I think these have come up quite nicely,’ she said as she handed it to me.

I looked inside it. They had. A maxi-length Halston coat with a ripped hemline had been shortened to mid-calf; a fifties cocktail dress with perspiration stains had had the arms cut out so that it was now elegantly sleeveless; and an Yves St Laurent silk jacket, which had been sprayed with champagne, had been speckled with sequins to cover the stains. I’d have to point out these alterations to prospective buyers, but at least the clothes had been saved. They were much too beautiful and good just to be thrown away.

‘They’ve come up brilliantly, Val,’ I said as I reached for my bag to pay her. ‘You’re so clever.’

‘Well, my gran taught me to sew; and she always said that if there’s a fault on a garment then don’t just mend it – make a virtue of it. I can still hear her saying it to me now: “Make a virtue of it, Valerie.” Oh.’ She’d dropped her scissors and was staring at them with a look of insane happiness. ‘That’s great.’

‘What is?’

‘They’ve landed with both points sticking into the floor.’ She stooped to pick them up. ‘That’s really good luck,’ she explained, waving them at me. ‘It usually means that more work’s coming into the household.’

‘It is.’ I told her that I was buying a collection of clothes and that about eight of the garments would need minor repairs.

‘Bring them in,’ Val said as I handed her the money I owed her. ‘Thanking you. Ooh…’ She peered at the coat. ‘That bottom button’s a bit loose – let me do it before you go.’

Suddenly the door bell rang three times in quick succession.

‘Val?’ called a gravelly voice. ‘You there?’

‘That’s my neighbour, Maggie,’ Val explained as she threaded her needle. ‘She always rings three times to let me know it’s her. I leave the door on the latch as we’re forever popping in and out of each other’s houses. We’re in the sewing room, Mags!’

‘Thought you would be! Hiya!’ Maggie was standing in the doorway, almost filling it. She was the physical opposite of Val, being big, blonde and spready. She was wearing tight black leather trousers, gold stilettos, the sides of which struggled to contain her plump feet, and a low-cut red top which displayed a massive, if somewhat crepey, cleavage. She was also wearing tawny-toned foundation, bright blue eye-liner and false lashes. As for her age, she could have been anywhere between thirty-eight and fifty. She exuded the scent of Magie Noire mingled with cigarettes.

‘Hi, Mags,’ said Val. ‘This is Hoebe,’ she added through gritted teeth as she bit the end of the cotton. ‘Phoebe’s just opened a vintage dress shop over in Blackheath – haven’t you, Phoebe. By the way,’ she added to me, ‘I hope you put salt on the doorstep like I told you to. It helps protect against misfortune.’

I’d had so much misfortune it would have made no difference, I reflected. ‘I can’t say I did do that, no.’

Val shrugged as she put a rubber thimble on her middle finger. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She began to re-stitch the button. ‘So how’s it going then, Mags?’

Mags sank into a chair, evidently exhausted. ‘I’ve just had the most difficult client. For ages he refused to get started – he just wanted to talk; then he took forever about it, and afterwards he was tricky about paying because he wanted to pay by cheque and I said it’s cash or nothing, as I had made quite clear beforehand.’ She rearranged her breasts in an indignant manner. ‘When I said I’d call the Bill he produced the notes sharp enough. I couldn’t half do with a cup of something though, Val – I’m all in and it’s only half eleven.’

‘Put the kettle on then,’ said Val.

Mags disappeared into the kitchen, her nicotine rasp carrying down the passageway. ‘Then I had this other customer – he had this weird obsession with his mother – he’d even brought one of her dresses with him. Very demanding, he was. I did what I could for him, but he then had the cheek to say that he was “dissatisfied” with my “services”. Imagine!’

The probable nature of Maggie’s business was by now clear.

‘You poor sweetheart,’ said Val warmly as Mags reappeared with a packet of digestives. ‘Those punters of yours don’t half take it out of you.’

Mags gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You can say that again.’ She took out a biscuit, and bit on it. ‘Then to cap it all, I had that woman at number 29 – Sheila Whatsit.’ My eyes started from my head. ‘She was a right nuisance. Wanted to get in touch with her ex-husband. He’d dropped dead on the golf course last month. She said she felt so bad about how she’d treated him when they were married that she couldn’t sleep. So I get through to him, right …’ Mags sank into the chair. ‘And I begin passing on his messages to her, but within two minutes she’s furious with him about something and starts screaming and shrieking at him like a bagful of cats –’

‘I think I heard her through the wall,’ Val said evenly as she pulled the thread taut. ‘Sounded like quite a carryon.’

