by Isabel Wolff
‘That’s because vintage shops can be chaotic – the rails so crammed that you give yourself an upper-body workout just going through them. Here there’s enough light and air between the garments so that browsing will be a pleasure. If an item doesn’t sell, I’ll simply bring out something else. But aren’t the clothes lovely?’
‘Ye-es,’ Mum replied. ‘In a way.’ She nodded at the cupcake dresses. ‘Those are fun.’
‘I know – I adore them.’ I idly wondered who would buy them. ‘And look at this kimono. It’s from 1912. Have you seen the embroidery?’
‘Very pretty …’
‘Pretty? It’s a work of art. And this Balenciaga opera coat. Look at the cut – it’s made in just two pieces, including the sleeves. The construction is amazing.’
‘Hmm …’
‘And this coatdress – it’s by Jacques Fath. Look at the brocade with its pattern of little palm trees. Where could you find something like that today?’
‘That’s all very well, but –’
‘And this Givenchy suit: now this would look great on you, Mum. You can wear a knee-length skirt because you’ve got great legs.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d never wear vintage clothes.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve always preferred new things.’
‘I don’t know why.’
‘I’ve told you before, darling – it’s because I grew up in the era of rationing. I had nothing but hideous hand-me-downs – scratchy Shetland jumpers and grey serge skirts and coarse woollen pinafores that smelled like a damp dog when it rained. I used to long for things that no one else had owned, Phoebe. I still do – I can’t help it. Added to which I have a distaste for wearing things that other people have worn.’
‘But everything’s been washed and dry-cleaned. This isn’t a charity shop, Mum,’ I added as I gave the counter a quick wipe. ‘These clothes are in pristine condition.’
‘I know. And it all smells delightfully fresh – I detect no mustiness whatsoever.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Not the faintest whiff of a mothball.’
I plumped up the cushions on the sofa where Dan had been sitting. ‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘It’s the thought of wearing something that belonged to someone who’s probably …’ – she gave a little shudder – ‘died. I have a thing about it,’ she added. ‘I always have had. You and I are different in that way. You’re like your father. You both like old things … piecing them together. I suppose what you’re doing is a kind of archaeology, too,’ she went on. ‘Sartorial archaeology. Ooh, look, someone’s arriving.’
I picked up two glasses of champagne, then, with adrenaline coursing through my veins and a welcoming smile on my face, I stepped forward to greet the people walking through the door. Village Vintage was open for business …
TWO
I always wake in the early hours. I don’t need to look at the clock to know what time it is – it’s ten to four. I’ve been waking at ten to four every night for six months. My GP said it’s stress-induced insomnia, but I know it’s not stress. It’s guilt.
I avoid sleeping pills, so sometimes I’ll try to make the time pass by getting up and working. I might put on a wash – the machine’s always on the go; I might iron a few things, or do a repair. But I know it’s better to try and sleep so I usually lie there, attempting to lull myself back to oblivion with the World Service or some late-night phone-in. But last night I didn’t do that – I just lay there thinking about Emma. Whenever I’m not busy she goes round and round my mind, on a loop.
I see her at our little primary school in her stripy green summer dress; I see her diving into the swimming pool like a seal; I see her kissing her lucky Krugerrand before a tennis match. I see her at the Royal College of Art with her milliner’s blocks. I see her at Ascot, photographed in Vogue, beaming beneath one of her fantastic hats.
Then, as my bedroom began to fill with the grey light of dawn I saw Emma as I saw her for the very last time.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered.
You’re a fabulous friend.
‘I’m sorry, Em.’
What would I do without you …?
As I stood under the shower I forced my thoughts back to work and to the party. About eighty people had come including three former colleagues from Sotheby’s as well as one or two of my neighbours from here in Bennett Street and a few local shop-owners. Ted from the estate agent’s just along from the shop had popped in – he’d bought a silk waistcoat from the menswear rail; then Rupert who owns the florist’s had turned up and Pippa who runs the Moon Daisy Café dropped in with her sister.
