by Isabel Wolff
‘Why …?’
He lowered his spoon. ‘It was a brain haemorrhage. She’d had a terrible headache all that day, but as she got migraines it didn’t register with her that it wasn’t a normal sort of headache.’ Miles shook his head. ‘You can imagine the shock …’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly.
‘But I could at least console myself that it was no one’s fault.’ I felt a stab of envy. ‘It had been simply one of those dreadful, unavoidable things – the finger of God, or however one wants to put it.’
‘And how terrible for Roxanne.’
He nodded. ‘She was only six. I just sat her on my lap and tried to explain that Mummy…’ His voice caught. ‘I’ll never forget the expression on her face as she struggled to understand the incomprehensible – that half her universe had simply … vanished.’ Miles sighed. ‘I know that it’s always there with Roxy – just beneath the surface. She has this acute sense of not having … a sense of … of …’
‘Deprivation?’ I suggested gently.
Miles looked at me. ‘Deprivation. Yes. That’s it.’
Suddenly his BlackBerry rang. He took his glasses out of his top pocket and placed them on the end of his nose as he peered at the screen. ‘That’s Roxy now. Oh dear – would you excuse me, Phoebe?’ He removed his glasses again then went out of the restaurant on to a corner of the terrace where I saw him leaning against the balcony, his tie flapping a little in the breeze, evidently having a serious chat with Roxanne about something. Then I saw him pocket the phone.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said as he returned to the table. ‘It must have seemed rude, but when it’s your child …’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘She’s stuck on her ancient history essay,’ he explained as the waiter brought our main courses. ‘It’s on Boadicea.’
‘Isn’t she called Boudica these days?’
Miles nodded. ‘I always forget. I still have to remind myself that Bombay has become “Mumbai”.’
‘And how about the Dome being “O2”?
‘Is it?’ he said, then smiled. ‘Anyway, Roxy has to hand this essay in tomorrow and she’s hardly started. She’s a bit disorganised about her work sometimes.’ He gave an exasperated sigh.
I picked up my fork. ‘And does she like her school?’
Miles narrowed his eyes. ‘She seems to, though it’s very early days – she’s only been there two weeks.’
‘Where was she before?’
‘At St Mary’s – a girls’ school in Dorking. But …’ I looked at him. ‘It didn’t really work out.’
‘Didn’t she like boarding?’
‘She didn’t mind it, but there was …’ Miles hesitated ‘… a misunderstanding – a few weeks before her GCSEs. It was all … cleared up,’ he went on. ‘But after that I felt it would be better for her to have a fresh start. So now she’s at Bellingham. She seems to like it there, so my fingers are crossed that she’ll get good A-levels.’ He sipped his wine.
‘Then go to university?’
Miles shook his head. ‘Roxy says it’s a waste of time.’
‘Really?’ I put down my fork. ‘Well … it isn’t. Didn’t you say she wants to work in the fashion business?’
‘Yes, though doing what I don’t know. She talks about working for a glossy magazine, like Vogue or Tatler.’
‘But it’s an extremely competitive world – if she’s serious, she’d be much better off with a degree.’
‘I’ve told her that,’ Miles said wearily. ‘But she’s very headstrong.’
The waiter came to take our plates, so I took the chance to change the subject. ‘Your surname’s unusual,’ I pointed out. ‘I once met a Sebastian Archant who owns Fenley Castle. I had to go there to evaluate a collection of eighteenth-century textiles.’ I remembered a velvet tailcoat and breeches from the 1780s, beautifully embroidered with anemones and forget-me-nots. ‘Most of them went to museums.’
‘Sebby’s my second cousin,’ Miles explained, slightly wearily. ‘Now – don’t tell me: he tried to ravish you behind the pergola.’
‘Not exactly.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘But I had to stay at the castle for three nights because it was a very big job and there were no hotels nearby and …’ I cringed at the memory. ‘He tried to come into my room. I had to push a trunk against the door – it was ghastly.’
