A Vintage Affair (6 page)

‘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.’

On my return I showed Annie the two dresses. I told her that I’d had to fight for the Madame Grès, though I didn’t go into details about Mr Pin-Stripe.

‘I wouldn’t worry about the cost,’ she said as she gazed at the gown. ‘Something as magnificent as this should transcend such … petty considerations.’

‘If only,’ I said wistfully. ‘I still can’t believe how much I spent.’

‘Couldn’t you say it’s part of your pension?’ Annie suggested as she re-stitched the hem of a Georges Rech skirt. She shifted on her stool. ‘Perhaps the Inland Revenue would knock the cost of it off your tax bill.’

‘I doubt it as I’m not selling it, although I rather like the idea of a pension-à-porter. Oh,’ I added. ‘You’ve put those up there.’ While I’d been out, Annie had hung some hand-embroidered evening bags on a bare patch of wall by the door.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I thought they’d look good there.’

‘They do. You can see the detail on them so much better.’ I zipped the two dresses I’d bought into new protective covers. ‘I’d better put these in the stockroom.’

‘Can I ask you something?’ Annie said as I turned to go upstairs.

I looked at her. ‘Yes?’

‘You collect Madame Grès?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But you have a lovely gown by Madame Grès right here.’ She went over to the evening rail and pulled out the dress that Guy had given me. ‘Someone tried it on this morning and I saw the label. The woman was too short for it – but it would look great on you. Don’t you want it for your own collection?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m … not mad about that particular gown.’

‘Oh.’ Annie looked at it. ‘I see. But –’

To my relief the bell above the door began to tinkle. A couple in their late twenties had walked in. I asked Annie to look after them while I went up to the stockroom. Then I nipped back down to the office to check the Village Vintage website.

‘I need an evening dress,’ I heard the girl say as I opened the e-mail enquiries. ‘It’s for our engagement party,’ she added with a giggle.

‘Carla thought she’d get something a bit more original in a shop like this,’ her boyfriend explained.

‘You will,’ I heard Annie say. ‘The evening-wear rail is over here – you’re a size 12, aren’t you?’

‘Gosh no.’ The girl snorted. ‘I’m a 16. I should go on a diet.’

‘
Don’t
,’ said her boyfriend. ‘You’re lovely as you are.’

‘You’re a lucky woman,’ I heard Annie chuckle. ‘You’ve got the perfect husband-to-be there.’

‘I know I have,’ the girl said fondly. ‘What are you looking at there, Pete? Ooh – what lovely cufflinks.’

Envious of the couple’s evident happiness together, I turned to the e-mail orders. Someone wanted to buy five of my French nightdresses. Another customer was interested in a Dior long-sleeved dress with a bamboo pattern, and was asking about the sizing.

When I say that the garment is a 12
, I e-mailed back,
that really means it’s a 10 because women today are
bigger than the women of fifty years ago. Here are the
dimensions that you requested, including the circumference
of the sleeve at the wrist. Please let me know if
you’d like me to keep it for you
.

‘When is your party?’ I heard Annie ask.

‘It’s this Saturday,’ the girl replied. ‘So I haven’t given myself much time to find something. These aren’t quite what I’m looking for,’ I heard her add after a few moments.

‘You could always accessorise a dress you already have with something vintage,’ I heard Annie suggest. ‘You might add a silk jacket – we’ve got some lovely ones over there – or a pretty shrug. If you brought something in, I could help you give it a new look.’

‘
Those
are wonderful,’ the girl suddenly said. ‘They’re so …
joyous
.’ I knew that she could only be talking about the cupcake dresses.

‘Which colour do you like best?’ I heard her boyfriend ask her.

‘The … turquoise one, I think.’

‘It’d go with your eyes,’ I heard him say.

‘Would you like me to get it down for you?’ Annie said.

I glanced at my watch. It was time to go and meet Mrs Bell.

‘How much is it?’ the girl asked. Annie told her. ‘
Ah.
I see. Well, in that case …’

‘At least try it on,’ I heard her boyfriend say.

‘Well … okay,’ she replied. ‘But it’s way over budget.’

I put on my jacket and prepared to leave.

As I went out into the shop a minute later the girl emerged from the dressing room in the turquoise cupcake.

She wasn’t in the least bit fat, she just had a lovely voluptuousness. Her fiancé had been right about the blue-green complimenting her eyes.

