A Vintage Affair (19 page)

‘I’ve no idea when I’m going to wear it,’ the girl replied calmly. ‘I only knew that I
had
to have it. Once I’d tried it on, well …’ She shrugged. ‘The dress
claimed
me.’

I folded it, pressing down its voluminous underskirts so that it wouldn’t burst out of the carrier.

The girl took a pink envelope out of her bag and
handed it to me. It was a Disney Princess one, with a picture of Cinderella in the corner. I opened it. Inside was
£
275 in cash.

‘I’m happy to give you the five per cent discount,’ I said.

The girl hesitated for a second. ‘No. Thank you.’

‘I really don’t mind …’

‘It’s
£
275,’ she insisted. ‘That was the price,’ she added firmly, almost aggressively. ‘Let’s stick to it.’

‘Well … okay.’ I shrugged, slightly taken aback. As I handed her the dress, she emitted a little sigh, of ecstasy almost. Then, her head held high, she left the shop.

‘So she got her fairytale dress after all,’ Annie said as I watched the girl cross the road. She was arranging the rest of the roses. ‘I just wish she had a fairytale man. But she seemed quite different today, didn’t she?’ Annie added as she put the vase on the counter. She went to the window and looked out. ‘She’s even walking taller – look.’ Her eyes narrowed as they tracked her down the street. ‘Vintage clothes can do that,’ she added after a moment. ‘They can be subtly … transforming.’

‘That’s true. But how weird that she refused the discount.’

‘I guess it was important to her that she’d paid for the dress herself, every penny. But I wonder what’s happened that she was able to buy it,’ Annie mused.

I shrugged. ‘Maybe Keith relented and gave her the cash.’

Annie shook her head. ‘He’d never have done that. Perhaps she stole the money from him,’ she suggested. I had a sudden vision of the girl wearing the dress behind bars. ‘Perhaps a friend lent it to her.’

‘Who knows?’ I said as I went back to the counter. ‘I’m just glad she’s got it, even if we’ll never know how she came by it.’

Annie was still staring out of the window. ‘Maybe we will.’

I told Dan about the incident when I met him at the cinema on Wednesday. I’d decided that it would be a good talking point in case conversation flagged.

‘She was buying one of those fifties prom dresses,’ I explained as we sat in the bar before the film started.

‘I know the ones – you called them “cupcake” dresses.’

‘That’s right. And I offered her the five per cent discount but she said she didn’t want it.’

Dan sipped his Peroni. ‘How weird.’

‘It was more than weird – it was mad. How many women would turn down the chance to have £15 knocked off the price of something? But this girl insisted on paying the full
£
275.’

‘Did you say
£
275?’ Dan echoed. As I explained the background to the purchase, something seemed to be puzzling Dan.

‘Are you okay?’ I said.

‘What? Oh yes, sorry …’ He snapped out of it. ‘I’m just a bit distracted at the moment – I’ve got a lot on at work. Anyway.’ He stood up. ‘The film’s about to begin. Would you like another drink? We can take them in.’

‘Another glass of red wine would be great.’

As Dan went up to the bar I reflected on the start to the evening. As I’d arrived at the cinema at seven Dan had phoned me to say that he’d be a bit late; so I’d sat
upstairs on one of the sofas enjoying the view of Greenwich through the panoramic windows. Then I’d glanced at a newspaper that someone had left behind. At the back was a full-page ad for World of Sheds. As I’d looked at it, I’d idly wondered what Dan’s fabled shed was like. Was it a ‘Tiger Shiplap Apex’, I wondered, or a ‘Walton’s Premium Overlap’ with double doors, or a ‘Norfolk Apex Xtra’ or a ‘Tiger Mini-barn’? And I was just wondering if it might be a ‘Titanium Wonder’ metal-sided shed offering ‘excellent functionality’ when Dan had arrived, at a run.

He’d sunk down next to me, then picked up my left hand and swiftly lifted it to his lips before returning it to my lap.