‘That’s Sebby all over, I’m afraid – not that I blame him for trying.’ Miles held his gaze in mine for a moment. ‘You’re lovely, Phoebe.’ The directness of his compliment made me catch my breath. I felt a little wave of desire ripple through me. ‘I’m closer to the French side of the family,’ I heard Miles say. ‘They’re wine-growers.’
‘Where?’
‘In Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a few miles to the north of –’
‘Avignon,’ I interjected.
He looked at me. ‘Do you know it well?’
‘I go to Avignon from time to time to buy stock; in fact, I’ll be there next weekend.’
Miles lowered his glass of red wine. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘At the Hôtel d’Europe.’
He was shaking his head in delighted wonderment. ‘Well, Miss Swift, if you’re agreeable to a second date with me, I’ll take you out to dinner again as I’m going to be in the area too.’
‘You are?’ Miles nodded happily. ‘Why?’
‘Because this other cousin of mine, Pascal, owns the vineyard. We’ve always been close, and I go down every September to help with the harvest. It’s just started and I’ll be there for the last three days. When will you be arriving?’ I told him. ‘So we’ll overlap then,’ he said with a delight that tugged at my heartstrings. ‘You know,’ he added as our coffee arrived, ‘I can’t help feeling that this must be Fate.’ He suddenly winced, then reached for his phone. ‘Not again – I’m so sorry, Phoebe.’ He put on his glasses and stared at the screen, a frown corrugating his brow. ‘Roxy’s still in a state about her essay. She says she’s “desperate” – in capitals with several exclamation marks.’ He sighed. ‘I’d better get back. Will you forgive me?’
‘Of course.’ We’d almost come to the end of the evening, and I found his attachment to his child touching.
Miles signalled to the waiter then looked at me. ‘I’ve enjoyed this evening so much.’
‘So have I,’ I said truthfully.
Miles smiled at me. ‘Good.’
He paid the bill then we went downstairs in the lift. As we stepped on to the pavement I prepared to say goodbye to Miles and walk the five minutes to London Bridge station, but a taxi was pulling up beside us.
The driver pulled down the window. ‘Mr Archant?’
Miles nodded then turned to me. ‘I’ve booked the cab to take me to Camberwell then to go on to Blackheath to drop you.’
‘Oh. I was going to get the train.’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s only ten fifteen,’ I protested. ‘It’s fine.’
‘But if I give you a lift – then I get to spend a bit more time with you.’
‘In that case …’ I smiled at him. ‘Thanks.’
As we drove through South London, Miles and I tried to remember what we knew about Boudica. We could remember only that she was an Iron Age queen who rebelled against the Romans. Dad would know, I thought, but it was too late to ring him as he has to get up in the night to Louis.
‘Didn’t she raze Ipswich?’ I said as we drove down Walworth Road.
Miles was surfing the net on his BlackBerry. ‘It was Colchester,’ he said, peering at the screen through his half-moon glasses. ‘It’s all here on Britannica dotcom. When I get back I’ll just lift chunks straight off it and rewrite it.’ It occurred to me that at sixteen this was surely something Roxy could have done for herself.
Now we were crossing Camberwell Green, then we turned into Camberwell Grove and stopped halfway down on the left. So this was where Miles lived. As I looked at his elegant
Georgian house set a little way back from the road, I saw a downstairs curtain being drawn aside and there was Roxy’s pale face.
Miles turned to me. ‘It’s been lovely to see you, Phoebe.’ He leaned forward and kissed me, holding his cheek against mine for a moment. ‘So … see you in France then.’ His anxious expression told me that that had been a question, not a statement.
‘I’ll see you in France,’ I said.
I was delighted to have been asked to take part in Radio London’s discussion about vintage clothes until I remembered that their studio was in Marylebone High Street. I braced myself for the walk down Marylebone Lane on Monday morning. As I passed the ribbon shop where Emma used to buy trimmings for her hats, I tried to imagine her house, just a few streets away, no doubt with other occupants now. I tried to imagine her things, all packed into trunks in her parents’ garage. Then I thought with dismay of her diary, which Emma wrote in every day. Her mother would surely read it before long.
