by Isabel Wolff
‘So he asked you to come and write for his newspaper?’
‘No, he’d already hired two full-time reporters; I do the marketing, but I have carte blanche to write about anything that interests me.’
‘So I should feel flattered then.’
Dan was staring at me. ‘I saw you,’ he said. ‘The day before you opened – I think I told you; I was walking past on the other side of the road, and you were in the window, dressing a dummy –’
‘Mannequin, please.’
‘– and you were having trouble – one of its arms kept falling off.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I hate wrestling with those things.’
‘And you were so determined to remain composed – and I thought, I’d love to talk to that woman – so I did. That’s the good thing about journalism,’ he added with a smile.
‘Two coffees!’ said the volunteer, putting them on the counter. I went and got them then held them out to Dan. ‘Which do you want? The red or the green?’
‘The …’ He hesitated. ‘Red.’ He put out his hand.
‘But that’s the green one you’ve taken.’
Dan squinted at it. ‘So it is.’
The penny dropped with a clatter. ‘Dan – are you colour-blind?’ He pursed his lips, then nodded. How slow I’d been. ‘Is that … tricky?’
‘Not really.’ He gave a philosophical shrug. ‘It just means that I was unable to become an electrician –’
‘Oh, all those coloured wires.’
‘Or an air-traffic controller – or a pilot, for that matter. Being colour “deficient” as they say, also means that tabby cats have green stripes, that I’m useless at picking strawberries and that I often mis-match my clothes – as you’ve clearly noticed.’
I felt my face heat up. ‘If I’d known there was a reason for it, I’d have been more tactful.’
‘People do sometimes make rude remarks about what I’m wearing – I never explain unless I have to.’
‘And when did you find out?’
‘On my first day at primary school. We were asked to paint a tree – mine had bright red leaves and a green trunk. My teacher advised my parents to get my vision tested.’
‘So your trousers don’t look crimson to you then?’
Dan looked down at them. ‘I don’t know what “crimson” is – to me it’s an abstract concept, like the sound of a bell to a deaf person: but these trousers look olive green.’
I sipped my coffee. ‘So what colours can you see well?’
‘Pastels – pale blue, mauve – and of course black and white. I do like looking at things in black and white,’ he added with a nod at the exhibition. ‘There’s something about monochrome that just …’
From somewhere I could hear ‘As Time Goes By’; for a moment I thought it was coming over a sound system, then I realised that it was Dan’s ringtone.
He threw me an apologetic glance then took the call. ‘Hi, Matt,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m round the corner at the Age Exchange … Yes, I can talk – just for a minute. Sorry,’ he mouthed at me. ‘Oh … right …’ Dan stood up, his expression serious now. ‘Well, if she’ll stand by the story,’ he added as he walked away. ‘Hard evidence,’ I heard him say as he stepped into the courtyard garden; ‘… have to be libel-proof … I’ll be back in two minutes …’
‘Sorry about that,’ Dan said to me as he returned to the table. He looked distracted. ‘Matt needs to discuss something with me – I’d better go.’
‘And I’ve got things to do.’ I picked up my bag. ‘But I’m glad I came in here – thanks for the coffee.’
We left the Centre then stood on the pavement for a moment. ‘Well, I’m going this way.’ Dan nodded to the right. ‘The Black & Green is just up there, next to the Post Office, and you’re going that way. But … we’ll go and see Anna Karenina.’
‘Well … why don’t you let me think about it?’
Dan shrugged. ‘Why don’t you just say “yes”?’ Then, as if it were perfectly normal for him to do so, he kissed me on the cheek and left.
As I pushed on the door of Village Vintage five minutes later, I saw Annie putting down the phone. ‘That was Mrs Bell,’ she said. ‘Apparently you forgot the hatbox when you left this morning.’
‘I forgot the hatbox?’ I hadn’t even noticed.
‘She suggested that you collect it tomorrow at four. She said to ring her back only if you can’t make it. But I could run up and get it for you …’
‘No, no, I’ll do it myself – thanks. Tomorrow at four would be good. Very good …’
Annie gave me a puzzled glance. ‘So how was Mrs Bell?’ she asked as she picked up a satin evening dress that had slipped off its hanger.
