A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff
fringed with blue beads.
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, Phoebe?’
‘No thank you – really.’
‘But I have everything ready, and though I may be French I know how to make a nice cup of English Darjeeling,’ Mrs Bell added wryly.
‘Well …’ I smiled. ‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘None at all. I have only to re-heat the water.’ She took a box of matches off the shelf, struck one then held it to the gas ring with a shaky hand. As she did so I noticed that her waistband was secured with a large safety pin. ‘Please, take a seat in the sitting room,’ she said. ‘It’s just there – on the left.’
The room was large, with a big bow window, and was papered in a light green slubbed silk which was curling at the seams in places. A small gas fire was alight despite the warmth of the day. On the mantelshelf above it a silver carriage clock was flanked by a pair of snooty-looking Staffordshire spaniels.
As I heard the kettle begin to whistle I went over to the window and looked down on to the communal garden. As a child I’d been unable to appreciate its size. The lawn swept the entire length of the crescent, like a river of grass, and was fringed by a screen of magnificent trees. There was a huge cedar that cascaded to the ground in tiers, like a green crinoline: there were two or three enormous oaks. There were three copper beeches and a sweet chestnut in the throes of a half-hearted second flowering. To the right, two young girls were running through the skirts of a weeping willow, shrieking and laughing. I stood there for a few moments, watching them …
‘Here we are …’ I heard Mrs Bell say. I went to help her with the tray.
‘No – thank you,’ she said, almost fiercely, as I tried to take it from her. ‘I may be somewhat antique, but I can still manage quite well. Now, how do you take your tea?’ I told her. ‘Black with no sugar?’ She picked up the silver tea strainer. ‘That’s easy then …’
She handed me my tea then lowered herself on to a little brocade chair by the fire while I sat on the sofa opposite her.
‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Bell?’
‘Long enough.’ She sighed. ‘Eighteen years.’
‘So are you hoping to move to ground-floor accommodation?’ It had crossed my mind that she might be moving to one of the sheltered housing flats just down the road.
‘I’m not sure where I’m going,’ she replied after a moment. ‘I will have a clearer idea next week. But whatever happens, I am … how can I put it …?’
‘Downsizing?’ I suggested after a moment.
‘Downsizing?’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Yes.’ There was an odd little silence, which I filled by telling Mrs Bell about my piano lessons, though I decided not to mention the ruler.
‘And were you a good pianist?’
I shook my head. ‘I only got up to Grade 3. I didn’t practise enough, and then after Mr Long died I didn’t want to continue with it. My mother wanted me to, but I guess I wasn’t that interested …’ From outside came the silvery laughter of the two girls. ‘Unlike my best friend Emma,’ I heard myself say. ‘She was brilliant at the piano.’ I picked up my teaspoon. ‘She got Grade 8 when she was only fourteen – with Distinction. It was announced in school at assembly.’
‘Really?’
I began stirring my tea. ‘The headmistress asked Emma to come up on stage and play something, so she played this lovely piece from Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood. It was called “Träumerei” – Dreaming …’
‘What a gifted girl,’ said Mrs Bell with a faintly puzzled expression. ‘And are you still friends with this… paragon?’ she added wryly.
‘No.’ I noticed a solitary tea leaf at the bottom of the cup. ‘She’s dead. She died earlier this year, on the fifteenth of February, at about ten to four in the morning. At least, that’s when they think it happened, although they couldn’t be sure; but I suppose they have to put something down, don’t they …’
‘How terrible,’ Mrs Bell murmured after a moment. ‘What age was she?’
‘Thirty-three.’ I continued to stir my tea, gazing into its topaz depths. ‘She would have been thirty-four today.’ The spoon gently chinked against the cup. I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘Emma was very talented in other ways, too. She was a wonderful tennis player – although …’ I felt myself smile. ‘She had this peculiar serve. She looked as though she was tossing pancakes. It worked, mind you – they were un-returnable.’
‘Really …’
‘She was a terrific swimmer – and a brilliant artist.’
‘What an accomplished young woman.’
‘Oh yes. But she wasn’t in the least bit conceited – quite the opposite, actually. She was full of self-doubt.’
I suddenly realised that my tea, being black and sugarless, didn’t need stirring. I laid my spoon in the saucer.
‘And she was your best friend?’
I nodded. ‘She was. But I wasn’t really a “best” friend to her or even a good friend, come to that.’ The cup had blurred. ‘In fact, when the chips were down, I was a terrible friend.’ I was aware of the steady sound of the gas fire, like an unending exhalation. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. I put down my cup. ‘I came here to look at your clothes. I think I’ll get on with that now, if you don’t mind. But thank you for the tea – it was just the ticket.’
Mrs Bell hesitated for a moment, then she stood up and I followed her across the corridor into the bedroom. Like the rest of the flat it seemed not to have been touched for years. It was decorated in yellow and white, with a glossy yellow eiderdown on the small double bed, and yellow Provençal curtains and matching panels set into the doors of the white built-in cupboards that lined the far wall. There was a cream alabaster lamp on the bedside table and next to it a black-and-white photo of a handsome, dark-haired man in his mid forties. On the dressing table was a studio portrait of Mrs Bell as a young woman. She had been striking rather than beautiful, with her high forehead, Roman nose and wide mouth.
Ranged against the nearest wall were four cardboard boxes, all spilling over with gloves, bags and scarves. While Mrs Bell sat on the bed, I knelt on the floor and quickly went through them.
‘These are all lovely,’ I said. ‘Especially these silk squares here – I adore this Liberty one with the fuchsia pattern. This is smart …’ I pulled out a boxy little Gucci handbag with bamboo handles. ‘And I like these two hats. What a pretty hatbox,’ I added, looking at the hexagonal box the hats were stored in, with its pattern of spring flowers on a black background. ‘What I’ll do today,’ I went on as Mrs Bell walked, with visible effort, towards the wardrobe, ‘is to offer you a price for those clothes I’d like to buy. If you’re happy with it, I’ll write you a cheque now, but I won’t take anything until it’s cleared. Does that sound all right?’
‘It sounds fine,’ Mrs Bell replied. ‘So …’ She opened the wardrobe and I caught the scent of Ma Griffe. ‘Please go ahead. The clothes for consideration are in the left-hand section here, but please don’t touch anything beyond this yellow evening dress.’
I nodded then began to pull out the clothes on their pretty satin hangers, laying them in ‘yes’ and ‘no’ piles on the bed. For the most part, the things were in very good condition. There were nipped-in suits from the fifties, geometric coats and shifts from the sixties – including a Thea Porter orange velvet tunic and a wonderful candy pink raw silk Guy Laroche ‘cocoon’ coat with elbow-length sleeves. There were romantic smocked dresses from the seventies and a number of shoulder-padded suits from the 1980s. There were some labels – Norman Hartnell, Jean Muir, Pierre Cardin, Missoni and Hardy Amies ‘Boutique’.
‘You