One or two of the fashion journalists I’d invited were there. I hoped that they’d become good contacts, borrowing my clothes for shoots in return for publicity.
‘It’s very elegant,’ Mimi Long from Woman & Home said to me as I circulated with the champagne. She tipped her glass towards me for a refill. ‘I adore vintage. It’s like being in Aladdin’s cave – one has this wonderful sense of discovery. Will you be running the place on your own?’
‘No – I’ll need someone to help out part time so that I can be out and about buying stock, and taking things to be cleaned and repaired. So if you hear of anyone … They’ll need to have an interest in vintage,’ I added.
‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground,’ Mimi promised. ‘Ooh – is that real Fortuny I can see over there …?’
I’ll have to advertise for an assistant, I thought now as I dried myself and combed my wet hair. I could place an ad in a local paper – perhaps the one Dan worked for, whatever it was called.
As I dressed – in wide linen trousers and a short-sleeved fitted shirt with a Peter Pan collar – I realised that Dan had correctly identified my style. I do like the bias-cut dresses and wide-leg trousers of the late thirties and early forties; I like my hair shoulder length and falling over one eye. I like swing coats, clutch bags, peep toes and seamed stockings. I like fabric that drapes like oil.
I heard the clatter of the letter box and went downstairs where there were three letters on the mat. Recognising Guy’s handwriting on the first I tore it in half and dropped the pieces in the bin. I knew from his others what this one would say.
In the next envelope was a card from Dad. Good luck with your new venture, he’d written. I’ll be thinking of you, Phoebe. But please come and see me soon. It’s been too long.
That was true. I’d been so preoccupied that I hadn’t seen him since early February. We’d met at a café in Notting Hill for a conciliatory lunch. I hadn’t been prepared for him bringing the baby. The sight of my sixty-two-year-old father with a two-month-old clamped to his chest was, to put it mildly, a shock.
‘This is … Louis,’ he’d said awkwardly as he fumbled with the baby-sling. ‘How do you undo this thing?’ he muttered. ‘These damn clips … I can never … ah, got it.’ He sighed with relief then lifted the baby out and cradled him with a tender but somehow puzzled expression. ‘Ruth’s away filming so I had to bring him. Oh …’ Dad peered at Louis anxiously. ‘Do you think he’s hungry?’
I looked at Dad, appalled. ‘How on earth should I know?’
As Dad rummaged in the changing bag for a bottle I stared at Louis, his chin shining with dribble, not knowing what to think, let alone say. He was my baby brother. How could I not love him? At the same time, how could I love him, I wondered, when his conception was the cause of my mother’s distress?
Meanwhile Louis, unfazed by the complexities of the situation, had grasped my finger in his tiny hand and was smiling at me gummily.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I’d said …
The third envelope was from Emma’s mother. I recognised her writing. My thumb trembled as I ran it under the flap.
I just wanted to wish you every success with your new venture, she’d written. Emma would have been so thrilled. I hope you’re all right, she’d gone on. Derek and I are still taking things one day at a time. For us the hardest part rem
ains the fact that we were away when it happened – you can’t imagine our regret. ‘Oh yes, I can,’ I murmured. We still haven’t gone through Emma’s things… I felt my insides coil. Emma had kept a diary. But when we do, we’d like to give you some small thing of hers as a keepsake. I also wanted to let you know that there’ll be a little ceremony for Emma on the first anniversary – February 15th. I needed no reminder – the date would remain seared on my memory for the rest of my life. I’ll be in touch nearer the time but, until then, God bless you, Phoebe. Daphne.
She wouldn’t be blessing me if she knew the truth, I thought bleakly.
I collected myself, took some French embroidered nightdresses out of the washing machine, hung them to dry, then locked the house and walked to the shop.
There was still some clearing up to be done and as I opened the door I detected the sour scent of last night’s champagne. I returned the glasses to Oddbins in a cab, put the empty bottles out for recycling, swept the floor and squished Febreze on the sofa. Then as the church clock struck nine I turned over the ‘Closed’ sign.