‘You’re telling me,’ agreed Mags as she flicked crumbs off her lap. ‘So I said, “Look, sweetheart, you really shouldn’t talk to dead people like that. It’s dis respectful.”’

‘So … you’re a medium?’ I said shyly.

‘A medium?’ Maggie looked at me so seriously that I thought I’d offended her. ‘No – I’m not a medium,’ she said. ‘I’m a large!’ At that she and Val hooted with laughter. ‘Sorry,’ Maggie snorted. ‘I can never resist that one.’ She wiped away a tear with a scarlet talon. ‘But to answer your question…’ She patted her banana yellow hair. ‘I am a medium – or clairvoyant – yes.’

My pulse was racing. ‘I’ve never met a medium before.’

‘Never?’

‘No. But…’

‘There you are, Phoebe – all done!’ Val snipped the end of the thread, deftly wound it round the shank five or six times, and quickly folded the coat back into the bag. ‘So when do you want to bring the other things over?’

‘Well – probably a week today as I have help in the shop on Mondays and Tuesdays. Will you be here if I come at the same time?’

‘I’m always here,’ Val replied wearily. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

I looked at Maggie. ‘So … I’m … just wondering …’ I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. ‘Someone very close to me died recently. I was very fond of … this person. I miss them …’ Maggie nodded sympathetically. ‘And … I’ve never ever done this before and in fact I’ve always been sceptical – but if I could just talk to them, if only for a few seconds, or hear something from them,’ I went on anxiously. ‘I’ve even looked up a few psychics in Yellow Pages – there’s this thing called “Dial-a-Medium”; and I actually selected one of them and called their number but then I couldn’t bring myself to speak because I felt so embarrassed but now that I’ve met you I feel I –’

‘Do you want a reading?’ Maggie interjected patiently. ‘Is that what you’re trying to tell me, sweetheart?’

I sighed with relief. ‘It is.’

She reached into her cleavage and pulled out first a packet of Silk Cut, then a little black diary. She slid the tiny pen out of its spine, licked her index finger and flicked over the pages. ‘So when shall I put you in for?’

‘Well … after I’ve dropped off the things I’m bringing Val?’

‘This time next week then?’ I nodded. ‘My terms are fifty quid cash, no refunds for a bad connection – and no dissing the deceased,’ Mags added as she scribbled away. ‘That’s my new rule. So …’ She tucked the diary back into her bosom then opened the pack of cigarettes. ‘That’s a private sitting at eleven a.m. next Tuesday. See you then, sweetheart,’ she said as I left.

As I drove back to Blackheath I tried to analyse my motives for going to a medium. I’d always regarded such activities with distaste. My grandparents had all died, but I’d never felt the slightest urge to try and contact any of them on ‘the other side’. But since Emma’s death I’d increasingly been aware of the desire, somehow, to reach her. Meeting Mags had made me feel that I could at least try.

But what did I hope to get out of the experience? I wondered as I approached Montpelier Vale. A message from Emma, presumably. Saying what? That she was … okay? How could she be? I reflected as I pulled up outside the shop. She’s probably floating around in the ether, bitterly pondering the fact that thanks to her so-called ‘best friend’ she was now never going to get married, have children, turn forty, go to Peru like she’d always wanted to do, let alone get the OBE for services to the fashion industry as we’d often drunkenly predicted. She would now never get to enjoy the prime of her life, or the peaceful retirement that should have followed it, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. That Emma had been deprived of all this was, I reflected bleakly, thanks to me – and to Guy. If only Emma had never met Guy, I wished as I parked …

‘It’s been an amazing morning,’ Annie said as I pushed on the door.

‘Has it?’

‘The Pierre Balmain evening gown has sold – subject to the cheque clearing, but I doubt there’ll be a problem.’

‘Fabulous,’ I breathed. That would help the cash flow.

‘And I’ve sold two of those fifties circle skirts. Plus you know the pale pink Madame Grès – the one you don’t want?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that woman who tried it on the other day came back –’

‘And?’

‘Bought it.’

‘Great.’ I clapped my hand to my chest in relief.

