by Isabel Wolff
The girl’s face fell, but she retreated into the fitting room, emerging in the dress a minute later. The style was far too old for her and the colour drained her complexion. She looked as though she was going to a funeral. I saw the woman in the leopard-print dress glance at her then discreetly shake her head before turning back to the rails.
‘That’s more like it,’ Keith said. He made a circulating gesture with his index finger and with a sigh the girl slowly spun round, her eyes upturned. At that I saw the other customer purse her lips. ‘Perfect,’ said Keith. He thrust his hand into his jacket. ‘How much?’ I glanced at the girl. Her mouth was quivering. ‘How much?’ he repeated as he opened his wallet.
‘But it’s the green one I like,’ she murmured.
‘How much?’ he repeated.
‘It’s £150.’ I felt my face flush.
‘I don’t want it,’ the girl pleaded. ‘I like the green one, Keith. It makes me feel … happy.’
‘Then you’ll just have to buy it yourself. If you can afford it,’ he added pleasantly. He looked at me again. ‘So that’s £150?’ He tapped the newspaper. ‘And it says here that there’s a five per cent discount, which makes it £142.50, by my reckoning.’
‘That’s right,’ I said, impressed by the speed of his calculation and wishing that I could charge him twice the amount and give the girl the cupcake dress.
‘Keith. Please,’ she moaned. Her eyes were shining with tears.
‘C’mon, Kelly,’ he groaned. ‘Give me a break. That little black number’s just the ticket and I’ve got some top people coming so I don’t want you looking like bloody Tinker Bell do I?’ He glanced at his expensive-looking watch. ‘We’ve got to get back – I’ve got that conference call about the Kilburn site at two thirty, remember. Now – am I buying the black dress or not? Because if I’m not, then you won’t be coming to the Dorchester on Saturday, I can tell you.’
She looked out of the window then nodded mutely.
As I tore the receipt off the terminal the man held his hand out for the bag then slotted his card back in his wallet. ‘Thanks,’ he said briskly. Then, with the girl trailing disconsolately behind him, he left.
As the door clicked shut the woman in the leopard-print dress caught my eye.
‘I wish she’d had the fairytale dress,’ she said. ‘With a “prince” like that, she needs it.’ Not sure that I should be seen to be knocking my customers, I smiled a rueful smile of agreement then put the green cupcake dress back on the wall. ‘She isn’t just his girlfriend – she works for him,’ the woman went on as she inspected a Thierry Mugler hot pink leather jacket from the mid eighties.
I looked at her. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because he’s so much older than her, because of his power over her and her fear of offending him… her knowledge of his diary. I like people-watching,’ she added.
‘Are you a writer?’
‘No. I love writing, but I’m an actor.’
‘Are you in anything at the moment?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m “resting”, as they say – in fact, I’ve had more rest than Sleeping Beauty lately, but’ – she heaved a theatrical sigh – ‘I refuse to give up.’ She looked at the prom dresses again. ‘They really are lovely. I don’t have the curves for them, sadly, even if I had the cash. They’re American, aren’t they?’
I nodded. ‘Early fifties. They’re a bit too frothy for post-war Britain.’
‘Gorgeous fabric,’ the woman said, squinting at them. ‘Dresses like that are usually made of acetate with nylon petticoats, but these ones are all silk.’ So she had knowledge and a good eye.
‘Do you buy much vintage?’ I asked as I re-folded a lavender cashmere cardigan and put it on the knitwear stand.
‘I buy as much as I can afford – and if I get bored of anything I can always sell – not that I do, because in the main I’ve always bought well. I’ve never forgotten the thrill of my first find,’ she went on as she put the Thierry Mugler back on the rail. ‘It was a Ted Lapidus leather coat bought in Oxfam in ’92 – it still looks good.’
I thought about my first vintage find. A Nina Ricci guipure lace shirt bought in Greenwich Market when I was fourteen. Emma had pounced on it for me on one of our Saturday foraging trips.
‘Your dress is Cerutti, isn’t it?’ I said to the girl. ‘But it’s been altered. It should be ankle length.’
