The Debutante (13 page)

The fire alarm blared. Rachel rushed into the dining room. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Sorry!’ Cate was wildly fanning the air around an old marble ashtray, the envelope crumpling and curling, consumed by flames. ‘Sorry! So sorry! I was just… you know … getting rid of this.’

Rachel flung open the windows and began flapping her apron. ‘You know, you could just throw it away.’

‘Yes, but… but I don’t trust myself!’

Rachel grabbed a plant mister from the mantelpiece, spraying until the flame fizzled out. ‘Well —’ she surveyed the remains — ‘you won’t be reading it now.’

They both stared at the sodden, charred mess.

‘No.’ And for the first time that day, Cate found herself laughing. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m all on edge. I don’t want you to worry. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.’

Rachel wrapped her arm around Cate’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. ‘Except perhaps the house burning down!’

‘Ah! Yes. There is that.’

Rachel took the ashtray, emptying it into the kitchen bin and wiping it clean.

Cate followed her into the kitchen. ‘Tell me, if you had some old piece of clothing and you wanted to know more about it, like, for example, a handbag or a pair of shoes or something, where would you go to find out more?’

‘Clothing?’ Rachel gave the soup a stir. ‘What clothing?’

‘Just something I found at one of the local antique shops in Devon.’

‘Well, I suppose you could take it over to Alfies Antiques Market. Or go to the library in the Victoria and Albert Museum. They have the largest resources about fashion history.’

Cate leaned against the worktop. ‘That’s a good idea.’

‘Actually, I’ve got a contact there, in the fashion department. Occasionally they bid for pieces that go up for auction. It’s been a while but I could put you in touch with him.’ She concentrated, her brow wrinkling. ‘Theodore. That’s it. He might be able to help you. Are you becoming a collector too?’

Cate shrugged. ‘I’m just curious. That’s all.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t find anything in Endsleigh. You know it was owned by one of the Blythe sisters?’

‘Yes, I think Jack mentioned it at one point,’ she admitted lightly.

‘Now there were two sisters who were chalk and cheese!’

‘Really?’ She picked at a sliver of raw carrot, left on the cutting board, sweet and crunchy.

‘The older one, Irene, was devoted to charity work, especially around refugee children during the war. But Diana was the exact opposite — wild, promiscuous, Trouble with a capital T.’

‘What do you think happened to her?’

‘Personally, I think she ran away.’

‘Why?’

Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘Why does anyone run away? I like to think of her as a wizened old woman living quietly in a trailer park somewhere in Arizona.’

‘Slightly far-fetched.’

‘Far fetched is what life usually serves up, my dear.’

Cate smiled. But inwardly she knew all too well why people ran away. It was difficult, almost impossible to change who you were. Could anyone really be faulted for settling for a change in landscape instead?

Perhaps Rachel was right; somewhere out there, in some unassuming corner of the world, Diana Blythe had managed the impossible — she’d managed to elude herself once and for all.

‘Do you want me to give Theodore a ring in the morning?’

‘Sure, that would be great.’

‘What is it, anyway?’

‘Nothing much. Just bits and bobs. Listen, I’m sorry again about the fire alarm.’ She landed a kiss on Rachel’s cheek. ‘I’d better unpack.’

As she headed upstairs with her bag, there was a tangible sense of relief. It was over. The letter was destroyed. But why would he send a third party all this way to deliver it? Why not simply post it?

She stopped, gripped the banister hard.

Unless, of course, he was in London now.

There would be no need to post it if he were here. And he would never come to the house himself. It wasn’t in his nature to take a risk; to do anything of which he wasn’t already assured of the result.

He was content to bide his time.

After all, this wasn’t a question of love.

It was a matter of ownership.

Rachel emptied the remains of a box of
egg
noodles into the simmering soup. Popping open the lid on the bin to throw the empty container away, something caught her eye. It was shiny and black, curling and twisting like a misshapen claw, reaching out of a sheaf of seared, soggy writing paper, among the damp ashes. Gingerly, she picked it out, her curiosity getting the better of her.

‘Good God!’

It was the remains of a black American Express card;
the kind that had no credit limit. The kind that was only offered to clients who were privately referred; whose bank balances were in the millions rather than the thousands. She had come across only a couple of them in her business, used to purchase items no ordinary card would cover.
‘Ms C. Albion’
it read in gold letters across the bottom. She turned it over. Just visible on the back was Katie’s faded signature.

Quickly, Rachel unfolded the sodden paper that had been wrapped around it.

It wasn’t the love letter she was expecting. In fact, only three words were typed across the centre.

