A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff
Montpelier Vale. A message from Emma, presumably. Saying what? That she was … okay? How could she be? I reflected as I pulled up outside the shop. She’s probably floating around in the ether, bitterly pondering the fact that thanks to her so-called ‘best friend’ she was now never going to get married, have children, turn forty, go to Peru like she’d always wanted to do, let alone get the OBE for services to the fashion industry as we’d often drunkenly predicted. She would now never get to enjoy the prime of her life, or the peaceful retirement that should have followed it, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. That Emma had been deprived of all this was, I reflected bleakly, thanks to me – and to Guy. If only Emma had never met Guy, I wished as I parked …
‘It’s been an amazing morning,’ Annie said as I pushed on the door.
‘Has it?’
‘The Pierre Balmain evening gown has sold – subject to the cheque clearing, but I doubt there’ll be a problem.’
‘Fabulous,’ I breathed. That would help the cash flow.
‘And I’ve sold two of those fifties circle skirts. Plus you know the pale pink Madame Grès – the one you don’t want?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that woman who tried it on the other day came back –’
‘And?’
‘Bought it.’
‘Great.’ I clapped my hand to my chest in relief.
Annie looked at me with puzzlement. ‘Well, yes, it means you’ve taken over £2,000 and it’s still only lunchtime.’ I couldn’t tell Annie that my reaction to the sale of the dress had nothing to do with the money. ‘The woman’s completely the wrong shape for it,’ Annie went on as I went through to the office, ‘but she said she had to have it. The card payment was fine, so she took it away.’
For a split second I wrestled with my conscience – the £500 from the sale of the gown would be so useful. But I had vowed to give the money to charity and that’s what I’d do.
Suddenly the bell over the door tinkled and in came the girl who’d tried on the turquoise cupcake dress.
‘I’m back,’ she announced happily.
Annie’s face lit up. ‘I’m delighted,’ she said with a smile. ‘The prom dress looked lovely on you.’ She went to get it down.
‘Oh, I haven’t come for that,’ the girl explained, although she threw the dress a glance that was tinged with regret. ‘I’ve come to buy something for my fiancé.’ She went over to the jewellery display and pointed to the 18-carat-gold art deco octagonal cufflinks with abalone insets. ‘I saw Pete looking at these when we were here the other day and thought they’d make a perfect wedding present for him.’ She opened her bag. ‘How much are they?’
‘They’re £100,’ I replied, ‘but with the five per cent discount that’s £95, and there’s an additional five per cent off as I’m having a good day, so that makes them £90.’
‘Thank you.’ The girl smiled. ‘Done.’
As Annie had now done her two days I manned the shop for the rest of the week. In between helping customers I was assessing clothes that people brought in, photographing stock for the website and processing online orders, doing small repairs, talking to dealers, and trying to keep on top of my accounts. I posted the cheque for Guy’s dress to Unicef, relieved to have no reminders left of our few months together. Gone were the photos, the letters, the e-mails – all deleted – the books, and the most hated reminder of all, the engagement ring. And now, with the dress sold, I breathed a sigh of relief. Guy was finally out of my life.
On the Friday morning my father phoned, imploring me to visit him.
‘It’s been such a long time, Phoebe,’ he said sadly.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’ve had so much on my mind these past few months.’
‘I know you have, darling, but I’d love to see you; and I’d love you to see Louis again. He’s so sweet, Phoebe. He’s just …’ I heard Dad’s voice catch. He gets a bit emotional sometimes, but then he’s been through a lot, even if it is of his own making. ‘How about Sunday?’ he tried again. ‘After lunch.’
I looked out of the window. ‘I could come then, Dad – but I’d rather not see Ruth – if you’ll forgive my candour.’
‘I understand,’ he replied softly. ‘I know the situation has been hard for you, Phoebe. It’s been hard for me too.’
‘I hope you’re not appealing for sympathy, Dad.’
I heard him sigh. ‘I don’t really deserve it, do I?’ I didn’t reply. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘Ruth’s flying to Libya on Sunday morning for a week’s filming, so I thought that might be a good time for you to come over.’
‘In that case, yes, I will.’
On Friday afternoon Mimi Long’s fashion editor came in and chose some clothes for their shoot – a seventies-style spread for their January edition to be called ring in the old. I had just given them the receipt for the things they’d chosen, and was about to cash up, when I looked up and saw Pete the fiancé tearing over the road towards Village Vintage, his tie flapping over his shoulder.
He pushed on the door. ‘I’ve just dashed here from work,’ he panted. He nodded at the turquoise cupcake dress. ‘I’ll take it.’ He reached for his wallet. ‘Carla still hasn’t found anything to wear for the party tomorrow and she’s in a panic about it and I know that the reason why she still hasn’t found anything is because she really liked this dress and okay it is a bit pricey but I want her to have it and to hell with the money.’ He put six £50 notes on the counter.
‘My assistant was right,’ I said as I folded the dress into a large carrier. ‘You are the perfect husband-to-be.’
As Pete waited for his receipt I saw him idly looking at the tray of cufflinks. ‘Those gold and abalone cufflinks,’ he said, ‘the ones you had the other day – I don’t suppose …’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But they’ve gone.’
As Pete left, I wondered who would buy the other cupcake dresses. I thought of the sad girl who’d looked so lovely in the lime one. I’d seen her on the other side of the road once or twice, looking preoccupied, but she hadn’t come in. I’d also seen a photo of her boyfriend in the South London Times. He’d been the guest speaker at a Business Network Dinner at Blackheath Golf Club. It seemed he owned a successful property company, Phoenix Land.
Saturday started badly and got worse. Firstly the shop was very busy and, although I was happy about this, it was as much as I could do to keep an eye on the stock. Then someone came in eating a sandwich so I had to ask them to leave, which I disliked having to do, especially in front of other customers. Then Mum phoned up and needed a bit of a cheer-up as she’s often down at weekends.
‘I’ve decided not to have Botox,’ she said.
‘That’s great, Mum. You don’t need it.’
‘That’s not the point – the clinic I went to said I’ve left it too late for Botox to make any difference.’
‘Then … never mind.’
‘So I’m going to have gold threads in my face instead.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Basically they insert these gold threads under your skin, and on the ends of them are these tiny hooks which they catch up so that the thread pulls taut – and up comes your face with it! The trouble is, it costs £4,000. But then it is 24 carat,’ she mused.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said. ‘You’re still very