‘This is it,’ I said to myself. ‘Day one.’
I sat behind the counter for a while repairing the lining of a Jean Muir jacket. By ten o’clock I was dismally wondering whether my mother might not be right. Perhaps I had made a huge mistake, I thought as I saw people pass by with no more than a glance. Perhaps I’d find sitting in a shop dull after the busyness of Sotheby’s. But then I reminded myself that I wouldn’t simply be sitting in a shop – I’d be going to auctions and seeing dealers and visiting private individuals to evaluate their clothes. I’d be talking to Hollywood stylists about sourcing dresses for their famous clients and I’d be making the odd trip to France. I’d also be running the Village Vintage website, as I’d be selling clothes directly from that. There’d be more than enough to do, I told myself as I re-threaded my needle. Then I reminded myself of how pressured my previous life had been.
At Sotheby’s I’d constantly been under the cosh. There was the continual pressure to put on successful auctions, and to conduct them competently; there was the fear of not having enough for the next sale. If I did manage to get enough then there was the worry that the clothes wouldn’t sell, or wouldn’t sell for a high enough price, or that the buyers wouldn’t pay their bills. There was the constant anxiety that things would get stolen or damaged. Worst of all was the habitual, gnawing fear that an important collection would go to a rival auction house – my directors would always want to know why.
Then February 15th happened and I couldn’t cope. I knew I had to get out.
Suddenly I heard the click of the door. I looked up expecting to see my first customer; instead it was Dan, in salmon-coloured cords and a lavender checked shirt. The man had zero colour sense. But there was something about him that was attractive; perhaps it was his build – he was comfortingly solid, like a bear, I now realised. Or perhaps it was his curly hair.
‘I don’t suppose I left my pencil sharpener here yesterday, did I?’
‘Er, no. I haven’t seen it.’
‘Damn,’ he muttered.
‘Is it … a special one?’
‘Yes. It’s silver. Solid,’ he added.
‘Really? Well … I’ll keep a look out for it.’
‘If you would. And how was the party?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Anyway …’ He held up a newspaper. ‘I just wanted to bring you this.’ It was the Black & Green and on the masthead was Dan’s photo of me, captioned PASSION FOR VINTAGE FASHION.
I looked at him. ‘I thought you said the article was for Friday’s paper.’
‘It was to have been, but then today’s lead feature had to be held back for various reasons, so Matt, my editor, put yours in instead. Luckily we go to press late.’ He handed it to me. ‘I think it’s come out quite well.’
I quickly glanced through the piece. ‘It’s great,’ I said trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. ‘Thanks for putting the website at the end and – oh.’ I felt my jaw slacken. ‘Why does it say that there’s a five per cent discount on everything for the first week?’
A red stain had crept up Dan’s neck. ‘I just thought an introductory offer might be … you know … good for business what with the credit crunch.’
‘I see. But, that’s a bit of a … cheek, to put it mildly.’
Dan grimaced. ‘I know … but I was busy writing it up and I suddenly thought of it, and I knew your party was going on so I didn’t want to phone you, and then Matt said he wanted to run the piece straight away and so … well …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ I said grudgingly. ‘I must say, you took me aback, but five per cent is … fine.’ In fact it would be good for business, I reflected, not that I was prepared to concede that. ‘Anyway,’ I sighed, ‘I was a little distracted when we were talking yesterday – who did you say gets this paper?’
‘It’s handed out at all the stations in this area on Tuesday and Friday mornings. It also goes through the doors of selected businesses and homes, so potentially it reaches a wide local audience.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ I smiled at Dan, genuinely appreciative now. ‘And have you worked for the paper long?’
He seemed to hesitate. ‘Two months.’
‘From the start then?’
‘More or less.’
‘And are you from round here?’
‘Just down the road in Hither Green.’ There was an odd little pause, and I was just waiting for him to say that he ought to be on his way when he said, ‘You must come Hither.’
I looked at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
He smiled. ‘All I mean is you must come round sometime.’
‘Oh.’