‘You look wonderful in it,’ Annie said. ‘You need an hourglass figure for these dresses, and you’ve got one.’

‘Thank you.’ She tucked a hank of glossy brown hair behind one ear. ‘I must say, it really is …’ She sighed with a mixture of happiness and frustration ‘…
gorgeous
. I love the tutu skirts and the sequins. It makes me feel … happy,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Not that I’m not happy,’ she added with a warm smile at her fiancé. She looked at Annie. ‘And it’s
£
275?’

‘That’s right. It’s all silk,’ Annie added, ‘including the lace banding round the bodice.’

‘And there’s five per cent off everything at the moment,’ I said as I picked up my bag. I’d decided to extend the offer. ‘And we can keep things for up to a week.’

The girl sighed again. ‘It’s okay. Thanks.’ She gazed at herself in the mirror, the tulle petticoats whispering as she moved. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, ‘but … I don’t know … Perhaps … it’s not really … quite me.’ She retreated
into the changing room and drew the curtain. ‘I’ll just … keep looking,’ I heard her say as I left for The Paragon.

I know The Paragon well – I used to go there for piano lessons. My teacher was called Mr Long, which used to make my mother laugh as Mr Long was very short. He was also blind, and his brown eyes, magnified behind the thick lenses of his NHS specs, used to roll incessantly from side to side. When I was playing he would pace up and down behind me in his worn Hush Puppies. If I fumbled something he’d smack the fingers of my right hand with a ruler. I wasn’t so much offended as impressed by his aim.

I went to Mr Long every Tuesday after school for five years until one June day his wife phoned my mother to say that Mr Long had collapsed and died while walking in the Lake District. Despite the hand smacking, I was very upset.

I haven’t set foot in The Paragon since then, although I’ve often passed by it. There’s something about the imposing Georgian crescent, with its seven massive houses, each linked by a low colonnade, that still makes me catch my breath. In The Paragon’s heyday the houses each had their own stables, carriage rooms, fishponds and dairies, but during the war the terrace was bombed. When it was restored in the late 1950s it was carved into flats.

Now I walked up Morden Road past the Clarendon Hotel, skirting the Heath with its trail of traffic trundling around the perimeter; then I passed the Princess of Wales pub, and the nearby pond, its surface rippling in the
breeze, then I turned into The Paragon. As I walked down the terrace I admired the horse chestnut trees on the huge front lawn, their leaves already flecked with gold. I climbed the stone steps of number 8 and pressed the buzzer for flat 6. I looked at my watch. It was five to three. I’d aim to be out by four.

I heard the intercom crackle, then Mrs Bell’s voice. ‘I am just coming down. Kindly wait a little moment.’

It was a good five minutes until she appeared.

‘Excuse me.’ She lifted her hand to her chest as she caught her breath. ‘It always takes me some time…’

‘Please don’t worry,’ I said as I held the heavy black door open for her. ‘But couldn’t you have let me in from upstairs?’

‘The automatic catch is broken – somewhat to my regret,’ she added with elegant understatement. ‘Anyway, thank you so much for coming, Miss Swift …’

‘Please, call me Phoebe.’

As I stepped over the threshold Mrs Bell extended a thin hand, the skin on which was translucent with age, the veins standing out like blue wires. As she smiled at me her still-attractive face folded into a myriad creases which here and there had trapped particles of pink powder. Her periwinkle eyes were patched with pale grey.

‘You must wish there was a lift,’ I said as we began to climb the wide stone staircase to the third floor. My voice echoed up the stairwell.

‘A lift would be extremely desirable,’ said Mrs Bell as she gripped the iron handrail. She paused for a moment to hitch up the waist of her caramel wool skirt. ‘But it’s only lately that the stairs have bothered me.’ We stopped again on the first landing so that she could rest. ‘However,
I may be going elsewhere quite soon, so I will no longer have to climb this mountain – which would be a distinct advantage,’ she added as we carried on upwards.

‘Will you be going far?’ Mrs Bell didn’t seem to hear so I concluded that in addition to her general frailty she must be hard of hearing.