‘She’s … lovely: an interesting person.’
‘I imagine some of the older people chat to you sometimes.’
‘They do.’
‘I bet some of them have incredible stories to tell. I’d find that part of the job fascinating,’ Annie went on. ‘I love hearing the elderly talk about their lives – I think we should listen to old people more.’ And I was just telling Annie about the Age Exchange, which she said she’d never been into, when the phone rang. It was a producer from Radio London saying that he’d seen the interview with me in the Black & Green, and would I come in on the following Monday to talk about vintage clothing. I said I’d be happy to. Then Miles texted me to say that he’d booked a table at the Oxo Tower for Thursday at eight. Then I had a number of website orders to deal with, five of which were for French nightdresses. Seeing how low my stock was getting, I booked a Eurostar ticket to Avignon for the last weekend in September. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with talking to people who’d brought in clothes for me to buy.
‘I won’t be in until lunchtime tomorrow,’ I said to Annie as I closed the shop for the day. ‘I’m going to see Val, my seamstress.’ I didn’t add that I was also going to see a medium. I suddenly found the thought terrifying. I resolved that in the afternoon I’d go back to Mrs Bell.
SIX
The next morning I posted the Balenciaga gown to Cindi in Beverly Hills, idly wondering which of her A-Listers it was destined for, then, with butterflies in my stomach I drove to Kidbrooke. In my handbag I’d put three photos of Emma and me. The first was taken when we were ten – on the beach in Lyme Regis where Dad had taken us for a day’s fossil-hunting. In the photo Emma was holding up a large ammonite that she’d found and which I knew she’d always kept. I remember both of us flatly refusing to believe my dad when he said that it was about 200 million years old. The second photo was taken at Emma’s graduation show at the Royal College of Art. The third was a snap of us together on what was to be her last birthday. On her head was a hat she’d made for herself, unusually – a green straw cloche with a starched silk pink rose ‘growing’ out of it. ‘I like this,’ she’d said, with mock surprise as she’d looked at herself in a hand mirror. ‘This is the hat I’m going to be buried in!’
Now I lifted my hand to Val’s bell. When she opened the door she said she was feeling upset because she’d just spilled a tub of peppercorns.
‘What a nuisance,’ I said, recalling, with a sharp pang, Emma’s dinner party. ‘They get everywhere, don’t they?’
‘Oh, I’m not upset because it’s a nuisance,’ Val said. ‘I’m upset because spilling peppercorns is terribly unlucky.’
I stared at her. ‘Why?’
‘Because it usually portends the end of a close friendship.’ I felt a shiver run the length of my spine. ‘So I’ll have to mind my P’s and Q’s with Mags for a while, won’t I?’ she added. ‘Now …’ Val nodded at my suitcase. ‘What have you brought me?’ Feeling shaken from what she’d just said, I showed Val the six dresses and three suits of Mrs Bell’s. ‘Just small repairs then,’ she commented as she appraised them. ‘Ooh, I love this Ossie Clark dress. I can just imagine it strolling down the King’s Road in 1965.’ She turned it inside out. ‘Torn lining? Leave it to me, Phoebe. I’ll c
all you when they’re done.’
‘Thanks. Right then,’ I added with false brightness. ‘I’ll just … pop next door.’
Val gave me an encouraging smile. ‘Good luck.’
As I rang Maggie’s bell I realised that my heart was pounding like a tom-tom.
‘Come in, sweetheart,’ Mags yelled. ‘I’m in the living room.’ I followed the trail of Magie Noire mingled with stale cigarette smoke down the corridor and found Mags sitting behind a small square table. She nodded for me to sit in the chair opposite her. As I did so I glanced around. There was nothing to indicate the activity that regularly took place here. There were no fringed lampshades or crystal balls. No decks of Tarot cards waiting to be dealt. There was simply a three-piece suite, a huge plasma TV, a carved oak sideboard and an inglenook shelf on which was an enormous china doll with glossy brown ringlets and a vacant expression.