She smiled. ‘Spot on. I got it in a jumble sale ten years ago, but the hem was ripped so I shortened it.’ She brushed an imaginary speck off the front. ‘Best fifty pence I ever spent.’ She went over to the daywear rail and picked out a turquoise crepe de Chine tiered dress from the early seventies. ‘This is Alice Pollock, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘For Quorum.’
‘I thought so.’ She glanced at the price. ‘Out of my reach, but I can never resist looking, and when I read in the local paper that you’d opened I just had to come and see what you had. Oh well,’ she sighed. ‘I can dream.’ She gave me a friendly smile. ‘I’m Annie, by the way.’
‘I’m Phoebe. Phoebe Swift.’ I stared at her. ‘I’m just wondering … are you working at the moment?’
‘I’m temping,’ she replied. ‘Just doing whatever comes along.’
‘And are you local?’
‘Yes.’ Annie looked at me curiously. ‘I live in Dartmouth Hill.’
‘The reason I’m asking … Look, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in working for me, would you? I need a part-time assistant.’ I explained why.
‘Two days a week?’ Annie echoed. ‘That might suit me very well – I could do with some regular work – as long as I could go to auditions. Not that I have many to go to,’ she added ruefully.
‘I’d be flexible about the hours – and there’d be some weeks when I’d need you for more than two days – and did you say you can sew?’
‘I’m fairly nifty with a needle.’
‘Because it would be helpful if you could do a few small repairs in the quiet times, or a bit of ironing. And if you could help me dress the windows – I’m not much good with mannequins.’
‘I’d enjoy all that.’
‘And you wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not you and I would get on, because when you were here I’d mostly be out, which would be the whole point of it. But here’s my number.’ I handed Annie a Village Vintage postcard. ‘Have a think.’
‘Well … actually …’ She laughed. ‘I don’t have to. It would be right up my street. But you ought to get a reference for me,’ she added, ‘if only to make sure I’m not going to run off with the stock, because it would be extremely tempting.’ She smiled. ‘But apart from that, when would I start?’
So this morning, Monday, Annie began work, having provided letters from two previous employers extolling her honesty and industry. I’d asked her to come early so that I could show her how everything worked before I left for Christie’s.
‘Spend some time familiarising yourself with the clothes,’ I advised her. ‘Evening wear is here. This is lingerie … there’s some menswear here … shoes and bags are on this stand. Knitwear on this table … Let me open the till.’ I fiddled with the electronic key. ‘And if you could do a little mending …’
‘Sure.’ I went into the ‘den’ to pick up a Murray Arbeid skirt that needed a small repair. ‘That’s an Emma Kitts, isn’t it?’ I heard Annie say. I came back into the shop. She was gazing up at the hat. ‘That was so sad. I read about it in the papers.’ She turned to me. ‘But why do you have it here, given that it’s not vintage and it says it’s not for sale?’
For a split second I fantasised about confessing to Annie that looking at the hat every day was a form of penance.
‘I knew her,’ I explained as I put the skirt on the counter with the sewing box. ‘We were friends.’
‘That’s hard,’ said Annie softly. ‘You must miss her.’
‘Yes …’ I coughed to cover the sob that I could feel rising in my throat. ‘An
yway … this seam here – there’s a little split.’ I breathed deeply. ‘I’d better get going.’
Annie took the lid off the sewing box and selected a reel of thread. ‘What time does the auction start?’
‘At ten. I went to the preview last night.’ I picked up the catalogue. ‘The lots I’m interested in won’t come up until after eleven, but I want to get there in good time so that I can see what’s selling well.’
‘What are you going to bid for?’
‘A Balenciaga evening gown.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 110.
Annie peered at it. ‘How elegant.’
The long sleeveless indigo silk dress was cut very simply, its scooped neckline and gently raised hem encrusted in a wide band of fringed silver glass beading.