As I approached Amici’s, the cafe Emma and I always went to, I suddenly fancied that I could see her, sitting in the window, looking out at me with a hurt, puzzled expression. But of course it wasn’t Emma – just someone who looked a little like her.
I pushed on the glass doors of Radio London. The commissionaire wrote out a name badge for me then asked me to wait. As I sat in reception I listened to the output blaring. Travel news now … South Circular… incident at Highbury Corner … 94.9 FM… And the weather for London … highs of 22 … with me, Ginny Jones … and in a few minutes I’ll be talking old hat – or rather old clothes – with vintage dress shop owner, Phoebe Swift. I felt a cloud of butterflies take flight in my stomach. The producer, Mike, appeared, clipboard in hand.
‘It’s just a friendly five-minute chat,’ he explained, as he led me down the brightly lit corridor. He put his shoulder to the heavy studio door and it opened with a muffled ‘swish’. ‘We’ve got a pre-record on, so it’s okay to talk,’ he explained as we went in. ‘Ginny – meet Phoebe.’
‘Hi, Phoebe,’ said Ginny as I sat down. She nodded at the headphones lying in front of me. I slipped them on and heard the pre-record finishing. Then there was a bit of banter with the sports reporter – something to do with the London Olympics – and a trail for Danny Baker. ‘Now,’ Ginny said, smiling at me. ‘From rags to riches, that’s what Phoebe Swift is hoping for. She’s just opened a vintage dress shop down in Blackheath – Village Vintage – and she joins me now. Phoebe, London Fashion Week has just finished – this year vintage was quite a big theme, wasn’t it?’
‘It was. Several of the major houses had a vintage feel to their new collections.’
‘And why does vintage seem to be the flavour de nos jours?’
‘I think the fact that a style icon like Kate Moss chooses to wear it has had a big impact on the market.’
‘She wore that gold satin thirties dress that got ripped to shreds, didn’t she?’
‘She did – but that was a case of riches to rags, because it was said to have cost £2,000. There are lots of Hollywood stars wearing vintage now on the red carpet – one thinks of Julia Roberts at the Oscars in vintage Valentino, or Renée Zellweger in that 1950s canary yellow gown by Jean Desses. All this has changed the perception of vintage, which used to be seen as something Bohemian and quirky, rather than the highly sophisticated choice that it is now.’
Ginny scribbled on her script. ‘So what does vintage do for a girl?’
‘The fact that you know you’re wearing something that is both highly individual and beautifully made is itself uplifting. And you’re aware that the garment has a history – a heritage, if you like – which gives it a kind of backbone. No contemporary piece of clothing can offer this added dimension.’
‘So what tips do you have when buying vintage?’
‘Be prepared to spend time looking, and know what suits you. If you’re curvy, then don’t go for the twenties or sixties as the boxy style won’t flatter you; go for the more fitted silhouette of the forties and fifties. If you like the thirties, be aware that those figure-skimming designs are unforgiving on a round tummy or large bust. I’d also say be realistic. Don’t go into a vintage shop and ask to be turned into, say, Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s because that style may well not do anything for you and you might miss something that would.’
‘What are you wearing then, Phoebe?’
I glanced at my dress. ‘A non-label floral chiffon tea dress from the late 1930s – my favourite era – with a vintage cashmere cardigan.’
‘Very nice too. You strike me as quite a cool lady.’ I smiled. ‘And do you always wear vintage?’
‘I do – if not a whole outfit, then vintage accessories; the days when I wear nothing that’s vintage are rare.’
‘But’ – Ginny pulled a face – ‘I don’t think I’d want to wear anyone else’s old clothes.’
‘Some people do feel like that.’ I thought of Mum. ‘But we vintage lovers are born, not made, so we’re not squeamish about it. We feel that a tiny stain or mark is a small price to pay for owning something that’s not just original, it may even bear an iconic name.’
Ginny held up her pen, ‘so what are the main issues with vintage then? The prices?’
