A Vintage Affair (9 page)

‘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
be his wife I decided as she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. She was his twenty-five-year-old mistress and he was her sugar daddy – the man was brazen. Her scent – J’adore – made me feel sick.

‘I’m Miles,’ he reminded me. ‘Miles Archant.’

‘I remember,’ I said pleasantly. ‘And what brings you here?’ I added, trying not to look askance at his companion, who was now riffling through the evening wear. He nodded at the girl. ‘Roxy …’ Of course. A suitably sexy name for a mistress. Foxy Roxy. ‘My daughter.’

‘Ah.’ The wave of relief I felt took me aback.

‘Roxanne’s looking for a special dress to wear for a teenagers’ charity ball at the National History Museum, aren’t you, Rox?’ She nodded. ‘This is Phoebe,’ he added. As the girl gave me a tepid smile I could now see how young she was. ‘We met at Christie’s,’ her father explained. ‘Phoebe bought that white dress you liked.’

‘Oh,’ she said resentfully.

I looked at Miles. ‘You were bidding for the Madame Grès for …?’ I indicated Roxy.

‘Yes. She saw it on the Christie’s website and fell in love with it – didn’t you, darling? She couldn’t come to the auction because she was at school.’

‘What a shame.’

‘Yeah,’ said Roxy. ‘It clashed with double English.’

So it was
Roxy
who’d been giving Miles such a hard time at the auction. And now I marvelled why anyone would be prepared to spend nearly
£
4,000 on a dress for a teenager.

‘Roxanne wants to work in fashion,’ he said. ‘She’s very interested in vintage clothing – aren’t you, darling?’

Roxanne nodded again. As she carried on looking through the rails I wondered where her mother was and what
she
looked like. The same, I imagined, but in her mid forties.

‘Anyway, we’re still looking,’ Miles said. ‘That’s why we’ve come here. The ball isn’t until November, but we happened to be in Blackheath, and we saw this shop had opened …’ I saw Roxy give her father a quizzical glance. ‘So we thought we’d take a look and we find –
you
! An unexpected bonus,’ he added.

‘Thank you,’ I said, wondering what his wife would think if she could see him chatting to me in such a blatantly friendly fashion.

‘An amazing coincidence,’ he concluded.

I turned to Roxanne. ‘So what sort of things do you like?’ I asked, trying to keep things professional.

‘Well …’ She pushed her Ray-Bans a little higher on her head. ‘I thought something a bit
Atonementy
or – what was that other film? –
Gosford Parky
.’

‘I see … So that’s mid to late thirties then. Bias cut. In the style of Madeleine Vionnet …’ I mused as I went up to the evening-wear rail.

Roxy shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘S’pose …’ It cynically occurred to me that there might be an opportunity here to get rid of Guy’s dress. Then I realised that Roxy was too slim for it – it would hang off her.

‘See anything you like, darling?’ her father asked.

She shook her head, and her hair, a hank of blonde silk, swished around her slim shoulders. Suddenly her mobile phone rang – what was that ringtone? Oh yes. It was ‘The Most Beautiful Girl in the World’.

‘Hi there,’ Roxy drawled. ‘No. With my dad. In some vintage dress shop … Last night? Yeah … Mahiki’s. It was cool. Yeah. Cool … Then it got hot …
Really
hot. Yeah. Cool …’ I felt like checking the thermostat.

‘Do take that call outside, darling,’ her father said. Roxy shouldered her Prada bag and pushed on the door, then she stood outside, leaning against the glass, one coltish leg crossed in front of the other. Her ‘conversation’ was clearly not going to be brief.

Miles rolled his eyes in mock despair. ‘Teenagers …’
He smiled indulgently then he began to look round the shop. ‘What lovely things you have here.’

‘Thanks.’ I noticed again how attractive his voice was – it had this slight break in it which I found somehow touching. ‘Do you know, I might buy a pair of those braces.’

I opened the counter and took out the tray. ‘They’re from the 1950s,’ I explained. ‘They’re unsold stock, so they’ve never been worn. They’re by Albert Thurston, who made top-quality English braces.’ I pointed to the straps. ‘You can see that the leather is hand stitched.’

Miles peered at them. ‘I’ll have these ones,’ he said, picking out a green-and-white striped pair. ‘How much are they?’

‘Fifteen pounds.’

He looked at me. ‘I’ll give you twenty.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Twenty-five then.’

I laughed. ‘You
what?
’

‘Okay, I’m prepared to go up to thirty pounds, if you’re going to be hard-nosed about it, but that’s
it
.’

I smiled. ‘It’s not an auction – I’m afraid you’ll just have to pay the asking price.’