A Vintage Affair (2 page)

‘Really? Don’t you want it?’ Dan asked almost indignantly. ‘It’s rather beautiful.’

‘It is, but … I just … went off it.’ I returned it to the rail. I didn’t have to tell him the truth. That Guy had given it to me just under a year ago. We’d been seeing each other for a month and he’d taken me to Bath one weekend. I’d spotted the dress in a shop window and had gone in to look at it, mostly out of professional interest as it was
£
500. But later, while I’d been reading in the hotel room, Guy had slipped out and returned with the dress, gift-wrapped in pink tissue. Now I’d decided to sell it because it belonged to a part of my life that I was desperate to forget. I’d give the money to charity.

‘And what, for you, is the main appeal of vintage
clothing?’ I heard Dan ask as I rearranged the shoes inside the illuminated glass cubes that lined the left-hand wall. ‘Is it that the things are such good quality compared to clothes made today?’

‘That’s a big part of it,’ I replied as I placed one 1960s green suede pump at an elegant angle to its partner. ‘Wearing vintage is a kick against mass production. But the thing I love most about vintage clothes …’ I looked at him. ‘Don’t laugh, will you.’

‘Of course not …’

I stroked the gossamer chiffon of a 1950s
peignoir
. ‘What I really love about them … is the fact that they contain someone’s personal history.’ I ran the marabou trim across the back of my hand. ‘I find myself wondering about the women who wore them.’

‘Really?’

‘I find myself wondering about their lives. I can never look at a garment – like this suit …’ I went over to the daywear rail and pulled out a 1940s fitted jacket and skirt in a dark blue tweed ‘… without thinking about the woman who owned it. How old was she? Did she work? Was she married? Was she happy?’ Dan shrugged. ‘The suit has a British label from the early forties,’ I went on, ‘so I wonder what happened to this woman during the war. Did her husband survive? Did she survive?’

I went over to the shoe display and took out a pair of 1930s silk brocade slippers, embroidered with yellow roses. ‘I look at these exquisite shoes, and I imagine the woman who owned them rising out of them and walking along, or dancing in them, or kissing someone.’ I went over to a pink velvet pillbox hat on its stand.
‘I look at a little hat like this,’ I lifted up the veil, ‘and I try to imagine the face beneath it. Because when you buy a piece of vintage clothing you’re not just buying fabric and thread – you’re buying a piece of someone’s
past
.’

Dan nodded. ‘Which you’re bringing into the present.’

‘Exactly – I’m giving these clothes a new lease of life. And I love the fact that I’m able to restore them,’ I went on. ‘Where there are so many things in life that can’t be restored.’ I felt the sudden, familiar pit in my stomach.

‘I’d never have thought of vintage clothes like that,’ said Dan after a moment. ‘I love your passion for what you do.’ He peered at his notepad. ‘You’ve given me some great quotes.’

‘Good,’ I replied quietly. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’ After a hopeless start, I was tempted to add.

Dan smiled. ‘Well … I’d better let you get on – and I ought to go and write this up, but …’ His voice trailed away as his eyes strayed to the corner shelf. ‘What an amazing hat. What period’s that from?’

‘It’s contemporary. It was made three years ago.’

‘It’s very original.’

‘Yes – it’s one of a kind.’

‘How much is it?’

‘It’s not for sale. It was given to me by the designer – a close friend of mine. I just wanted to have it here because …’ I felt a constriction in my throat.

‘Because it’s beautiful?’ Dan suggested. I nodded. He flipped shut his notebook. ‘And will she be coming to the launch?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘One last thing,’ he said, taking a camera out of his bag. ‘My editor asked me to get a photo of you to go with the piece.’

I glanced at my watch. ‘As long as it won’t take long. I’ve still got to tie balloons to the front, I have to change – and I haven’t poured the champagne: that’s going to take time and people will be arriving in twenty minutes.’

‘Let me do that,’ I heard Dan say. ‘To make up for being late.’ He tucked his pencil behind his ear. ‘Where are the glasses?’

‘Oh. There are three boxes of them behind the counter, and there are twelve bottles of champagne in the fridge in the little kitchen there. Thanks,’ I added, anxiously wondering if Dan would manage to spill it everywhere; but he deftly filled the flutes with the Veuve Clicquot – vintage, of course, because it had to be – while I washed and changed into my outfit, a thirties dove grey satin cocktail dress with silver Ferragamo sling-backs; then I put on a little make-up and ran a brush through my hair. Finally I untied the cluster of pale gold helium balloons which floated from the back of a chair and attached them in twos and threes to the front of the shop where they jerked and bobbed in the stiffening breeze. Then as the church clock struck six I stood in the doorway, with a glass in my hand, while Dan took his photos.