I looked at him. ‘Do you usually do that to women you’ve only met twice?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Just to you. Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he went on as I struggled to recover my composure. ‘But I was busy on a story …’

‘The one about the Age Exchange?’

‘No, that’s all done. This was a … business piece,’ he explained, slightly evasively. ‘Matt’s writing it, but I’m … involved. There were a few difficulties which we had to get sorted out – and now we have done. Right.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Let me get you a drink. What’s it going to be? Don’t tell me – “Gimme a visky,”’ he said huskily. ‘“Ginger ale on the side – and don’t be stinchy, baby.”’

‘Sorry?’

‘Garbo’s first ever on-screen words. Until then all her films had been silent. Luckily her voice matched her face – but what would you like?’

‘Definitely
not
“visky” – but a glass of red wine would be nice.’

Dan picked up the bar card. ‘The choice is Merlot – the Le Carredon from the Pays d’Oc, which is apparently “soft, rounded and easy drinking with a full body” – or the Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Chante le Merle, which has a “terrific nose of red berries and a seductive bouquet …” So what’s it to be?’

I thought of my trip to Provence. ‘The Châteauneuf-du-Pape, please – I like the name.’

Now, half an hour on – the conversation having flowed – Dan was buying me another glass of the Chante le Merle, then we went downstairs to the screen, sank into the black leather chairs and gave ourselves up to
Anna
Karenina
and to Garbo’s luminous beauty.

‘With Garbo it’s all about the face,’ Dan said afterwards as we walked out of the cinema. ‘Her body’s irrelevant – so is her acting, even though she was a great actress. People only talk about Garbo’s face – that alabaster perfection.’

‘Her beauty’s almost a mask,’ I said. ‘She’s like a Sphinx.’

‘She is. She projects this remote, rather melancholy self-containment. You do that, too,’ he added casually. Once again Dan had taken me aback, but perhaps because of the wine, or the fact that I’d been enjoying his company and didn’t want to spoil the evening, I decided to let the remark go. ‘Let’s get something to eat,’ he was saying now. Without waiting for a reply he tucked his arm through mine. I didn’t mind his physical warmth. In fact I liked it, I realised. It made things … easy. ‘Is Café Rouge okay?’ I heard him ask. ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite the Rivington Grill.’

‘Café Rouge is
fine
…’ We went inside and found a corner table. ‘Why did Garbo retire so young?’ I asked him now as we waited for the waiter to take our order.

‘The story is that she was so upset by a bad review for her latest film,
Two-Faced Woman
, that she threw in the towel on the spot. The likelier explanation is that she knew that her beauty was at its peak and she didn’t want her image to be tarnished by time. Marilyn Monroe died at thirty-six,’ Dan went on. ‘Would we feel the same about her if she’d died at seventy-six? Garbo wanted to live – but not in public.’

‘You’re very knowledgeable.’

Dan unfurled his napkin. ‘I love film – especially black-and-white film.’

‘Is that because you have difficulty seeing colour?’

The waiter offered him a piece of bread. ‘No. It’s because there’s an essential mundanity to colour on screen because we see things in colour every day: with black and white there’s the inherent suggestion that it’s “art”.’

‘You’ve got paint on your hands,’ I said. ‘Have you been DIY-ing?’

Dan examined his fingers. ‘I did a bit more to the shed late last night – it’s just finishing touches now.’

‘But what’s
in
this mysterious shed of yours?’

‘You’ll see on October 11th when I have the official gala opening – invitations to follow shortly. You will come, won’t you?’

I thought of how much I’d enjoyed the evening. ‘Yes – I will. And what will the dress code be? Gardening clothes? Wellies?’

Dan looked affronted. ‘Smart casual.’

‘Not black tie then?’

‘That would be a
bit
OTT, though you can wear one of your grand vintage frocks if you like – in fact, you should wear that pale pink dress – the one that you said had belonged to you.’

I shook my head. ‘I definitely won’t be wearing that.’

‘I wonder why not?’ Dan mused.

