by Isabel Wolff
Dan looked up. ‘Even though you’d just been promoted?’
‘Yes …’ My heart turned over. I’d said too much. ‘I’d been there almost from the day I’d graduated, you see, and I needed …’ I glanced out of the window, trying to quell the surge of emotion that was breaking over me. ‘I felt I needed …’
‘A career break?’ Dan suggested.
‘A … change. So I went on a sort of sabbatical in early March.’ I draped a string of Chanel paste pearls round the neck of a silver mannequin. ‘They said they’d keep my job open until June, but in early May I saw that the lease here had come up for sale, so I decided to take the plunge and sell vintage myself. I’d been toying with the idea for some time,’ I added.
‘Some… time,’ Dan repeated quietly. This was hardly ‘speed writing’. I stole a glance at his odd squiggles and abbreviations. ‘Next question …’ He chewed the end of his pencil. The man was useless. ‘I know: Where do you find the stock?’ He looked at me. ‘Or is that a trade secret?’
‘Not really.’ I fastened the hooks on a café au lait-coloured silk blouse by Georges Rech. ‘I bought quite a bit from some of the smaller auction houses outside London, as well as from specialist dealers and private individuals who I already knew through Sotheby’s. I also got things at vintage fairs, on eBay, and I made two or three trips to France.’
‘Why France?’
‘You can find lovely vintage garments in provincial markets there – like these embroidered nightdresses.’ I held one up. ‘I bought them in Avignon. They weren’t too expensive because French women are less keen on vintage than we are in this country.’
‘Vintage clothing’s become rather desirable here, hasn’t it?’
‘Very desirable.’ I quickly fanned some 1950s copies of Vogue on to the glass table by the sofa. ‘Women want individuality, not mass production, and that’s what vintage gives them. Wearing vintage suggests originality and flair. I mean, a woman can buy an evening dress in the High Street for £200,’ I went on, warming to the interview now, ‘and the next day it’s worth almost nothing. But for the same money she could have bought something made of gorgeous fabric, that no one else would have been wearing and that will, if she doesn’t wreck it, actually increase in value. Like this –’ I pulled out a Hardy Amies petrol blue silk taffeta dinner gown, from 1957.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Dan, looking at its halter neck, slim bodice and gored skirt. ‘You’d think it was new.’
‘Everything I sell is in perfect condition.’
‘Condition …’ he muttered as he scribbled again.
‘Every garment is washed or dry-cleaned,’ I went on as I returned the dress to the rail. ‘I have a wonderful seamstress who does the big repairs and alterations; the smaller ones I can do here myself – I have a little “den” at the back with a sewing machine.’
‘And what do the things sell for?’
‘They range from £15 for a hand-rolled silk scarf, to £75 for a cotton day dress, to £200–300 for an evening dress and up to £1,500 for a couture piece.’ I pulled out a Pierre Balmain beaded gold faille evening gown from the early 1960s, embroidered with bugle beads and silver sequins. I lifted its protective cover. ‘This is an important dress, made by a major designer at the height of his career. Or there’s this –’ I took out a pair of silk velvet palazzo pants in a psychedelic pattern of sherbety pinks and greens. ‘This outfit’s by Emilio Pucci. It’ll almost certainly be bought as an investment piece rather than to wear, because Pucci, like Ossie Clark, Biba and Jean Muir, is very collectable.’
‘Marilyn Monroe loved Pucci,’ Dan said. ‘She was buried in her favourite green silk Pucci dress.’ I nodded, not liking to admit that I hadn’t known that. ‘Those are fun.’ Dan was nodding at the wall behind me hanging on which, like paintings, were four strapless, ballerina-length evening dresses – one lemon yellow, one candy pink, one turquoise and one lime – each with a satin bodice beneath which foamed a mass of net petticoats, sparkling with crystals.
‘I’ve hung those there because I love them,’ I explained. ‘They’re fifties prom dresses, but I call them “cupcake” dresses because they’re so glamorous and frothy. Just looking at them makes me feel happy.’ Or as happy as I can be now, I thought bleakly.
Dan stood up. ‘And what’s that you’re putting out there?’
