A Vintage Affair (5 page)

‘Oh, I won’t need to,’ she said as she stared at herself, on tiptoe, in a side mirror. She shook her head. ‘It’s … fantastic.’ She seemed overwhelmed, as though she’d just discovered some wonderful secret about herself.

Behind her another customer had come in – a slim, dark-haired woman of about thirty in a leopard-print shirtdress with a gold chain belt worn low on the hips and gladiator sandals. She stopped in her tracks, gazing at the girl. ‘You look
glorious
,’ she exclaimed. ‘Like a young Julianne Moore.’

The girl smiled delightedly. ‘Thanks.’ She stared at herself in the mirror again. ‘This dress makes me feel … as though I’m in …’ She hesitated. ‘A fairytale.’ She glanced nervously at her boyfriend. ‘What do you think, Keith?’

He looked at her, shook his head then returned to his BlackBerry. ‘Like I say – much too bright. Plus it makes you look like you’re going to hop about in the ballet, not go to a sophisticated dinner dance at the Dorchester. Here –’ He stood up, went over to the evening rail and pulled out a Norman Hartnell black crepe cocktail dress and held it up to her. ‘Try this.’

The girl’s face fell, but she retreated into the fitting room, emerging in the dress a minute later. The style was far too old for her and the colour drained her complexion. She looked as though she was going to a funeral. I saw the woman in the leopard-print dress glance at her then discreetly shake her head before turning back to the rails.

‘
That’s
more like it,’ Keith said. He made a circulating gesture with his index finger and with a sigh the girl slowly spun round, her eyes upturned. At that I saw the other customer purse her lips. ‘Perfect,’ said Keith. He thrust his hand into his jacket. ‘How much?’ I glanced at the girl. Her mouth was quivering. ‘How much?’ he repeated as he opened his wallet.

‘But it’s the green one I like,’ she murmured.

‘How
much
?’ he repeated.

‘It’s
£
150.’ I felt my face flush.

‘I don’t
want
it,’ the girl pleaded. ‘I like the
green
one, Keith. It makes me feel … happy.’

‘Then you’ll just have to buy it yourself. If you can afford it,’ he added pleasantly. He looked at me again. ‘So that’s
£
150?’ He tapped the newspaper. ‘And it says here that there’s a five per cent discount, which makes it
£
142.50, by my reckoning.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, impressed by the speed of his
calculation and wishing that I could charge him twice the amount and
give
the girl the cupcake dress.

‘Keith. Please,’ she moaned. Her eyes were shining with tears.

‘C’mon, Kelly,’ he groaned. ‘Give me a break. That little black number’s just the ticket and I’ve got some top people coming so I don’t want you looking like bloody Tinker Bell do I?’ He glanced at his expensive-looking watch. ‘We’ve got to get back – I’ve got that conference call about the Kilburn site at two thirty, remember. Now – am I buying the black dress or not? Because if I’m not, then you won’t be coming to the Dorchester on Saturday, I can tell you.’

She looked out of the window then nodded mutely.

As I tore the receipt off the terminal the man held his hand out for the bag then slotted his card back in his wallet. ‘Thanks,’ he said briskly. Then, with the girl trailing disconsolately behind him, he left.

As the door clicked shut the woman in the leopard-print dress caught my eye.

‘I wish she’d had the fairytale dress,’ she said. ‘With a “prince” like that, she needs it.’ Not sure that I should be seen to be knocking my customers, I smiled a rueful smile of agreement then put the green cupcake dress back on the wall. ‘She isn’t just his girlfriend – she works for him,’ the woman went on as she inspected a Thierry Mugler hot pink leather jacket from the mid eighties.

I looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because he’s so much older than her, because of his power over her and her fear of offending him… her knowledge of his diary. I like people-watching,’ she added.

‘Are you a writer?’

‘No. I love writing, but I’m an actor.’

‘Are you in anything at the moment?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m “resting”, as they say – in fact, I’ve had more rest than Sleeping Beauty lately,
but
’ – she heaved a theatrical sigh – ‘I refuse to give up.’ She looked at the prom dresses again. ‘They really
are
lovely. I don’t have the curves for them, sadly, even if I had the cash. They’re American, aren’t they?’

I nodded. ‘Early fifties. They’re a bit too frothy for post-war Britain.’

‘Gorgeous fabric,’ the woman said, squinting at them. ‘Dresses like that are usually made of acetate with nylon petticoats, but these ones are all silk.’ So she had knowledge and a good eye.