‘I just … don’t like it.’

‘You know,
you’re
a bit of a Sphinx,’ Dan said. ‘An enigma, at least. And I think you’re struggling with something.’ He’d taken me aback again.

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I am. I’m struggling with the fact that you’re so… cheeky.’

‘Cheeky?’

I nodded. ‘You make very direct, if not downright personal remarks. You keep saying and doing things that completely… throw me. You’re always… what’s the word I’m looking for here?’

‘Spontaneous? I’m always spontaneous?’

‘No. You’re always discomfiting me … discon
cert
ing me … Dis
combobulating
me!
That’s
it – you’re always discombobulating me, Dan.’

He smiled. ‘I love the way you say “discombobulated” – could you say it again? It’s rather a wonderful word,’ he went on. ‘We don’t hear it often enough. Dis-com-bob-u-late,’ he added happily.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Now you’re trying to … annoy me.’

‘Sorry. Perhaps it’s because you’re so cool and restrained. I really like you, Phoebe, but occasionally I get the urge to … I don’t know … wreck your poise a little.’

‘Oh. I see. Well, you haven’t wrecked it. I’m still very … poised. So, what about you, Dan?’ I went on, determined
to wrest control of the conversation. ‘You know quite a bit about me – you’ve interviewed me, after all. But I know very little about you –’

‘Except that I’m cheeky.’

‘Extremely.’ I smiled then felt myself relax again. ‘So why don’t you tell me something about yourself.’

Dan shrugged. ‘Okay – well, I grew up in Kent, near Ashford. My father was a GP; my mother was a teacher – now both retired. I think the most interesting thing about us as a family was that we had a Jack Russell, Percy, who lived to eighteen, which in human years was one hundred and twenty-six. I went to the local boys’ grammar, then to York to read history. Then followed my glorious decade in direct marketing, and now my work with the
Black & Green
. No marriages, no children, a few relationships, the last of which ended three months ago without acrimony. Bingo – my potted history.’

‘And are you enjoying working for the paper?’ I asked him, calm again now.

‘It’s an adventure; but it’s not what I want to do long term.’ And before I could ask Dan what he did want to do long term, he’d already moved the conversation on. ‘Okay, so we’ve just seen
Anna Karenina
. On Friday, as part of the same season, they’re showing a new print of
Dr Zhivago
– would you like to come?’

I looked at Dan. ‘I would have done actually – but I can’t.’

‘Oh,’ Dan said. ‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ I repeated. ‘Dan – you’re doing it again.’

‘Discombobulating you?’

‘Yes. Because … Look … I don’t have to tell you why I can’t come.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve already guessed. It’s because you’ve got some boyfriend who, if he saw us now, would tear me limb from limb. Is that the reason?’

‘No,’ I said wearily. Dan smiled. ‘It’s because I’m going to France – to buy stock.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘I remember. You go to Provence. In that case, we’ll see something when you get back. No, sorry, you need six weeks to think about it, don’t you – shall I phone you in mid November? Don’t worry – I’ll e-mail you first to say that I’m going to phone – and perhaps I should write to you the week before that to let you know that I’ll be e-mailing so that you don’t think I’m being cheeky.’

I looked at Dan. ‘I think it’d be a lot easier if I just said “yes”.’

Early this morning I boarded the Eurostar at St Pancras for my trip to Avignon. I decided to give myself up to the pleasure of the journey which would take about six hours with a change in Lille. As the train waited to depart I skimmed through my
Guardian
. In the City section I was surprised to see a photo of Keith. The piece that accompanied it was about his property company, Phoenix Land, which specialised in buying up brown-field sites for redevelopment. It had recently been valued at
£
20 million and was about to be floated on the Alternative Investment Market. The piece explained that Keith had started out selling self-assembly kitchens by mail order, but in 2002 his warehouse had been destroyed in an arson attack by a disgruntled employee. There was a quote from Keith:
That was the worst night of my life.
But as I watched the building burn I vowed to make
something worthwhile rise out of the ashes
. Hence the name of his new company, I thought as the train pulled away from the platform.