‘This is a Vivienne Westwood bustle skirt.’ I held it up for him. ‘And this –’ I pulled out a terracotta silk kaftan, ‘is by Thea Porter, and this little suede shift is by Mary Quant.’
‘What about this?’ Dan had pulled out an oyster pink satin evening dress with a cowl neckline, fine pleating at the sides, and a sweeping fishtail hem. ‘It’s wonderful – it’s like something Katharine Hepburn would have worn, or Greta Garbo – or Veronica Lake,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘in The Glass Key.’
‘Oh. I don’t know that film.’
‘It’s very underrated – it was written by Dashiell Hammett in 1942. Howard Hawks borrowed from it for The Big Sleep.’
‘Did he?’
‘But you know what …’ He held the dress against me in a way that took me aback. ‘It would suit you.’ He looked at me appraisingly. ‘You have that sort of film noir languor.’
‘Do I?’ Again, he’d taken me aback. ‘Actually … this dress was mine.’
‘Really? Don’t you want it?’ Dan asked almost indignantly. ‘It’s rather beautiful.’
‘It is, but … I just … went off it.’ I returned it to the rail. I didn’t have to tell him the truth. That Guy had given it to me just under a year ago. We’d been seeing each other for a month and he’d taken me to Bath one weekend. I’d spotted the dress in a shop window and had gone in to look at it, mostly out of professional interest as it was £500. But later, while I’d been reading in the hotel room, Guy had slipped out and returned with the dress, gift-wrapped in pink tissue. Now I’d decided to sell it because it belonged to a part of my life that I was desperate to forget. I’d give the money to charity.
‘And what, for you, is the main appeal of vintage clothing?’ I heard Dan ask as I rearranged the shoes inside the illuminated glass cubes that lined the left-hand wall. ‘Is it that the things are such good quality compared to clothes made today?’
‘That’s a big part of it,’ I replied as I placed one 1960s green suede pump at an elegant angle to its partner. ‘Wearing vintage is a kick against mass production. But the thing I love most about vintage clothes …’ I looked at him. ‘Don’t laugh, will you.’
‘Of course not …’
I stroked the gossamer chiffon of a 1950s peignoir. ‘What I really love about them … is the fact that they contain someone’s personal history.’ I ran the marabou trim across the back of my hand. ‘I find myself wondering about the women who wore them.’
‘Really?’
‘I find myself wondering about their lives. I can never look at a garment – like this suit …’ I went over to the daywear rail and pulled out a 1940s fitted jacket and skirt in a dark blue tweed ‘… without thinking about the woman who owned it. How old was she? Did she work? Was she married? Was she happy?’ Dan shrugged. ‘The suit has a British label from the early forties,’ I went on, ‘so I wonder what happened to this woman during the war. Did her husband survive? Did she survive?’
I went over to the shoe display and took out a pair of 1930s silk brocade slippers, embroidered with yellow roses. ‘I look at these exquisite shoes, and I imagine the woman who owned them rising out of them and walking along, or dancing in them, or kissing someone.’ I went over to a pink velvet pillbox hat on its stand. ‘I look at a little hat like this,’ I lifted up the veil, ‘and I try to imagine the face beneath it. Because when you buy a piece of vintage clothing you’re not just buying fabric and thread – you’re buying a piece of someone’s past.’
Dan nodded. ‘Which you’re bringing into the present.’
‘Exactly – I’m giving these clothes a new lease of life. And I love the fac
t that I’m able to restore them,’ I went on. ‘Where there are so many things in life that can’t be restored.’ I felt the sudden, familiar pit in my stomach.
‘I’d never have thought of vintage clothes like that,’ said Dan after a moment. ‘I love your passion for what you do.’ He peered at his notepad. ‘You’ve given me some great quotes.’
‘Good,’ I replied quietly. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’ After a hopeless start, I was tempted to add.
Dan smiled. ‘Well … I’d better let you get on – and I ought to go and write this up, but …’ His voice trailed away as his eyes strayed to the corner shelf. ‘What an amazing hat. What period’s that from?’
‘It’s contemporary. It was made three years ago.’
‘It’s very original.’
‘Yes – it’s one of a kind.’
‘How much is it?’