‘If you were expecting a Ouija board, you’re going to be disappointed,’ Mags said flatly. It was as though she’d read my mind – I found this encouraging. ‘I don’t go in for that “holding hands and waiting for the lights to go out” nonsense. No. All I’ll be doing is linking you to your loved one. Just think of me as your switchboard operator, putting you through.’
‘Mags …’ I was suddenly filled with apprehension. ‘Now that I’m here, I’m feeling a little … worried. I mean, don’t you think it’s a bit profane to, well … call up the dead?’ Especially in the ‘living’ room, it suddenly occurred to me.
‘No – it’s not,’ Mags replied. ‘Because the point is they’re not really dead, are they? They’ve just gone somewhere else, but’ – she held up her finger – ‘they can be contacted. Right then, Phoebe. Let’s start.’ Mags was looking at me expectantly. ‘Let’s start then.’ She nodded at my handbag.
‘Oh. Sorry.’ I reached for my purse.
‘Business before pleasure,’ Mags said. ‘Thanking you.’ She took the £50 from me, then tucked it into her cleavage. I imagined the notes becoming warm. Then I wondered what else she kept down there. A hole punch? Her address book? A small dog?
Now that Mags was ready, she placed her hands, palms down, on the table, pressing her fingers against the tabletop as if to steady herself for the psychic journey. Her vermillion nails were so long that they curved at the ends, like little scimitars. ‘So … you lost someone,’ she began.
‘Yes.’ I’d already decided that I wasn’t going to show Mags the photos, or give her any clues about Emma.
‘You lost someone,’ she repeated. ‘Someone you loved.’
‘Yes.’ I could feel the familiar constriction in my throat.
‘Very much.’
‘Yes,’ I repeated.
‘A close friend. Someone who meant the world to you.’ I nodded, struggling not to cry.
Mags closed her eyes then breathed in deeply through her nose with a soughing sound. ‘And what would you like to say to this friend …?’
I was taken aback as I hadn’t expected to say anything at first. I closed my eyes for a moment and I thought that most of all I’d like to tell Emma that I’m sorry; then I’d like to tell her how much I miss her – it’s like this constant ache at the heart. Lastly I’d like to tell Emma that I’m angry with her for doing what she did.
I looked at Mags and was suddenly overcome with anxiety. ‘I … can’t think of anything right now.’
‘All right, sweetheart – but …’ She paused theatrically. ‘Your friend wants to say something to you.’
‘What?’ I said weakly.
‘It’s very important.’
‘Tell me what it is …’ My heart was beating wildly. ‘Please.’
‘Well…’
‘Tell me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘He says –’
I blinked. ‘It isn’t a “he”.’
Mags opened her eyes and looked at me, dumbfounded. ‘Not a “he”?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘That’s odd – because I’m getting the name Robert.’ She peered at me. ‘It’s coming through very strongly.’
‘But I don’t know anyone called Robert.’
‘How about Rob?’ I shook my head. Mags cocked her head to one side. ‘Bob?’
‘No.’
‘Does David ring any bells?’
‘Maggie – my friend was a woman.’
She narrowed her eyes, peering at me through her false lashes. ‘Of course she was,’ she said reasonably. ‘I thought so …’ She closed her eyes again, inhaling noisily. ‘Okay. I’ve got her. She’s coming through … I’ll be connecting you in just a moment now.’ I half expected to hear a call-waiting beep, or a tinny recording of the Four Seasons.
‘So what name are you getting?’ I asked.
Mags pressed her forefingers to her temples. ‘I can’t answer that yet – but I can tell you that I’m getting a strong connection with overseas.’
‘Overseas?’ I said happily. ‘That’s right. And what is the connection?’
Maggie stared at me. ‘Well, that your friend enjoyed … going overseas. Didn’t she?’
‘Ye-es.’ Along with nearly everyone else. ‘Mags, just to make sure that you’re getting the right person, can you tell me which country my friend had a particular connection with – a country that in fact she’d visited just three weeks before she …’
‘Passed over? I can tell you that.’ Mags closed her eyes again. Her lids were rimmed with electric blue eyeliner that flicked up at the corners. ‘I’m getting it now – loud and clear.’ She clapped her hands to her ears then looked crossly at the ceiling. ‘I heard you, sweetie! No need to shout!’ Mags calmly turned her gaze back to me. ‘The country your friend had a particular connection with is … South …’ I held my breath ‘… America.’
