A Vintage Affair (27 page)

Dan slapped his rugger-player’s chest. ‘I’d better get myself down to the gym then. Now, who needs a drink?’

I unfurled my napkin then turned back to Matt. ‘The
Black & Green
’s doing … extremely well.’

‘Beyond our wildest dreams,’ Matt replied. ‘Thanks to one particular story, obviously.’

I picked up my fork. ‘Can you talk about that?’

‘As it’s all been in the public domain, yes: but the interest from the national press has boosted our circulation to sixteen thousand – which means we’re starting to make money – with advertising up by thirty per cent. We would have to have spent a hundred grand on PR to achieve the awareness of the paper that this one story’s given us.’

‘And how did you get the story?’ I asked.

Matt sipped his wine. ‘Kelly Marks approached us direct. I knew about Brown from my time at the
Guardian
,’ he went on. ‘There’d been rumours about
him for years. Anyway, there he was, just about to float his company, getting his face in the business press as much as possible, when out of the blue this woman phones me, anonymously, saying that she’s got a “good story” about Keith Brown and would I be interested?’

‘So you
are
interested,’ Sylvia continued. She passed me the bowl of salad then nodded at Matt. ‘Tell Phoebe what happened.’

He put down his glass. ‘So – this was on a Monday, three weeks ago – I invited the woman to come in.’ Matt flicked out his napkin. ‘She arrived at lunchtime the next day – I realised that she was his girlfriend, because I’d seen photos of her with Brown. When she told me the story I knew that I wanted to run it – but I told her that there was no way I’d be able to do so unless she was prepared to sign a detailed statement saying that it was true. So she said that she would …’ Matt picked up his fork. ‘And at that point I thought I’d better consult Dan.’

I nodded. Then I wondered why he’d had to consult Dan when it wasn’t as though Dan was the assistant editor, or even an experienced journalist, come to that. I glanced at Dan. He was chatting to Joan.

‘You could hardly not consult Dan,’ I heard Sylvia say. ‘As he co-owns the paper!’

I looked at Sylvia. ‘I thought that Dan worked for Matt. I thought it was Matt’s paper and that he’d hired Dan to do the marketing.’

‘Dan does do the marketing,’ she replied. ‘But Matt didn’t hire him.’ She seemed to find the idea amusing. ‘He approached Dan for financial backing. They each put up fifty per cent of the start-up money, which was half a million.’

‘I … see.’

‘So of course Matt had to have Dan’s agreement about the story,’ Sylvia added. That was why Dan was in on the discussions with the lawyer, I now realised.

‘Dan was as excited about it as I was,’ Matt continued as he passed Sylvia the parmesan. ‘So then it was a question of getting Kelly’s signed statement. I told her we don’t pay for stories, but she insisted that she didn’t want money. She seemed to be on some sort of moral crusade against Brown even though it turned out that she’d known about the fire for more than a year.’

‘So something must have happened to make her angry with him,’ Sylvia said.

Matt lowered his fork. ‘That’s what I assumed. Anyway, she came in and we took her statement. But then, when it came to signing it, she suddenly lowered the pen, looked at me, and said she’d changed her mind – she
did
want money.’

‘Oh.’

Matt shook his head. ‘My heart
sank
. I thought that she was about to ask us for twenty grand and that this had been her plan all along. And it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that we were going to have to forget the whole thing when she said, “The price is
£
275.” I was amazed. Then she said it again. “I want
£
275. That’s the price.” So I looked at Dan, and he shrugged then nodded. So I opened the petty cash, got out
£
275, put it in an envelope and handed it to her. She looked as happy as if I
had
given her twenty grand. Then she signed the statement.’

‘The envelope was pink,’ I said. ‘Disney Princess.’

Matt looked at me in surprise. ‘It was. Our accountant’s
little girl had come into the office with him the day before. She’d brought her writing set with her and as that was the first envelope I saw, I used it because I was in a hurry to close the deal. But how do you
know
?’

I explained that Kelly Marks had come into the shop and bought the lime green prom dress that Brown had refused to buy her a fortnight before. Dan had now joined the conversation. ‘I told you about that, didn’t I, Dan?’ I said. ‘About Kelly refusing the discount?’