‘It’s not for sale. It was given to me by the designer – a close friend of mine. I just wanted to have it here because …’ I felt a constriction in my throat.
‘Because it’s beautiful?’ Dan suggested. I nodded. He flipped shut his notebook. ‘And will she be coming to the launch?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘One last thing,’ he said, taking a camera out of his bag. ‘My editor asked me to get a photo of you to go with the piece.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘As long as it won’t take long. I’ve still got to tie balloons to the front, I have to change – and I haven’t poured the champagne: that’s going to take time and people will be arriving in twenty minutes.’
‘Let me do that,’ I heard Dan say. ‘To make up for being late.’ He tucked his pencil behind his ear. ‘Where are the glasses?’
‘Oh. There are three boxes of them behind the counter, and there are twelve bottles of champagne in the fridge in the little kitchen there. Thanks,’ I added, anxiously wondering if Dan would manage to spill it everywhere; but he deftly filled the flutes with the Veuve Clicquot – vintage, of course, because it had to be – while I washed and changed into my outfit, a thirties dove grey satin cocktail dress with silver Ferragamo sling-backs; then I put on a little make-up and ran a brush through my hair. Finally I untied the cluster of pale gold helium balloons which floated from the back of a chair and attached them in twos and threes to the front of the shop where they jerked and bobbed in the stiffening breeze. Then as the church clock struck six I stood in the doorway, with a glass in my hand, while Dan took his photos.
After a minute he lowered the camera and looked at me, clearly puzzled.
‘Sorry, Phoebe – could you manage a smile?’
* * *
My mother arrived just as Dan was leaving.
‘Who was that?’ she asked as she headed straight for the fitting room.
‘A journalist called Dan,’ I replied. ‘He’s just interviewed me for a local paper. He’s a bit chaotic.’
‘He looked rather nice,’ she said as she stood in front of the mirror scrutinising her appearance. ‘He was hideously dressed, but I like curly hair on a man. It’s unusual.’ Her reflected face looked at me with anxious disappointment. ‘I wish you could find someone again, Phoebe – I hate you being on your own. Being on your own is no fun. As I can testify,’ she added bitterly.
‘I rather enjoy it. I intend to be on my own for a long time, quite possibly forever.’
Mum snapped open her bag. ‘That’s very likely to be my fate, darling, but I don’t want it to be yours.’ She took out one of her expensive new lipsticks. It resembled a gold bullet. ‘I know you’ve had a hard year, darling.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured.
‘And I know’ – she glanced at Emma’s hat – ‘that you’ve been … suffering.’ My mother could have no idea quite how much. ‘But,’ she said as she twisted up the colour, ‘I still don’t understand’ – I knew what was coming – ‘why you had to end things with Guy. I know I only met him three times, but I thought he was charming, handsome and nice.’
‘He was all those things,’ I agreed. ‘He was lovely. In fact, he was perfect.’
In the mirror Mum’s eyes met mine. ‘Then what happened between you?’
‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘My feelings just … changed. I told you that.’
‘Yes. But you’ve never said why.’ Mum drew the colour – a slightly garish coral – across her upper lip. ‘The whole thing seemed quite perverse, if you don’t mind my saying so. Of course, you were very unhappy at the time.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But then what happened to Emma …’ I closed my eyes to try and shut out the images that will haunt me forever. ‘Wel l… it was terrible,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t know how she could do that … And to think what she had going for her … so much.’
‘So much,’ I echoed bitterly.
Mum blotted her lower lip with a tissue. ‘But what I don’t understand is why it then followed, sad though you were, that you had to end what appeared to be a happy relationship with a very nice man. I think you had a sort of nervous breakdown,’ she went on. ‘It wouldn’t be surprising …’ She smacked her lips together. ‘I don’t think you knew what you were doing.’
‘I knew exactly,’ I retorted calmly. ‘But you know what, Mum, I don’t want to talk ab—’
‘How did you meet him?’ she suddenly asked. ‘You never told me that.’
I felt my face heat up. ‘Through Emma.’
‘Really?’ Mum looked at me. ‘How typically sweet of her,’ she said as she turned back to the mirror. ‘Introducing you to a nice man like that.’