She pushed on her door. ‘
Et voilà
…’

The interior of her flat, like its owner, was attractive but faded. There were pretty pictures on the walls, including a luminous little oil painting of a lavender field; there were Aubusson rugs on the parquet floor and fringed silk lampshades hanging from the ceiling of the corridor along which I now followed Mrs Bell. She stopped halfway and stepped down into the kitchen. It was small, square and time-warped, with its red Formica-topped table and its hooded gas stove upon which stood an aluminium kettle and a single white-enamelled saucepan. On the laminate worktop was a tea tray set out with a blue china teapot, two matching cups and saucers, and a little white milk jug over which she’d put a dainty white muslin cover fringed with blue beads.

‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, Phoebe?’

‘No thank you – really.’

‘But I have everything ready, and though I may be French I know how to make a nice cup of English Darjeeling,’ Mrs Bell added wryly.

‘Well …’ I smiled. ‘If it’s no trouble.’

‘None at all. I have only to re-heat the water.’ She took a box of matches off the shelf, struck one then held it to the gas ring with a shaky hand. As she did so I noticed that her waistband was secured with a large
safety pin. ‘Please, take a seat in the sitting room,’ she said. ‘It’s just there – on the left.’

The room was large, with a big bow window, and was papered in a light green slubbed silk which was curling at the seams in places. A small gas fire was alight despite the warmth of the day. On the mantelshelf above it a silver carriage clock was flanked by a pair of snooty-looking Staffordshire spaniels.

As I heard the kettle begin to whistle I went over to the window and looked down on to the communal garden. As a child I’d been unable to appreciate its size. The lawn swept the entire length of the crescent, like a river of grass, and was fringed by a screen of magnificent trees. There was a huge cedar that cascaded to the ground in tiers, like a green crinoline: there were two or three enormous oaks. There were three copper beeches and a sweet chestnut in the throes of a half-hearted second flowering. To the right, two young girls were running through the skirts of a weeping willow, shrieking and laughing. I stood there for a few moments, watching them …

‘Here we are …’ I heard Mrs Bell say. I went to help her with the tray.

‘No – thank you,’ she said, almost fiercely, as I tried to take it from her. ‘I may be somewhat
antique
, but I can still manage quite well. Now, how do you take your tea?’ I told her. ‘Black with no sugar?’ She picked up the silver tea strainer. ‘That’s easy then …’

She handed me my tea then lowered herself on to a little brocade chair by the fire while I sat on the sofa opposite her.

‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Bell?’

‘Long enough.’ She sighed. ‘Eighteen years.’

‘So are you hoping to move to ground-floor accommodation?’ It had crossed my mind that she might be moving to one of the sheltered housing flats just down the road.

‘I’m not sure where I’m going,’ she replied after a moment. ‘I will have a clearer idea next week. But whatever happens, I am … how can I put it …?’

‘Downsizing?’ I suggested after a moment.

‘Downsizing?’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Yes.’ There was an odd little silence, which I filled by telling Mrs Bell about my piano lessons, though I decided not to mention the ruler.

‘And were you a good pianist?’

I shook my head. ‘I only got up to Grade 3. I didn’t practise enough, and then after Mr Long died I didn’t want to continue with it. My mother wanted me to, but I guess I wasn’t that interested …’ From outside came the silvery laughter of the two girls. ‘Unlike my best friend Emma,’ I heard myself say. ‘She was brilliant at the piano.’ I picked up my teaspoon. ‘She got Grade 8 when she was only fourteen – with Distinction. It was announced in school at assembly.’

‘Really?’

I began stirring my tea. ‘The headmistress asked Emma to come up on stage and play something, so she played this lovely piece from Schumann’s
Scenes from
Childhood
. It was called “Träumerei” – Dreaming …’

‘What a gifted girl,’ said Mrs Bell with a faintly puzzled expression. ‘And are you still friends with this… paragon?’ she added wryly.

‘No.’ I noticed a solitary tea leaf at the bottom of the
cup. ‘She’s dead. She died earlier this year, on the fifteenth of February, at about ten to four in the morning. At least, that’s when they think it happened, although they couldn’t be sure; but I suppose they have to put something down, don’t they …’

‘How terrible,’ Mrs Bell murmured after a moment. ‘What age was she?’

‘Thirty-three.’ I continued to stir my tea, gazing into its topaz depths. ‘She would have been thirty-four today.’ The spoon gently chinked against the cup. I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘Emma was very talented in other ways, too. She was a wonderful tennis player – although …’ I felt myself smile. ‘She had this peculiar serve. She looked as though she was tossing pancakes. It worked, mind you – they were un-returnable.’