‘You did. I couldn’t discuss it with you,’ he added, ‘but I was sitting there, trying to work it out. I thought, okay, the dress cost
£
275 and she had asked Matt and me for
£
275, so there’s got to be some connection… but I didn’t know what.’

‘I think I know,’ Sylvia said. ‘She wanted to end the relationship with Brown but found it hard to do, given that he was also her boss.’ Sylvia turned to me. ‘You said Brown refused to buy her the dress. Did she seem upset?’

‘Extremely,’ I replied. ‘She was in tears.’

‘Well, that was probably the last straw.’ Sylvia shrugged. ‘So she decided to blow the relationship apart by doing something from which there could be no going back. The denial of the dress triggered the act of revenge.’

I loved it. And he knew that
…

I looked at Sylvia. ‘To me that makes sense. I think the
£
275 was symbolic. It represented the prom dress – and her freedom –
that’s
why she didn’t want to pay less for it …’

Matt was staring at me. ‘Are you saying that we got this story because of one of your frocks?’

Once I’d tried it on… the dress
claimed
me
.

I realised that Annie had been right. ‘I think I am saying that, yes.’

Matt lifted his glass. ‘Then here’s to your vintage clothes, Phoebe.’ He shook his head, then laughed. ‘My God, that dress must have got to her though.’

I nodded. ‘Those ones tend to do that,’ I said.

On my way to see Mrs Bell the following afternoon in glorious autumn sunshine I thought about Dan. He’d had several opportunities to tell me that he co-owned the
Black & Green
, but hadn’t done so. Perhaps he’d thought it might have seemed boastful. Perhaps he gave little thought to it himself. But now I remembered how he’d said that Matt had needed his ‘help’ in setting up the paper – financial help, evidently. Yet Dan hadn’t given the impression of affluence – the opposite almost, with his Oxfam-shop clothes and his slightly shambling appearance. Perhaps he’d borrowed the money, I reflected, or remortgaged. In which case it was sur prising that, having invested so much in the paper, he didn’t want to work for it long term. As I turned into The Paragon I wondered what he did want to do long term.

I’d stayed at the party until midnight and as I’d picked up my bag I’d seen that I’d had two missed phone calls from Miles. When I’d got home there’d been another two from him on my answerphone. His tone of voice was casual, but it was clear that he hadn’t liked not being able to speak to me.

I went up the steps of number 8 and pressed Mrs Bell’s buzzer. There was a longer wait than usual, then I heard the intercom crackle.

‘Hello, Phoebe.’ I pushed on the door and climbed the staircase.

It had been almost two weeks since I’d seen Mrs Bell. The change in her was so marked that I instinctively put my arms round her. She had said that she would feel reasonably well for the first month and then not so well … She was clearly now ‘not so well’. She was painfully thin, her pale blue eyes seeming bigger now in her shrunken face, her hands fragile looking with their fan of white bones.

‘What lovely flowers,’ she said as I handed her the anemones I’d brought her. ‘I adore their jewel colours – like stained glass.’

‘Shall I put them in a vase?’

‘Please. And would you make the tea today?’

‘Of course.’

We went into the kitchen and I filled the kettle and got down the cups and saucers and set the tray. ‘I hope you haven’t been on your own all day,’ I said as I found a crystal vase and arranged the flowers in it.

‘No – the district nurse came this morning. She comes every day now.’

I put three spoons of Assam into the pot. ‘And did you enjoy your stay in Dorset?’

‘Very much. It was lovely to spend time with James and his wife. They have a view of the sea from their house, so I spent quite a bit of time just sitting by the window, gazing out at it. Would you mind putting the flowers on the hall table for me?’ she added. ‘I don’t trust myself not to drop them.’

I did so, then carried the tray into the sitting room, Mrs Bell walking in front of me, painfully, as though
her back ached. When she sat down in her usual place on the brocade chair she didn’t cross her legs, as she usually did, with her hands clasped on her knee. She crossed them at the ankles, leaning back, in a posture of fatigue.

‘Please excuse the mess,’ she said, nodding at the pile of papers on the table. ‘I have been throwing away old letters and bills – the debris of my life,’ she added as I put the cup of tea into her hands. ‘There is so much.’ She nodded at the brimming wastepaper basket next to her chair. ‘But it will make things easier for James. By the way, when he collected me last week he drove past Montpelier Vale.’