5 St James’s Square
London

14 July 1932

Oh my darling!!
I write to you in the early hours of the morning, with a shaking hand — Eleanor Ogilvy-Smith has lunged at me at Esme’s fancy dress party! She cornered me in the cloakroom and for a moment I thought she’d just lost her balance but then I realised her mouth was about to collide with mine and that she was trying to kiss me! Oh, the horror of it! And when I told her I couldn’t possibly she began to cry and begged me not to tell her mother. I swear she was half-cut but she clung onto my hand (she has a grip like a sailor) and said she’s been in love with me for years. It was all extremely shocking. It wouldn’t have surprised me a bit from Brenda or Liz, but Eleanor? I suppose the Romeo costume she was wearing ought to have given it away. She’s really quite large and rather alarming. Oh, what shall I do? I so preferred it when she despised me.

Advice please at your earliest convenience!

Mortified and Terrified to Leave the House Lest I Am Pounced Upon,

D xxx

The vast lobby of the Victoria and Albert Museum was a mixture of classical marble architecture and sleek modern interiors; a winding, undulating Chihuly chandelier hung over the information desk; azure and emerald glass twisting in long serpent tentacles like an aquatic, faceless Medusa.

Cate’s heels echoed as she walked in, stopping to open her bag for the security guard to check inside.

He took out the old shoebox and, eyeing her suspiciously, opened it.

‘I have an appointment in the fashion department,’ she explained, slipping the lid back on.

He directed her to the front desk. There she was asked to wait, while they rang through to Theodore’s assistant. Walking slowly around the periphery of the enormous hall, she watched the groups of people passing in and out, feeling her nerves tense. There was nothing to be afraid of. And yet she was aware of a growing possessiveness around the shoes, the objects, the entire discovery. She wanted to know all the answers but didn’t really want to share the secret. What if this man, this Theodore, took the shoes away from her? What if she was found out as a thief?

Strolling slowly, she concentrated on the inlaid marble pattern on the floor, hugging her bag to her chest. She would ask a few questions and leave. That was all.

‘Ms Albion?’

She looked up.

An attractive, dark-haired girl stood in front of her, wearing a pair of thick black tights, flat ballet shoes and a dress that appeared to be fashioned entirely from brown wrapping paper and packing tape. The word ‘DRESS’ was written on the front of it in red ink.

She smiled. ‘I’m Sam, Mr Whyte’s assistant. His office is downstairs. Would you like to follow me?’

Cate blinked. ‘Yes. Of course.’

Sam turned and Cate followed her through the maze of galleries and into the fashion section of the museum. There was a reverent hush in the dimly lit rooms where mannequins were posed in long glass display cases, modelling exquisite examples of couture through the ages. Sam’s incredible outfit made a crisp, rustling noise. People turned and stared as they passed, but Sam seemed unperturbed. Eventually they arrived at a thick mahogany door with a security lock on it. Sam swiped her pass key through and they descended into the bowels of the building, along a winding warren of workrooms and offices in the basement of the museum.

Fluorescent lights blinked and buzzed above them and there was the smell of various dyes and adhesives, mixed with the comforting aroma of strong Italian coffee brewing. A radio played in the tapestry repair shop; there was the sound of raucous laughter as they passed the hats and accessories room; some sort of heated discussion was taking place in small leathers on the merits of glue versus rivets. The further back they went, the quieter it became.
They passed vaults and vaults of hanging garments, smashed together in automated rails that hung in rows up to the ceiling. There were piles of boxes and corridors crammed with posters and old brochures, hanging rails laden with Victorian greatcoats, Mary Quant minidresses and Armani evening gowns. Mannequin parts were everywhere; arms poking out of black bin liners, heads balanced on filing cabinets. It was bursting with treasures, rare fragments of past lives salvaged, researched and restored with a loving, dedicated eye.

They rounded a corner to a small office tucked away from the main jostle of the department. There, sitting at a long desk piled high with fabric swatches, piles of papers, magazines, reference books, old coffee cups and a state-of-the-art G3 Mac computer, sat a slight, older man in his sixties with a shock of bright pink hair. He was wearing a pair of original Vivienne Westwood red tartan bondage trousers and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Thick black glasses framed his bright blue eyes. On the wall behind him was an extensive collection of Virgin Mary memorabilia.

He stood up. ‘I’m Theo,’ he introduced himself. ‘Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Water?’

‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’ Cate balanced on the edge of her chair.

He laughed. ‘Don’t be nervous! We’re preparing for a new show exploring Dada and punk. “The Radical Voice
in Fashion”. Sam and I occasionally get a bit carried away, don’t we?’ He gave Sam a wink.

‘Actually I like the dress,’ Cate assured them.

Sam’s face lit up. ‘It’s taken from an original 1960s Pierre Cardin pattern I found on the Web. I’m interested in disposable clothes for a disposable society. And recyclable. Disposable and recyclable,’ she corrected herself. ‘I’m working on a Burberry-style mac made entirely from black bin liners at the moment.’

‘How’s that going?’ Theo asked.