A Vintage Affair (17 page)

‘But I knew how much she liked him. Some people would say I shouldn’t have pursued the relationship, knowing that.’

‘But it might have been your one chance in life at love.’

‘That’s what I told myself. I told myself that I might never feel this way about anyone ever again. And I consoled myself that Emma would get over Guy, and fall in love with someone else, because that’s what she’d always done with men before. But this time she didn’t.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘And I can understand her
hating
the thought of having to see him with me when she’d so hoped to be with him herself.’

‘You can’t blame
your
self that that hope of hers was misguided, Phoebe.’

‘No. But I can and do blame myself for not going to see her that night, when every instinct told me I should.’

‘Well …’ Mrs Bell shook her head. ‘Perhaps it might have made no difference.’

‘That’s what my GP said. She said that by then Emma would have been slipping into the coma from which she would never …’ I drew in my breath in a juddery gasp. ‘I’ll never know. But I believe that if I had gone when she’d first called me, rather than twelve hours later, then Emma would still be alive.’

I put down the hatbox then went to the window. I gazed down at the deserted garden.

‘So that’s why you’ve felt an affinity with me, Mrs Bell. We both had friends who waited for us to come.’

On my way to meet Miles for dinner I thought about how there are some people who say they’re able to ‘compartmentalise’ things, as though it’s possible to put negative or distressing thoughts into neat mental drawers to be taken out only at a psychologically convenient time. It’s a beguiling idea, but I’ve never bought it. In my experience sadness and regret seep into one’s consciousness willy-nilly, or they suddenly leap out at you with a cosh. The only real remedy is time, though even the best part of a lifetime, as Mrs Bell’s story proved, may still not be time enough. Work is also an antidote to unhappiness of course, as is distraction. Miles was a welcome distraction, I decided as I went to meet him on Thursday, just after eight.

I’d dressed up a little, in a sixties cocktail dress in pale pink sari silk. Over it I’d put an antique gold pashmina.

‘Mr Archant is already here,’ said the maître d’ of the Oxo Tower restaurant. As I followed him across the
floor, I saw Miles sitting at a table by the vast window, studying the menu. With a sinking heart I registered his grey hair and his half-moon reading glasses. Then as he looked up and saw me his face broke into a delighted but anxious smile that dispelled my disappointment. He got to his feet, slotting his spectacles back into his top pocket and holding his yellow silk tie to stop it from flapping. It was endearing to see such a sophisticated man behaving so awkwardly.

‘Phoebe.’ He kissed me on both cheeks, placing his hand on my shoulder, as though to draw me towards him. Seeing now how attractive Miles was I felt a sudden surge of interest in him that took me aback.

‘Would you like a glass of champagne?’ he asked.

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Is Dom Pérignon okay?’

‘If there’s nothing better,’ I joked.

‘They’re out of Vintage Krug – I did ask.’ I laughed, then realised that Miles hadn’t been joking.

As we chatted, enjoying the views across the sunlit river to the Temple and St Paul’s, I was touched by how much Miles was trying to impress me, and by how happy he seemed to be in my company. I asked him about his work, and he explained that he was the founder partner of the law firm that he now consulted for three days a week.

‘I’m semi-retired now.’ He sipped his champagne. ‘But I like to keep my hand in, and I help get in new business by entertaining clients. Now tell me about your shop, Phoebe – what made you decide to open it?’ I briefly told Miles about my time at Sotheby’s. His eyes widened. ‘So I was up against a professional then.’

‘You were,’ I said as he handed the wine list back to the waiter. ‘But I behaved like a rank amateur. I got all emotional about it.’

‘I must say, you
were
rather intense. But what’s so wonderful about – sorry, what was the name of that designer again?’

‘Madame Grès,’ I said patiently. ‘She was the greatest couturière in the world. She draped and pleated vast amounts of cloth, pinning it directly on to the body to form an amazing gown that turned the woman into a beautiful statue almost – like the Spirit of Ecstasy on a Rolls Royce. Madame Grès was a sculptor, who carved in cloth. She was also very brave.’

Miles folded his hands. ‘In what way?’

‘When she opened the House of Grès in Paris in 1942 she hung a huge French flag out of her windows in defiance of the Occupation. Each time the Germans ripped it down she’d put out another one. They knew she was Jewish, but left her alone because they hoped she’d dress their officers’ wives. When she refused to do so, they shut her down. She died in obscurity and poverty sadly, but she was a genius.’

‘And what will you do with the dress?’

I gave a little shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

He smiled. ‘Keep it for your wedding.’

‘That
has
been suggested to me, but I doubt it will ever be worn for that purpose.’

‘
Have
you been married?’ I shook my head. ‘Ever come close?’ I nodded. ‘Were you engaged?’ I nodded again.

‘Am I allowed to ask you about it?’

‘Sorry – I’d rather not talk about it.’ I pushed Guy from my thoughts. ‘What about you?’ I asked as our
starters arrived. ‘You’ve been on your own for ten years – why haven’t you …?’

‘Married again?’ Miles shrugged. ‘There’ve been a few girlfriends.’ He picked up his soup spoon. ‘They were all very nice, but … it just hasn’t happened.’ Now the conversation naturally turned to Miles’ wife. ‘Ellen was a lovely person. In fact I adored her,’ he added. She was American – a successful portrait painter, of children mostly. She died ten years ago, in June.’ He drew in his breath then held it as though he were considering a difficult question. ‘She just collapsed one afternoon.’

‘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.