‘So you saw the shop?’

‘I did – and two of my outfits were in the window! You have put a fur collar on the gabardine suit. It looks very smart.’

‘My assistant Annie thought it would be a nice touch for the autumn. I hope it didn’t make you sad to see your things there, on show to the world.’

‘On the contrary – it made me feel glad. I found myself trying to picture the women who will own them next.’

I smiled. Then Mrs Bell asked me about Miles and I told her about my visit to his house.

‘So he spoils his little princess.’

‘He does – to an insane degree,’ I confided. ‘Roxy is
so
indulged.’

‘Well … it’s better than if he were neglectful.’ That was true. ‘And he seems to be very keen on you, Phoebe.’

‘I’m taking it slowly, Mrs Bell – I’ve only known him six weeks – and he’s nearly fifteen years older than me.’

‘I see. Well … that puts you at an advantage.’

‘I suppose so, though I’m not sure I
want
to be at an advantage with anyone.’

‘But his age is not important – all that matters is whether you
like
him, and whether he treats you
well
.’

‘I do like him – very much. I find him attractive and, yes, he does treat me well – he’s certainly very attentive.’ Then we moved the conversation on and I found myself telling Mrs Bell about the Robinson Rio.

‘Dan sounds like a joyful sort of man.’

‘He is. He has
joie de vivre
.’

‘That’s a lovely characteristic, in anyone. I’m trying to cultivate a little “
joie de mourir
”,’ she added with a grim smile. ‘It’s not easy. But at least I have had time to put everything in order …’ She nodded at the pile of papers. ‘And to see my family and say my
adieux
.’

‘Perhaps they’re only
au revoirs
,’ I suggested, not entirely flippantly.

‘Who knows?’ said Mrs Bell. A sudden silence descended. Now was the moment. I picked up my bag.

Mrs Bell looked crestfallen. ‘You’re not going, are you, Phoebe?’

‘No. I’m not, but … there was something I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs Bell. Maybe it’s not appropriate now, given that you’re not well …’ I opened my bag. ‘Or maybe that fact makes it even more important.’

She put her cup back in its saucer. ‘Phoebe, what are you trying to say?’

I took the envelope out of my bag, removed the Red Cross form and put it on my lap, smoothing it where it had creased. I took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Bell, I’ve been looking at the Red Cross website recently. And I think that if you wanted to try again – to try to find out what
happened to Monique, I mean – then you probably could.’

‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘But …
how
could I? I did try.’

‘Yes – but that was a very long time ago. And in the meantime
so
much information has been added to the archive that the Red Cross has. On their website it tells you all about it, in particular that in 1989 the Soviet Union handed over to the charity a vast cache of Nazi files that they’d had in their possession since the end of the war.’ I looked at her. ‘Mrs Bell, when you began your search in 1945, all the Red Cross had was a card index. Now they have nearly fifty million documents relating to hundreds of thousands of people who went into concentration camps.’

Mrs Bell sighed. ‘I see.’

‘You could request a search. It’s submitted on the computer.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t
have
a computer.’

‘No, but I do. All you’d have to do is fill in a form – I have one here …’ I handed it to Mrs Bell and she lifted it with both hands, closing one eye as she read it. ‘I would e-mail it back to them for you, and it would be sent to their archivists at Bad Arolsen in northern Germany. You would hear within a few weeks.’

‘As a few weeks are all I have, that would be just as well,’ she commented wryly.

‘I know that time … is not on your side, Mrs Bell. But I thought that if you
could
know what happened, you’d want to. Wouldn’t you?’ I held my breath.

Mrs Bell lowered the form. ‘But
why
would I want to know, Phoebe? Or rather, why would I want to know
now
? Why would I want to request information about Monique only to read, in some official letter, that she
had indeed met the dreadful end that I suspect she did meet? Do you think that would
help
me?’ Mrs Bell straightened up in her chair, wincing with pain; then her features relaxed. ‘Phoebe – I need to be calm now, to face my last days. I need to lay my regrets to rest, not torture myself about them anew.’ She lifted the form up then shook her head. ‘This would bring me only turmoil. You
must
realise that, Phoebe.’