‘Do you buy much vintage?’ I asked as I re-folded a lavender cashmere cardigan and put it on the knitwear stand.

‘I buy as much as I can afford – and if I get bored of anything I can always sell – not that I do, because in the main I’ve always bought well. I’ve never forgotten the thrill of my first find,’ she went on as she put the Thierry Mugler back on the rail. ‘It was a Ted Lapidus leather coat bought in Oxfam in ’92 – it still looks good.’

I thought about
my
first vintage find. A Nina Ricci guipure lace shirt bought in Greenwich Market when I was fourteen. Emma had pounced on it for me on one of our Saturday foraging trips.

‘Your dress is Cerutti, isn’t it?’ I said to the girl. ‘But it’s been altered. It should be ankle length.’

She smiled. ‘Spot on. I got it in a jumble sale ten
years ago, but the hem was ripped so I shortened it.’ She brushed an imaginary speck off the front. ‘Best fifty pence I ever spent.’ She went over to the daywear rail and picked out a turquoise crepe de Chine tiered dress from the early seventies. ‘This is Alice Pollock, isn’t it?’

I nodded. ‘For Quorum.’

‘I thought so.’ She glanced at the price. ‘Out of my reach, but I can never resist looking, and when I read in the local paper that you’d opened I just had to come and see what you had. Oh well,’ she sighed. ‘I can dream.’ She gave me a friendly smile. ‘I’m Annie, by the way.’

‘I’m Phoebe. Phoebe Swift.’ I stared at her. ‘I’m just wondering … are you working at the moment?’

‘I’m temping,’ she replied. ‘Just doing whatever comes along.’

‘And are you local?’

‘Yes.’ Annie looked at me curiously. ‘I live in Dartmouth Hill.’

‘The reason I’m asking … Look, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in working for me, would you? I need a part-time assistant.’ I explained why.

‘Two days a week?’ Annie echoed. ‘That might suit me very well – I could do with some regular work – as long as I could go to auditions. Not that I have many to go to,’ she added ruefully.

‘I’d be flexible about the hours – and there’d be some weeks when I’d need you for more than two days – and did you say you can sew?’

‘I’m fairly nifty with a needle.’

‘Because it would be helpful if you could do a few
small repairs in the quiet times, or a bit of ironing. And if you could help me dress the windows – I’m not much good with mannequins.’

‘I’d enjoy all that.’

‘And you wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not you and I would get on, because when you were here I’d mostly be out, which would be the whole point of it. But here’s my number.’ I handed Annie a Village Vintage postcard. ‘Have a think.’

‘Well … actually …’ She laughed. ‘I don’t have to. It would be right up my street. But you ought to get a reference for me,’ she added, ‘if only to make sure I’m not going to run off with the stock, because it would be
extremely
tempting.’ She smiled. ‘But apart from that, when would I start?’

So this morning, Monday, Annie began work, having provided letters from two previous employers extolling her honesty and industry. I’d asked her to come early so that I could show her how everything worked before I left for Christie’s.

‘Spend some time familiarising yourself with the clothes,’ I advised her. ‘Evening wear is here. This is lingerie … there’s some menswear here … shoes and bags are on this stand. Knitwear on this table … Let me open the till.’ I fiddled with the electronic key. ‘And if you could do a little mending …’

‘Sure.’ I went into the ‘den’ to pick up a Murray Arbeid skirt that needed a small repair. ‘That’s an Emma Kitts, isn’t it?’ I heard Annie say. I came back into the shop. She was gazing up at the hat. ‘That was so sad. I read about it in the papers.’ She turned to me. ‘But why
do you have it here, given that it’s not vintage and it says it’s not for sale?’

For a split second I fantasised about confessing to Annie that looking at the hat every day was a form of penance.

‘I knew her,’ I explained as I put the skirt on the counter with the sewing box. ‘We were friends.’

‘That’s hard,’ said Annie softly. ‘You must miss her.’

‘Yes …’ I coughed to cover the sob that I could feel rising in my throat. ‘Anyway … this seam here – there’s a little split.’ I breathed deeply. ‘I’d better get going.’

Annie took the lid off the sewing box and selected a reel of thread. ‘What time does the auction start?’

‘At ten. I went to the preview last night.’ I picked up the catalogue. ‘The lots I’m interested in won’t come up until after eleven, but I want to get there in good time so that I can see what’s selling well.’

‘What are you going to bid for?’

‘A Balenciaga evening gown.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 110.