‘I want to buy it for a private client,’ I explained. ‘She’s a Beverly Hills stylist. I know exactly what her customers want, so I’m sure she’ll take it. Then there’s this dress by Madame Grès that I’m dying to get for my own collection.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 112, a Neo-classical sheath of cream silk jersey falling in dozens of fine pleats from an empire-line bust with crossover straps and a chiffon train floating from each shoulder. I emitted a wistful sigh.
‘It’s magnificent,’ Annie murmured. ‘It would make a fabulous wedding dress,’ she added teasingly.
I smiled. ‘That’s not why I want it. I simply love the incomparable draping of Madame Grès’ gowns.’ I picked up my bag. ‘Now I really must go – oh, one other thing –’ and I was just about to tell Annie what to do if anyone brought clothes in to sell when the phone rang.
I picked up. ‘Village Vintage …’ The novelty of saying it still gave me a thrill.
‘Good morning,’ said a female voice. ‘My name is Mrs Bell.’ The woman was clearly elderly and her accent was French, though almost imperceptibly so. ‘I saw from the local newspaper that you have just opened your shop.’
‘That’s right.’ So Dan’s article was still having an effect. I felt a rush of good will towards him.
‘Well … I have a selection of clothes I no longer want – some quite lovely things that I am never going to wear again. There are also some bags and shoes. But I am elderly. I cannot bring them …’
‘No, of course not,’ I interjected. ‘I’d be happy to come over to you, if you’d like to give me your address.’ I reached for my diary. ‘The Paragon?’ I repeated. ‘That’s very near. I could walk up. When shall I come?’
‘Is there any chance that you could come today? I am in the mood to dispose of my things sooner rather than later. I have an appointment this morning, but would three o’clock be possible?’
I’d be back from the auction by then, and I had Annie to mind the shop. ‘Three o’clock would be fine,’ I said as I scribbled down the house number.
As I walked down the hill to Blackheath station I reflected on the art of evaluating a collection of clothes in someone’s home. The usual scenario is that a woman has died and you’re dealing with her relatives. They can be very emotional, so you have to be tactful. They’re often offended if you leave some garments out; then they can be upset if you offer less than they’d hoped for those things you do choose. ‘Only £40?’ they’ll say. ‘But it’s by Hardy Amies.’ And I’ll gently point out that the lining’s ripped, that three buttons are missing, and that it’ll have to go to the specialist dry cleaners for the stains on the cuff.
Sometimes the family can find it hard to part with the garments at all and resent your presence, especially if the estate is being sold to pay tax. In those cases, I reflected as I waited on the station platform, you’re made to feel like an intruder. Quite often, when I’ve gone to do a valuation of this kind in a grand country house, I’ve had the maid or valet standing there weeping, or telling me – and this is very annoying – not to touch the clothes. If I’m with a widower he’ll often go into minute detail about everything that his wife wore, and how much he paid for it in Dickins & Jones in 1965 and how beautiful she looked in it on the QE2.
The easiest scenario by far, I thought as the train pulled in, is where a woman is getting divorced and wants to be shot of everything that her husband ever bought her. In those cases I can justifiably be brisk. But when it comes to seeing elderly women who are selling their entire wardrobe it can be emotionally draining. As I say, these are more than clothes – they’re the fabric, almost literally, of someone’s life. But however much I like to hear the stories I have to remind myself that my time is limited. I therefore try to keep my visits to no more than an hour, which is what I resolved to do with Mrs Bell.
As I came out of the underground at South Kensington I called Annie. She sounded upbeat, having already sold a Vivienne Westwood bustier and two French nightdresses. She also told me that Mimi Long from Woman & Home had asked if she could borrow some clothes for one of her shoots. Cheered by this, I walked down the Brompton Road to Christie’s then turned into the foyer, which was crowded as the fashion sales are popular. I queued to register then picked up my bidding ‘paddle’.
The Long Gallery was about two-thirds full. I sat at the end of an empty row halfway down on the right, then looked around for my competitors, which is always the first thing I do when I go to an auction. I saw a couple of dealers I know and a woman who runs a vintage dress shop in Islington. I recognised the fashion editor of Elle sitting in the fourth row and to my right I spotted Nicole Farhi. The air seemed clogged with expensive scent.
‘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.’