After a minute he lowered the camera and looked at me, clearly puzzled.

‘Sorry, Phoebe – could you manage a smile?’

My mother arrived just as Dan was leaving.

‘Who was that?’ she asked as she headed straight for the fitting room.

‘A journalist called Dan,’ I replied. ‘He’s just interviewed me for a local paper. He’s a bit chaotic.’

‘He looked rather nice,’ she said as she stood in front of the mirror scrutinising her appearance. ‘He was hideously dressed, but I like curly hair on a man. It’s unusual.’ Her reflected face looked at me with anxious disappointment. ‘I
wish
you could find someone again, Phoebe – I hate you being on your own. Being on your own is no fun. As I can testify,’ she added bitterly.

‘I rather enjoy it. I intend to be on my own for a long time, quite possibly forever.’

Mum snapped open her bag. ‘That’s very likely to be my fate, darling, but I don’t want it to be yours.’ She took out one of her expensive new lipsticks. It resembled a gold bullet. ‘I know you’ve had a hard year, darling.’

‘Yes,’ I murmured.

‘And I know’ – she glanced at Emma’s hat – ‘that you’ve been … suffering.’ My mother could have no idea quite how much. ‘But,’ she said as she twisted up the colour, ‘I still don’t understand’ – I knew what was coming – ‘
why
you had to end things with Guy. I know I only met him three times, but I thought he was charming, handsome and nice.’

‘He was all those things,’ I agreed. ‘He was lovely. In fact, he was perfect.’

In the mirror Mum’s eyes met mine. ‘Then what
happened
between you?’

‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘My feelings just … changed. I told you that.’

‘Yes. But you’ve never said
why
.’ Mum drew the colour – a slightly garish coral – across her upper lip. ‘The whole thing seemed quite perverse, if you don’t mind my saying so. Of course, you were very unhappy at the time.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But then what happened to Emma …’ I closed my eyes to try and shut out the images that will haunt me forever. ‘Wel l… it was terrible,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t know how she could
do
that … And to think what she had going for her … so
much
.’

‘So much,’ I echoed bitterly.

Mum blotted her lower lip with a tissue. ‘But what I don’t understand is why it
then
followed, sad though you were, that you had to end what appeared to be a happy relationship with a
very
nice man.
I
think you had a sort of nervous breakdown,’ she went on. ‘It wouldn’t be surprising …’ She smacked her lips together. ‘I don’t think you knew what you were doing.’

‘I knew exactly,’ I retorted calmly. ‘But you know what, Mum, I don’t want to talk ab—’

‘How did you meet him?’ she suddenly asked. ‘You never told me that.’

I felt my face heat up. ‘Through Emma.’

‘Really?’ Mum looked at me. ‘How typically sweet of her,’ she said as she turned back to the mirror. ‘Introducing you to a nice man like that.’

‘Yes,’ I said uneasily …

 ‘I’ve met someone,’ Emma had said excitedly over the phone a year ago. ‘My head’s in a spin, Phoebe. He’s
… wonderful.’ My heart had sunk, not just because Emma was always saying that she’d met someone ‘wonderful’, but because these men were usually anything but. Emma would be in raptures about them, then a month later she’d be avoiding them, saying they were ‘dreadful’. ‘I met him at a fund-raising do,’ she’d explained. ‘He runs an investment fund – but the
good
thing,’ she’d added with her usual, endearing artlessness, ‘is that it’s an ethical one.’

‘That sounds interesting. So he must be clever then.’

‘He got a first from the LSE. Not that
he
told me that,’ she added quickly. ‘I got it from Google. We’ve been on a few dates, but things are moving on so I’d like you to check him out.’

‘Emma,’ I sighed. ‘You are thirty-three years old. You are becoming
very
successful. You now dress the heads of some of the most famous women in the UK. Why do you need
my
approval?’

‘Well …’ I heard her clicking her tongue. ‘Because I guess old habits die hard. I’ve always asked your opinion about men, haven’t I?’ she mused. ‘Right from when we were teenagers.’

‘Yes – but we’re not teenagers now. You’ve got to have confidence in your
own
judgement, Em.’

‘I hear what you say. But I still want you to meet Guy.