Annie looked at me with puzzlement. ‘Well, yes, it means you’ve taken over £2,000 and it’s still only lunchtime.’ I couldn’t tell Annie that my reaction to the sale of the dress had nothing to do with the money. ‘The woman’s completely the wrong shape for it,’ Annie went on as I went through to the office, ‘but she said she had to have it. The card payment was fine, so she took it away.’

For a split second I wrestled with my conscience – the £500 from the sale of the gown would be so useful. But I had vowed to give the money to charity and that’s what I’d do.

Suddenly the bell over the door tinkled and in came the girl who’d tried on the turquoise cupcake dress.

‘I’m back,’ she announced happily.

Annie’s face lit up. ‘I’m delighted,’ she said with a smile. ‘The prom dress looked lovely on you.’ She went to get it down.

‘Oh, I haven’t come for that,’ the girl explained, although she threw the dress a glance that was tinged with regret. ‘I’ve come to buy something for my fiancé.’ She went over to the jewellery display and pointed to the 18-carat-gold art deco octagonal cufflinks with abalone insets. ‘I saw Pete looking at these when we were here the other day and thought they’d make a perfect wedding present for him.’ She opened her bag. ‘How much are they?’

‘They’re £100,’ I replied, ‘but with the five per cent discount that’s £95, and there’s an additional five per cent off as I’m having a good day, so that makes them £90.’

‘Thank you.’ The girl smiled. ‘Done.’

As Annie had now done her two days I manned the shop for the rest of the week. In between helping customers I was assessing clothes that people brought in, photographing stock for the website and processing online orders, doing small repairs, talking to dealers, and trying to keep on top of my accounts. I posted the cheque for Guy’s dress to Unicef, relieved to have no reminders left of our few months together. Gone were the photos, the letters, the e-mails – all deleted – the books, and the most hated reminder of all, the engagement ring. And now, with the dress sold, I breathed a sigh of relief. Guy was finally out of my life.

On the Friday morning my father phoned, imploring me to visit him.

‘It’s been such a long time, Phoebe,’ he said sadly.

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’ve had so much on my mind these past few months.’

‘I know you have, darling, but I’d love to see you; and I’d love you to see Louis again. He’s so sweet, Phoebe. He’s just …’ I heard Dad’s voice catch. He gets a bit emotional sometimes, but then he’s been through a lot, even if it is of his own making. ‘How about Sunday?’ he tried again. ‘After lunch.’

I looked out of the window. ‘I could come then, Dad – but I’d rather not see Ruth – if you’ll forgive my candour.’

‘I understand,’ he replied softly. ‘I know the situation has been hard for you, Phoebe. It’s been hard for me too.’

‘I hope you’re not appealing for sympathy, Dad.’

I heard him sigh. ‘I don’t really deserve it, do I?’ I didn’t reply. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘Ruth’s flying to Libya on Sunday morning for a week’s filming, so I thought that might be a good time for you to come over.’

‘In that case, yes, I will.’

On Friday afternoon Mimi Long’s fashion editor came in and chose some clothes for their shoot – a seventies-style spread for their January edition to be called ring in the old. I had just given them the receipt for the things they’d chosen, and was about to cash up, when I looked up and saw Pete the fiancé tearing over the road towards Village Vintage, his tie flapping over his shoulder.

He pushed on the door. ‘I’ve just dashed here from work,’ he panted. He nodded at the turquoise cupcake dress. ‘I’ll take it.’ He reached for his wallet. ‘Carla still hasn’t found anything to wear for the party tomorrow and she’s in a panic about it and I know that the reason why she still hasn’t found anything is because she really liked this dress and okay it is a bit pricey but I want her to have it and to hell with the money.’ He put six £50 notes on the counter.

‘My assistant was right,’ I said as I folded the dress into a large carrier. ‘You are the perfect husband-to-be.’

As Pete waited for his receipt I saw him idly looking at the tray of cufflinks. ‘Those gold and abalone cufflinks,’ he said, ‘the ones you had the other day – I don’t suppose …’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But they’ve gone.’

As Pete left, I wondered who would buy the other cupcake dresses. I thought of the sad girl who’d looked so lovely in the lime one. I’d seen her on the other side of the road once or twice, looking preoccupied, but she hadn’t come in. I’d also seen a photo of her boyfriend in the South London Times. He’d been the guest speaker at a Business Network Dinner at Blackheath Golf Club. It seemed he owned a successful property company, Phoenix Land.