Now I turned to the copy of the
Black & Green
that I’d picked up at Blackheath station. I’d been too tired to read it before. There were the expected local news stories about spiralling commercial rents, the threat to independent shops from the High Street chains, and problems with parking and traffic. There was a weekend curtain-raiser including a page detailing what was going to be on at the O2. There was a ‘Social Whirl’ section, with snaps of well-known visitors to the area, including a shot of Chloë Sevigny looking in the window of Village Vintage. There were also photos of famous residents out and about – there was one of Jools Holland buying flowers, and another of Glenda Jackson at a fund-raising concert at Blackheath Halls.

Filling the centre pages was Dan’s piece about the Age Exchange, which was headed 
à
LA RECHERCHE DU TEMPS
:
The Age Exchange is a place where the past is treasured
, he’d written.
It’s a place where the elderly can come to
share their memories with each other and with younger
generations … the importance of story-telling
, he’d gone on.
Oral history … Carefully selected memorabilia help
to trigger recollection … The centre helps improve the
quality of life for older people by emphasising the value
of their reminiscences to old and young
…

It was a sympathetic, well-written piece.

Now, as the train gathered pace, I closed the paper and gazed out at the Kent countryside. The harvest was recently over, the pale fields blackened here and there from stubble burning, the still-smouldering ground wafting drifts of alabaster smoke into the late summer air. As we went through Ashford I suddenly imagined Dan, standing on the platform in his mis-matched clothes,
waving at me as I sped by. Then the train soon plunged under the Channel, emerging into Belgian flatness, the featureless fields bestridden by gigantic pylons.

At Lille I changed trains, boarding the TGV which would take me to Avignon. Leaning my head against the window I fell asleep and dreamed of Miles and Annie and the girl who came back for the green cupcake dress and the girl who couldn’t have a baby who’d bought the pink one. Then I dreamed of Mrs Bell as a young girl, walking through the fields with her blue coat, desperately searching for the friend that she would never find. Then I opened my eyes and to my surprise the Provençal countryside was already flashing past, with its terracotta houses, and its silvery soil, and its green-black cypress trees standing up against the landscape like exclamation marks.

In all directions were vines, planted in such straight lines that it looked as though the fields had been combed. Agricultural workers in bright colours were following grape-picking machines as they trundled down the rows, driving up the dust. The
vendanges
was clearly still in full swing.

Avignon TGV
, I heard over the tannoy.
Descendez ici
pour Avignon – Gare TGV
.

I made my way out of the station, blinking into the sharp sunlight; then I picked up my hire car and drove into the city, following the road around its medieval walls then negotiating the narrow streets to my hotel.

Once I’d checked in I washed and changed then strolled down Avignon’s main drag, the Rue de la République, where the shops and cafés hummed with early evening trade. I stopped for a few minutes in the Place d’Horloge.
There, in front of the imposing town hall, a fairground carousel whirled gently around. As I looked at the children rising and falling on the gold-and-cream-painted horses, I imagined Avignon in a less innocent time. I imagined German soldiers standing where I was now standing, their machine guns by their sides. I imagined Mrs Bell and her brother laughing and pointing at them, and being hushed by their anxious parents. Then I walked on to the Palais des Papes and sat at a café in front of the medieval fortress as the sun sank in an almost turquoise sky. Mrs Bell had told me that towards the end of the war the palace cellars had been used as air-raid shelters. As I looked at the huge building I imagined the crowds running towards it as the sirens sounded.

Now I turned my thoughts back to the present time and planned the trips I’d need to make over the next couple of days. As I was looking at the map my phone rang. I peered at the screen then pressed ‘answer’.

‘Miles,’ I said happily.

‘Phoebe – are you in Avignon yet?’

‘I’m sitting in front of the Palais des Papes. Where are you?’