Annie peered at it. ‘How
elegant.’

The long sleeveless indigo silk dress was cut very simply, its scooped neckline and gently raised hem encrusted in a wide band of fringed silver glass beading.

‘I want to buy it for a private client,’ I explained. ‘She’s a Beverly Hills stylist. I know exactly what her customers want, so I’m sure she’ll take it. Then there’s this dress by Madame Grès that I’m dying to get for my own collection.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 112, a Neo-classical sheath of cream silk jersey falling in dozens of fine pleats from an empire-line bust with crossover straps and a chiffon train floating from each shoulder. I emitted a wistful sigh.

‘It’s magnificent,’ Annie murmured. ‘It would make a fabulous wedding dress,’ she added teasingly.

I smiled. ‘That’s
not
why I want it. I simply love the incomparable draping of Madame Grès’ gowns.’ I picked up my bag. ‘Now I really
must
go – oh, one other thing –’ and I was just about to tell Annie what to do if anyone brought clothes in to sell when the phone rang.

I picked up. ‘Village Vintage …’ The novelty of saying it still gave me a thrill.

‘Good morning,’ said a female voice. ‘My name is Mrs Bell.’ The woman was clearly elderly and her accent was French, though almost imperceptibly so. ‘I saw from the local newspaper that you have just opened your shop.’

‘That’s right.’ So Dan’s article was still having an effect. I felt a rush of good will towards him.

‘Well … I have a selection of clothes I no longer want – some quite lovely things that I am never going to wear again. There are also some bags and shoes. But I am elderly. I cannot bring them …’

‘No, of course not,’ I interjected. ‘I’d be happy to come over to you, if you’d like to give me your address.’ I reached for my diary. ‘The Paragon?’ I repeated. ‘That’s very near. I could walk up. When shall I come?’

‘Is there any chance that you could come today? I am in the mood to dispose of my things sooner rather than later. I have an appointment this morning, but would three o’clock be possible?’

I’d be back from the auction by then, and I had Annie to mind the shop. ‘Three o’clock would be fine,’ I said as I scribbled down the house number.

As I walked down the hill to Blackheath station I reflected on the art of evaluating a collection of clothes
in someone’s home. The usual scenario is that a woman has died and you’re dealing with her relatives. They can be very emotional, so you have to be tactful. They’re often offended if you leave some garments out; then they can be upset if you offer less than they’d hoped for those things you do choose. ‘Only
£
40?’ they’ll say. ‘But it’s by Hardy Amies.’ And I’ll gently point out that the lining’s ripped, that three buttons are missing, and that it’ll have to go to the specialist dry cleaners for the stains on the cuff.

Sometimes the family can find it hard to part with the garments at all and resent your presence, especially if the estate is being sold to pay tax. In those cases, I reflected as I waited on the station platform, you’re made to feel like an intruder. Quite often, when I’ve gone to do a valuation of this kind in a grand country house, I’ve had the maid or valet standing there weeping, or telling me – and this is very annoying – not to touch the clothes. If I’m with a widower he’ll often go into minute detail about everything that his wife wore, and how much he paid for it in Dickins & Jones in 1965 and how beautiful she looked in it on the
QE2
.

The easiest scenario by far, I thought as the train pulled in, is where a woman is getting divorced and wants to be shot of everything that her husband ever bought her. In those cases I can justifiably be brisk. But when it comes to seeing elderly women who are selling their entire wardrobe it can be emotionally draining. As I say, these are more than clothes – they’re the fabric, almost literally, of someone’s life. But however much I like to hear the stories I have to remind myself that my time is limited. I therefore try to keep my visits to no
more than an hour, which is what I resolved to do with Mrs Bell.

As I came out of the underground at South Kensington I called Annie. She sounded upbeat, having already sold a Vivienne Westwood bustier and two French nightdresses. She also told me that Mimi Long from
Woman
& Home
had asked if she could borrow some clothes for one of her shoots. Cheered by this, I walked down the Brompton Road to Christie’s then turned into the foyer, which was crowded as the fashion sales are popular. I queued to register then picked up my bidding ‘paddle’.

The Long Gallery was about two-thirds full. I sat at the end of an empty row halfway down on the right, then looked around for my competitors, which is always the first thing I do when I go to an auction. I saw a couple of dealers I know and a woman who runs a vintage dress shop in Islington. I recognised the fashion editor of
Elle
sitting in the fourth row and to my right I spotted Nicole Farhi. The air seemed clogged with expensive scent.