Saturday started badly and got worse. Firstly the shop was very busy and, although I was happy about this, it was as much as I could do to keep an eye on the stock. Then someone came in eating a sandwich so I had to ask them to leave, which I disliked having to do, especially in front of other customers. Then Mum phoned up and needed a bit of a cheer-up as she’s often down at weekends.

‘I’ve decided not to have Botox,’ she said.

‘That’s great, Mum. You don’t need it.’

‘That’s not the point – the clinic I went to said I’ve left it too late for Botox to make any difference.’

‘Then … never mind.’

‘So I’m going to have gold threads in my face instead.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Basically they insert these gold threads under your skin, and on the ends of them are these tiny hooks which they catch up so that the thread pulls taut – and up comes your face with it! The trouble is, it costs £4,000. But then it is 24 carat,’ she mused.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said. ‘You’re still very attractive, Mum.’

‘Am I?’ she said mournfully. ‘Ever since your father left me, I’ve felt like a gargoyle.’

‘Nothing could be further from the truth.’ In fact, like many dumped wives, Mum had never looked better. She’d lost weight, bought some new clothes and was now far better groomed than when she was with Dad.

Then at lunchtime the woman who’d bought Guy’s dress came back with it.

At first I didn’t know who she was.

‘I’m so sorry,’ this woman began as she lifted a Village Vintage carrier on to the counter. I looked inside it and my spirits sank. ‘I don’t think the dress is right after all.’ How could she ever have thought that it was? As Annie had said, the woman was completely the wrong shape, being short and broad – like a milk loaf. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated as I took the dress out of the bag.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not a problem,’ I lied. As I refunded her the money, I wished I hadn’t been quite so quick in sending the £500 to Unicef. It was now a donation that I couldn’t afford.

‘I guess I got carried away with the romance of it,’ the woman explained as I waited to tear off the receipt. ‘But this morning I put on the dress, looked at myself in the mirror and realised that I’d been, well…’ She turned up her palms as if to say, I’m not exactly Keira Knightley, am I! ‘I don’t have the height,’ she went on. ‘But do you know what?’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘I can’t help thinking that it would suit you.’

After the woman had left, a succession of customers came in, including one fifty-something man who showed an unhealthy interest in the corsets: he even wanted to try one on, but I wouldn’t let him. Then this woman phoned up offering me some furs that had belonged to her aunt, including – and this was meant to be the clincher – a hat made out of a leopard cub. I explained that I don’t sell fur, but the woman insisted that as these particular furs were vintage there shouldn’t be a problem. So I told her that I can’t bring myself to touch let alone deal in bits of dead baby leopard, however long it might have been since the poor creature had been murdered. Then a little later my patience was tested again when a woman came in with a Dior coat that she wanted to sell me. I could see at a glance that it was fake.

‘It is by Dior,’ she protested after I’d pointed this out to her. ‘And I’d call £100 a very reasonable price for a genuine Christian Dior coat of this quality.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I’ve worked in vintage fashion for twelve years and I can assure you that this coat is not by Dior.’

‘But the label –’

‘The label is original. But it’s been sewn into a non-Dior garment. The interior construction of the coat is all wrong, the seams aren’t finished properly, and the lining, if you look a little more closely, is by Burberry.’ I pointed to the logo.

The woman went the colour of a Victoria plum. ‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ she sniffed. ‘You’re trying to get it at a knock-down price, so that you can sell it for £500 like that one you’ve got over there.’ She nodded at a mannequin on which I’d put a Dior dove grey grosgrain New Look winter coat from 1955 in pristine condition.

‘I’m not trying to “get” it at all,’ I explained pleasantly. ‘I don’t want it.’

The woman folded the coat back into the carrier bag, radioactive with affected indignation. ‘Then I shall have to take it elsewhere.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ I replied calmly, resisting the temptation to suggest Oxfam.

The woman turned on her heel, and as she stomped out, another customer, on his way in, politely held the door open for her. He was elegantly dressed in pale chinos and a navy blazer and was in his mid forties. I felt my heart lurch.

‘Good God!’ Mr Pin-Stripe’s face had lit up. ‘If it isn’t my bidding rival – Phoebe!’ So he’d remembered my name. ‘Don’t tell me – is this your shop?’

‘Yes.’ The euphoria I’d felt on seeing him suddenly evaporated as the door opened again and in came Mrs Pin-Stripe on a cloud of perfume. As I’d imagined she was tall and blonde – but so young that I had to fight the urge to call the police. She couldn’t