I’ll have a little dinner party next week and sit you next to him, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I sighed …

I wish I didn’t have to be involved, I thought as I helped Emma in the kitchen of her rented house in Marylebone the following Thursday evening. From the
sitting room came the sound of nine people laughing and talking. Emma’s idea of a ‘little’ dinner party was a five-course meal for twelve. As I got down the plates I thought of the men Emma had been ‘madly in love with’ over the past couple of years: Arnie the fashion photographer who’d two-timed her with a hand-model; Finian the garden designer who spent every weekend with his six-year-old daughter – and her mum. Then there’d been Julian, a bespectacled stockbroker with an interest in philosophy but precious little else. Emma’s latest attachment had been to Peter, a violinist with the London Philharmonic. That had looked promising – he was very nice and she could talk to him about music; but then he’d gone on a three-month world tour with the orchestra and had come back engaged to the second flute.

Maybe this chap Guy would be a better bet, I thought as I rummaged in a drawer for Emma’s napkins.

‘Guy is
perfect
,’ she said as she opened the oven, releasing a burst of steam and an aroma of roasting lamb. ‘He’s the one, Phoebe,’ she said happily.

‘That’s what you always say.’ I began folding the napkins.

‘Well,
this
time it’s true. I’m going to kill myself if it doesn’t work out,’ she added gaily.

I stopped mid-fold. ‘Don’t be so
silly
, Em. It’s not even as though you’ve known him that long.’

‘True – though I know what I feel. But he’s
late
,’ she wailed as she took the lamb out to rest it. She thumped the Le Creuset meat dish down on to the table, her face a mask of anxiety. ‘Do you think he’s going to turn up?’

‘Of course he is,’ I said. ‘It’s only eight forty-five – he’s probably just been held up at work.’

Emma kicked shut the oven door. ‘Then why didn’t he phone?’

‘Maybe he’s stuck on the tube …’ Anxiety contorted her features again. ‘Em – don’t
worry
…’

She began basting the meat. ‘I can’t help it. I’d love to be calm and collected like you usually are, but I’ve never had your poise.’ She straightened up. ‘How do I look?’

‘Beautiful.’

She smiled with relief. ‘Thanks – not that I believe you, as you always say that.’

‘Because it’s always true,’ I said firmly.

Emma was dressed in her usually eclectic way, in a Betsey Johnson floral silk dress, with canary yellow fishnets and black ankle boots. Her wavy auburn hair was held off her face by a silver band.

‘And does this dress
definitely
suit me?’ she asked.

‘Definitely. I like the sweetheart neckline, and the silhouette’s flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.

‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ Emma’s face fell. ‘Please don’t say that, Phoebe – not today of all days. I know I could do with losing a few pounds, but –’

‘No,
no
– I didn’t mean that. Of course you’re not fat, Em, you’re lovely, I just meant –’

‘Oh God!’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘I haven’t done the blinis!’

‘I’ll
do them.’ I opened the fridge and got out the smoked salmon and the tub of crème fraîche.

‘You’re a fabulous friend, Phoebe,’ I heard Emma say.
‘What would I do without you,’ she added as she began sticking bits of rosemary into the lamb. ‘Do you know’ – she waved a sprig at me – ‘we’ve now known each other for a quarter of a century.’

‘Is it that long?’ I murmured as I began to chop the smoked salmon.

‘It is. And we’ll probably know each other for, what, another fifty?’

‘If we drink the right brand of coffee.’

‘We’ll have to go into the same old people’s home!’ Emma giggled.

‘Where you’ll
still
be getting me to check out your boyfriends. “Oh, Phoebe,”’ I said in a crotchety voice, ‘“he’s ninety-three – do you think he’s a bit old for me?”’

Emma snorted with laughter then chucked the bunch of rosemary at me.

Now I began grilling the blinis, trying not to burn my fingers as I quickly turned them over. Emma’s friends were talking so loudly – and someone was playing the piano – that I’d only dimly registered the ring of the door bell, but the sound electrified Emma.

‘He’s here!’ She checked her appearance in a small mirror, adjusting her hair-band; then she ran down the narrow staircase. ‘Hi! Oh, thanks,’ I heard her squeal. ‘They’re
gorgeous
. Come on up – you know the way.’ I’d registered the fact that Guy had been to the house before – that was a good sign. ‘Everyone’s here,’ I heard Emma say as they came up the stairs. ‘Were you stuck on the tube?’ By now I’d assembled the first batch of blinis. Then I reached for the peppermill and vigorously turned the top. Nothing. Damn. Where did Em keep the
peppercorns? I began to look, opening a couple of cupboards before spotting a new tub of them on top of her spice rack.