‘Yes,’ I said uneasily …
‘I’ve met someone,’ Emma had said excitedly over the phone a year ago. ‘My head’s in a spin, Phoebe. He’s … wonderful.’ My heart had sunk, not just because Emma was always saying that she’d met someone ‘wonderful’, but because these men were usually anything but. Emma would be in raptures about them, then a month later she’d be avoiding them, saying they were ‘dreadful’. ‘I met him at a fund-raising do,’ she’d explained. ‘He runs an investment fund – but the good thing,’ she’d added with her usual, endearing artlessness, ‘is that it’s an ethical one.’
‘That sounds interesting. So he must be clever then.’
‘He got a first from the LSE. Not that he told me that,’ she added quickly. ‘I got it from Google. We’ve been on a few dates, but things are moving on so I’d like you to check him out.’
‘Emma,’ I sighed. ‘You are thirty-three years old. You are becoming very successful. You now dress the heads of some of the most famous women in the UK. Why do you need my approval?’
‘Well …’ I heard her clicking her tongue. ‘Because I guess old habits die hard. I’ve always asked your opinion about men, haven’t I?’ she mused. ‘Right from when we were teenagers.’
‘Yes – but we’re not teenagers now. You’ve got to have confidence in your own judgement, Em.’
‘I hear what you say. But I still want you to meet Guy.
I’ll have a little dinner party next week and sit you next to him, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I sighed …
I wish I didn’t have to be involved, I thought as I helped Emma in the kitchen of her rented house in Marylebone the following Thursday evening. From the sitting room came the sound of nine people laughing and talking. Emma’s idea of a ‘little’ dinner party was a five-course meal for twelve. As I got down the plates I thought of the men Emma had been ‘madly in love with’ over the past couple of years: Arnie the fashion photographer who’d two-timed her with a hand-model; Finian the garden designer who spent every weekend with his six-year-old daughter – and her mum. Then there’d been Julian, a bespectacled stockbroker with an interest in philosophy but precious little else. Emma’s latest attachment had been to Peter, a violinist with the London Philharmonic. That had looked promising – he was very nice and she could talk to him about music; but then he’d gone on a three-month world tour with the orchestra and had come back engaged to the second flute.
M
aybe this chap Guy would be a better bet, I thought as I rummaged in a drawer for Emma’s napkins.
‘Guy is perfect,’ she said as she opened the oven, releasing a burst of steam and an aroma of roasting lamb. ‘He’s the one, Phoebe,’ she said happily.
‘That’s what you always say.’ I began folding the napkins.
‘Well, this time it’s true. I’m going to kill myself if it doesn’t work out,’ she added gaily.
I stopped mid-fold. ‘Don’t be so silly, Em. It’s not even as though you’ve known him that long.’
‘True – though I know what I feel. But he’s late,’ she wailed as she took the lamb out to rest it. She thumped the Le Creuset meat dish down on to the table, her face a mask of anxiety. ‘Do you think he’s going to turn up?’
‘Of course he is,’ I said. ‘It’s only eight forty-five – he’s probably just been held up at work.’
Emma kicked shut the oven door. ‘Then why didn’t he phone?’
‘Maybe he’s stuck on the tube …’ Anxiety contorted her features again. ‘Em – don’t worry …’
She began basting the meat. ‘I can’t help it. I’d love to be calm and collected like you usually are, but I’ve never had your poise.’ She straightened up. ‘How do I look?’
‘Beautiful.’
She smiled with relief. ‘Thanks – not that I believe you, as you always say that.’
‘Because it’s always true,’ I said firmly.
Emma was dressed in her usually eclectic way, in a Betsey Johnson floral silk dress, with canary yellow fishnets and black ankle boots. Her wavy auburn hair was held off her face by a silver band.
‘And does this dress definitely suit me?’ she asked.
‘Definitely. I like the sweetheart neckline, and the silhouette’s flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.
‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ Emma’s face fell. ‘Please don’t say that, Phoebe – not today of all days. I know I could do with losing a few pounds, but –’
‘No, no – I didn’t mean that. Of course you’re not fat, Em, you’re lovely, I just meant –’