‘We’ve just got to my cousin’s.’ I registered the fact that Miles had said ‘we’, meaning that Roxy must be with him. Although I could hardly be surprised, my heart sank a little. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I heard Miles ask.

‘In the morning I’ll go to the market at Villeneuve lez Avignon, then after that to the one at Pujaut.’

‘Well, Pujaut’s halfway to Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Why don’t you just come on here after you’ve finished, and I’ll take you out to dinner locally?’

‘I’d like that, Miles; but where’s “here”?’

‘It’s called Château de Bosquet. It’s easy to find. You drive straight through Châteauneuf-du-Pape then as you leave the village take the road to Orange and it’s a large square house about a mile on the right. Come as early as you can.’

‘Okay – I will.’

So this morning I drove across the Rhône to Villeneuve lez Avignon. I parked at the top of the village, then walked back down the narrow main street to the market place where traders had laid out their
antiquités
on cloths on the ground. There were old bicycles and faded deckchairs, chipped porcelain and scratched-looking cut glass; there were antique bird cages, rusty old tools and balding teddy bears with creased leather paws. There were stalls selling old oil paintings and faded Provençal quilts, and strung between the plane trees were washing lines hung with old clothes which flapped and twisted in the breeze.

‘
Ce sont que des
vrais
antiquités, madame
,’ said one vendor reassuringly, as I looked through her garments. ‘
Tous en
très
bon état
.’

There was so much to look through. I spent a couple of hours selecting simple printed dresses from the 1940s and 50s, and white nightgowns, from the 20s and 30s. Some of these were made of chambre – a coarse rustic linen, others of metisse – a linen and cotton mix, and some of Valencienne, a gossamer-light cotton voile that floated in the breeze. Many of the nightgowns were beautifully embroidered. I wondered whose hands had stitched the perfect little flowers and leaves that I now touched, and if it had given them pleasure to do such
fine work, and if it had ever occurred to them that later generations would appreciate it and wonder about them.

When I’d bought all I wanted, I sat at a café, having an early lunch. Now I allowed myself to think about the date. I’d thought I’d feel upset, but I didn’t, though I was glad to be away. I briefly wondered what Guy was doing, and how he would be feeling. Then I phoned Annie.

‘The shop’s been very busy,’ she said. ‘I’ve already sold the Vivienne Westwood bustle skirt and the Dior grosgrain coat.’

‘That’s good going.’

‘But you know what you were saying on the radio about Audrey Hepburn?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I had a woman in here this morning who asked me to turn her into Grace Kelly. It was rather tricky.’

‘Not attractive enough?’

‘Oh, she was gorgeous. It’s just that it would have been easier to turn her into Grace Jones.’

‘Ah.’

‘And your mother dropped in to see if you wanted to have lunch with her – she’d forgotten that you were in France.’

‘I’ll call her.’ So I did, straight away, but she began going on about some new treatment she’d just been to see someone about – Plasma Regeneration. ‘I took yesterday morning off to go to this clinic about it,’ she said as I sipped my coffee. ‘It’s good for deep wrinkles,’ I heard her explain. ‘They use nitrogen plasma to stimulate the skin’s natural regenerative processes – they inject it under your skin and that gets the fibroblasts going.

The result, believe it or not, is a brand-new epidermis.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Phoebe? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, but I’ve got to go now.’

‘If I don’t have the Plasma Regeneration,’ Mum went on, ‘I may try one of the fillers – they said there’s Restylane, Perlane or Sculptra – and they talked about autologous fat transfer, where they extract the fat from your behind and stick it in your face – cheek to cheek, as it were, but the thing about
that
is…’

‘Sorry, Mum – I’m going
now
.’ I felt sick.

I got back in the car, forcing from my mind thoughts of the grotesque procedures my mother had just described, then set off for Pujaut.

As I saw the sign for Châteauneuf-du-Pape I began to feel pleasantly apprehensive about seeing Miles again. I’d brought a dress to change into before I got there as I’d been in the same things all day.