‘No, for the quality, the prices remain reasonable – another plus point in these credit-crunched times. It’s the sizing: vintage clothes tend to run small. Waists were fashionably tiny from the forties through to the sixties, dresses and jackets were very fitted, and women wore corsets and girdles to be able to squeeze into them. Added to which women today are simply bigger. My advice when buying vintage is simply to ignore the number on the label and try it on.’
‘What about the care of these old clothes?’ Ginny asked. ‘Could you tell us how to keep our vintage mintage?’
I smiled. ‘There are some basic rules. Hand wash knitwear using baby shampoo and don’t soak it, as that could stretch the fibres; then dry it inside out and flat.’
‘What about mothballs?’ said Ginny, holding her nose.
‘They do smell foul and the more fragrant alternatives don’t seem to work. The best thing is to keep anything moth-prone in polythene bags; and a squish of perfume in the wardrobe can work wonders – anything strong and sweet like Fendi will deter moths.’
‘It certainly deters me,’ Ginny laughed.
‘With silk,’ I went on, ‘store it on padded hangers, away from direct sunlight as it fades easily. When it comes to satin, don’t let water near it – it’ll wrinkle – and never buy satin that’s brittle or frayed as it won’t stand up to wear.’
‘As Kate Moss discovered.’
‘Indeed. I’d also advise your listeners to avoid anything that desperately needs cleaning, as it may prove impossible. Gelatine sequins melt under modern cleaning techniques. Bakelite or glass beads can crack.’
‘Now there’s a vintage word – “Bakelite”,’ said Ginny with an amused expression. ‘But where do we buy vintage clothes? Apart from at shops like yours, obviously …’
‘At auctions,’ I replied, ‘and at vintage fairs – they take place a few times a year in the bigger cities. Then there’s eBay, of course, though make sure you ask the vendor for every single measurement.’
‘What about charity shops?’
‘You will find vintage in them, but not at bargain prices as the charities have become more clued up about its worth.’
‘Presumably you have a steady stream of people bringing in clothes they want to sell or asking you to look through their wardrobes and attics?’
‘I do – and I love it, because I never know what I’ll find; and when I see something I like, I get this wonderful feeling – here.’ I laid my hand on my chest. ‘It’s like … falling in love.’
‘So it’s a vintage affair.’
I smiled. ‘You could put it like that.’
‘Do you have any other advice?’
‘Yes. If you’re selling – check the pockets.’
‘Do things get left in them?’
I nodded. ‘All sorts – keys, pens and pencils.’
‘Ever found hard cash?’ Ginny joked.
‘Sadly not – though I did find a postal order once – for two shillings and sixpence.’
‘So check your pockets then, everyone,’ said Ginny, ‘and check out Phoebe Swift’s shop, Village Vintage, in Blackheath, if you want to know’ – she leaned into the mic – ‘the way we wore.’ Ginny gave me a warm smile. ‘Phoebe Swift – thanks.’
Mum phoned me as I was walking towards the tube. She’d been listening at work. ‘You were terrific,’ she enthused. ‘I was gripped. So how did that come about?’
‘Through that newspaper interview. The one that chap Dan did on the day of the party. Do you remember him? He was leaving just as you arrived.’
‘I know – the badly dressed man with the curly hair. I like curly hair on a man,’ Mum added, ‘it’s unusual.’
‘Yes, Mum; anyway, the radio producer happened to read it, and as he was planning to do something on vintage for Fashion Week he phoned me.’
I suddenly realised that nearly all of the helpful things that had happened lately had come about through Dan’s piece. It had brought Annie into the shop, and it had led me to Mrs Bell, and now to this radio opportunity, quite apart from all the customers who’d come in because they’d read it. I felt a sudden rush of warmth towards him.
‘I’m not going to have Fraxel,’ I heard Mum say.
‘Thank goodness.’
‘I’m going to have “Radiofrequency Rejuvenation” instead.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They heat up the deeper layer of your skin with lasers, and that shrinks everything so that it doesn’t sag so much. Basically, they cook your face. Betty from my bridge circle’s had it. She’s thrilled – except that she said it was like having cigarettes stubbed out on her cheeks for an hour and a half.’