‘For a drink. I’d love you to see my …’ What? I wondered. Etchings?
‘Shed.’
‘Your shed?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a fantastic shed,’ he said evenly.
‘Really?’ I imagined a jumble of rusty gardening tools, cobwebbed bicycles and broken flowerpots.
‘Or it will be when I’ve finished.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Well …’ Dan tucked the pencil behind his ear. ‘I guess I’d better find my sharpener.’
‘Good luck.’ I smiled. ‘See you around.’ He left the shop, then gave me a little wave through the window. I waved back. ‘What an oddball,’ I said under my breath.
Within ten minutes of Dan’s departure a trickle of people began to arrive, at least two of them holding copies of the Black & Green. I tried not to annoy them with offers of help or to watch them too obviously. The Hermès bags and the more expensive jewellery were in lockable glass cases, but I hadn’t put electronic tags on the clothes for fear of damaging the fabric.
By twelve, I’d had about ten people through the door and had made my first sale – a 1950s seersucker sundress with a pattern of violets. I felt like framing the receipt.
At a quarter past one a petite red-haired girl in her early twenties came in with a well-dressed man in his mid to late thirties. While she looked through the clothes he sat on the sofa, one silk-socked ankle resting on his knee, thumbing his BlackBerry. The girl went through the evening-wear rail, finding nothing; then her eye was drawn to the cupcake dresses hanging on the wall. She pointed to the lime green one – the smallest of the four.
‘How much is that?’ she asked me.
‘It’s £275.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s silk,’ I explained, ‘with hand-sewn crystals. Would you like to try it on? It’s a size eight.’
‘Well …’ She glanced anxiously at her boyfriend. ‘What do you think, Keith?’ He looked up from his BlackBerry and the girl nodded to the dress, which I was now taking off the wall.
‘That won’t do,’ he said bluntly.
‘Why not?’
‘Too colourful.’
‘I like bright colours,’ the girl protested meekly.
He tu
rned back to his BlackBerry. ‘It’s not appropriate for the occasion.’
‘But it’s a dance.’
‘It’s too colourful,’ he insisted. ‘Plus it’s not smart enough.’ My dislike of the man turned to detestation.
‘Let me try it.’ She smiled pleadingly. ‘Go on.’
He looked at her. ‘Ok-ay.’ He sighed extravagantly. ‘If you must …’
I showed the girl into the changing room and drew the curtain round the rail. A minute later she emerged. The dress fitted her perfectly and showed off her small waist, lovely shoulders and slim arms. The vibrant lime complimented her red-blonde hair and creamy skin, while the corseting flattered her bust. The green tulle petticoats floated in layers around her, the crystals winking in the sunlight.
‘It’s … gorgeous,’ I murmured. I couldn’t imagine any woman looking more beautiful in it. ‘Would you like to try a pair of shoes on with it?’ I added. ‘Just to see how it would look with heels?’
‘Oh, I won’t need to,’ she said as she stared at herself, on tiptoe, in a side mirror. She shook her head. ‘It’s … fantastic.’ She seemed overwhelmed, as though she’d just discovered some wonderful secret about herself.
Behind her another customer had come in – a slim, dark-haired woman of about thirty in a leopard-print shirtdress with a gold chain belt worn low on the hips and gladiator sandals. She stopped in her tracks, gazing at the girl. ‘You look glorious,’ she exclaimed. ‘Like a young Julianne Moore.’
The girl smiled delightedly. ‘Thanks.’ She stared at herself in the mirror again. ‘This dress makes me feel … as though I’m in …’ She hesitated. ‘A fairytale.’ She glanced nervously at her boyfriend. ‘What do you think, Keith?’
He looked at her, shook his head then returned to his BlackBerry. ‘Like I say – much too bright. Plus it makes you look like you’re going to hop about in the ballet, not go to a sophisticated dinner dance at the Dorchester. Here –’ He stood up, went over to the evening rail and pulled out a Norman Hartnell black crepe cocktail dress and held it up to her. ‘Try this.’