The market at Pujaut was small, but I bought six more nightgowns and some broderie anglaise vests with scalloped necks, as girls like to wear them with jeans. By now it was half past three. I found a café and changed into my dress, a navy-and-white striped St Michael cotton pinafore from the early sixties.

As I left Pujaut I could see agricultural workers toiling in the vineyards that stretched away in all directions. Signs along the roadside invited me to stop at this
domaine
or that
château
for wine tasting.

Ahead of me now, perched on a hill, was Châteauneuf-du-Pape, its cream-coloured buildings huddled together beneath a medieval tower. I drove through the village then turned right towards Orange. About a mile or so on I saw the sign for Château de Bosquet.

I turned off the road on to the cypress-tree-lined drive at the end of which I could see a large, square castellated house. In the vineyards on either side of the drive men and women were stooped over the vines, their faces obscured by hats. At the sound of my wheels, a grey-haired figure straightened up, shielded his eyes against the sun, then waved. I waved back.

As I parked I saw Miles striding through the vines towards me. As I lowered the window he smiled; his face was so streaked with dust that the lines round his eyes stood out like little spokes.

‘Phoebe!’ He opened my car door. ‘Welcome to Château de Bosquet.’ As I stood up, he kissed me. ‘You’ll meet Pascal and Cecile a bit later – for now everyone’s working flat out.’ He nodded at the vineyard. ‘Tomorrow’s our last day, so we’re pushed for time.’

‘Can I help?’

Miles looked at me. ‘Would you? It’s dusty work though.’

I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I gazed at the workers, with their black buckets and secateurs. ‘Don’t you use a grape-cutting machine?’

He shook his head. ‘In Châteauneuf-du-Pape the grapes have to be hand-picked to conform to the laws of “appellation” – that’s why we need this small army.’ He glanced at my lace-up pumps. ‘Your footwear’s fine, but you’ll need an apron. Wait here.’ As Miles walked towards the house I suddenly noticed Roxy sitting on a bench by a huge fig tree reading a magazine.

‘Hi, Roxy,’ I called out. I took a few steps towards her. ‘Hi there, Roxy!’ Roxanne looked up, and without
lifting her sunglasses gave me a thin smile then returned to her reading. I felt rebuffed, until I remembered that most sixteen-year-olds have poor social skills, added to which she’d only met me once, so why should she be friendly?

Miles came out of the house holding a blue sunhat. ‘You’ll need this.’ He plonked it on my head. ‘You’ll also need this …’ He handed me a bottle of water. ‘And this apron will protect your dress. It belonged to Pascal’s mother: she was a sweet lady, wasn’t she, Roxy – but somewhat on the large side.’

Roxy sipped her Coke. ‘You mean fat.’

Miles unfolded the voluminous apron and put it over my head, then reached behind me to pass back the ties, brushing my ear with his breath as he did so. Now he was pulling the ties around to the front. ‘There,’ he said, fastening them in a bow. He took a step back and appraised me. ‘You look lovely.’ I was suddenly uncomfortably aware of Roxy focusing on me from behind her Ray-Bans. Miles picked up two empty buckets and walked towards the vineyard, swinging them from either hand. ‘Come on then, Phoebe.’

‘Is much skill needed?’ I asked as I caught up with him.

‘Practically none,’ he replied as we stepped in among the gnarled vines. Here and there a sparrow flew up as we walked down the rows, or a grasshopper glided away at our approach. Miles picked a small bunch of grapes then passed it to me.

I burst one against my tongue. ‘Delicious. What sort are they?’

‘These are Grenache – the vines are quite old. They
were planted in 1960, like me. But they’re still fairly vigorous,’ he added slyly. He squinted at the sky, shielding his eyes with his hand. ‘Thank God the weather’s been good. In ’02 we had catastrophic floods and the grapes rotted – we produced five thousand bottles that year instead of one hundred thousand – it was a disaster. The village priest always blesses the harvest; he seems to have done a good job this year, because it’s a bumper crop.’