A groan escaped me. ‘No. She’d never even been there. She’d always wanted to,’ I added.
Mags stared at me blankly. ‘Well … that’s …why I’m getting it. Because your friend wanted to go there, and she never did … and now it’s bugging her.’ Mags scratched the side of her nose. ‘Now, this friend of yours …whose name was …’ She closed her eyes, inhaling noisily. ‘Nadine.’ She opened one eye and peered at me. ‘Lisa?’
‘Emma,’ I said wearily.
‘Emma.’ Mags tutted. ‘Of course. Now … Emma was a very sensible, no-nonsense sort of person, wasn’t she?’
‘No,’ I replied. This was hopeless. ‘Emma wasn’t like that at all. She was intense and slightly naïve – a bit … neurotic, even. Although she could be a lot of fun, she was prone to black moods. She was also unpredictable – she could do … reckless things.’ I thought, bitterly, of the final reckless thing that Emma had done. ‘But could you tell me about her career? Just to make sure you get the right Emma?’
Mags closed her eyes again then opened them, wide. ‘I’m seeing a hat …’ I felt a burst of euphoria mingled with terror. ‘It’s a black hat,’ Maggie went on.
‘What shape is it?’ I asked, my heart banging like a kettle drum.
Mags narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s flat, and … it’s got four corners and … a long black tassel.’
My spirits sank. ‘You’re describing a mortarboard.’
Mags smiled. ‘That’s right – because Emma was a teacher, wasn’t she?’
‘No.’
‘Well … did she wear a mortarboard for her graduation? Maybe that’s what I’m seeing.’ Mags narrowed her eyes again, lifting her head slightly, as though trying to focus on something that was just disappearing over the horizon.
‘No.’ I sighed with exasperation. ‘Emma went to the Royal College of Art.’
‘I thought she was artistic,’ Mags said happily. ‘Got that right then.’ She wriggled her shoulders then closed her eyes again as if in prayer. From somewhere I could hear a ringtone. What was the tune? Oh yes – ‘Spirit in the Sky’. I realised that it was coming from Mags’ chest. ‘Do excuse me,’ sh
e said as she pulled out of her cleavage first a packet of Silk Cut, then her mobile phone. ‘Hi there,’ she said into it. ‘I see …You can’t …That’s quite all right. Thanks for letting me know.’ She snapped shut the phone and tucked it back into her bosom, daintily pushing it down with her middle finger. ‘You’re in luck,’ she said. ‘My twelve o’clock’s just cancelled – we can carry on.’
I stood up. ‘Thanks, Mags, but no.’
* * *
Serves me right for doing something so dodgy, I reflected as I drove back to Blackheath. I was mad even to have contemplated it. What if Mags had made a connection with Emma? The shock might have given me a nervous breakdown. I was glad that Mags was a charlatan. My indignation subsided and was replaced by relief.
I parked in my usual place outside the house, went inside just to empty the washing machine and put on another load, then I walked up to the shop. Realising that I was hungry I stopped at the Moon Daisy Café for a quick lunch. As I sat at a table outside, Pippa, who runs the café and who first told me about Val, brought me a copy of The Times. I idly looked at the home news, then the foreign pages and then I read a piece about London Fashion Week, which had just started. Then, as I turned to the business pages, I found myself staring, shocked, at a photo of Guy. It was captioned good guy flies high. As I read the article beneath it my mouth dried to the texture of felt. Guy Harrap … 36 … Friends Provident … went on to found Ethix … investing in companies that have no negative environmental impact … clean-tech … that do not use child labourc … animal welfare … companies committed to enhancing human health and safety.
I felt sick. Guy hadn’t exactly enhanced Emma’s human health or safety, had he! You know how she exaggerates everything, Phoebe. It’s probably attention seeking. He wasn’t such a ‘good Guy’ as he liked to think.
I surveyed the omelette Pippa had brought me with a sudden lack of interest. My mobile phone rang. It was Mum.