A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff
and lay it across Emma’s upper body, quickly smoothing it over her chest and tucking it under her shoulders.
‘I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.’ I try not to cry.
Suddenly Emma sits bolt upright, grinning like a lunatic, her eyes popping with mischievous delight.
‘Fooled you!’ she sings, clapping her hands together then throwing back her head in glee. ‘I really fooled you there, didn’t I?’ she cries as she pushes herself to her feet. ‘You were worried, weren’t you, Phoebes? Admit it! You thought I was dead! I held my breath for ages,’ she gasps as she brushes down her skirt. ‘I’m right out of puff …’ She blows out her cheeks and her fringe lifts a little in the gust, then she smiles at me. ‘Okay, Heebee-Phoebee – your turn.’ She holds out my cardigan. ‘I’ll start counting – up to twenty-five, if you like. Here, Phoebes – take your cardi, will you.’ Emma stares at me. ‘What’s up?’
My fists are balled by my sides. My face feels hot. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’
Emma blinks with surprise. ‘It was only a joke.’
‘It was a horrible one!’ Tears start from my eyes.
‘I’m … sorry.’
‘Don’t ever do that again! If you do, I won’t talk to you any more – not ever!’
‘It was only a game,’ she protests. ‘You don’t have to be all …’ she throws up her hands, ‘silly … about it. I was only … playing.’ She shrugs. ‘But … I won’t do it again – if it upsets you. Honestly.’
I snatch my cardigan. ‘Promise.’ I glare at her. ‘You’ve got to promise.’
‘Ok-ay,’ she murmurs, then she takes a deep breath. ‘I, Emma Mandisa Kitts, promise that I won’t play that trick on you, Phoebe Jane Swift, ever again. I promise,’ she repeats then she makes an extravagant slashing gesture. ‘Cross my heart.’ Then, with this funny little smile that I have remembered all these years, she adds, ‘and hope … to … die!’
September is at least a good time for a new start, I reflected as I left the house early this morning. I’ve always felt a greater sense of renewal at the beginning of September than I ever have in January. Perhaps, I thought as I crossed Tranquil Vale, it’s because September so often feels fresh and clear after the dankness of August. Or perhaps, I wondered as I passed Blackheath Books, its windows emblazoned with ‘Back to School’ promotions, it’s simply the association with the new academic year.
As I walked up the hill towards the Heath, the freshly painted fascia of Village Vintage came into view and I allowed myself a brief burst of optimism. I unlocked the door, picked the mail off the mat, and began preparing the shop for its official launch.
I worked non-stop until four, selecting the clothes from the stockroom upstairs and putting them out on the rails. As I draped a 1920s tea dress over my arm I ran my hand over its heavy silk satin then fingered its intricate beading and its perfect hand-stitching. This, I told myself, is what I love about vintage clothes. I love their beautiful fabric and their fine finish. I love knowing that so much skill and artistry have gone into their making.
I glanced at my watch. Only two hours to go until the party. I remembered that I’d forgotten to chill the champagne. As I dashed into the little kitchen and ripped open the cases I wondered how many people would come. I’d invited a hundred so I’d need at least seventy glasses at the ready. I stacked the bottles in the fridge, turned it up to ‘Frost’ then made myself a quick cup of tea. As I sipped my Earl Grey I looked around the shop, allowing myself to savour for a moment the transition from pipe dream to reality.
The interior of Village Vintage looked modern and light. I’d had the wooden floors stripped and limed, the walls painted a dove grey and hung with large silver-framed mirrors; there were glossy pot plants on chrome stands, a spangling of down-lighters on the white-painted ceiling and, next to the fitting room, a large cream-upholstered Bergère sofa. Through the windows Blackheath stretched into the far distance, the sky a giddying vault of blue patched with towering white clouds. Beyond the church, two yellow kites danced in the breeze while on the horizon the glass towers of Canary Wharf glinted and flashed in the late afternoon sunlight.
I suddenly realised that the journalist who was supposed to be interviewing me was over an hour late. I didn’t even know which paper he was from. All I could remember from yesterday’s brief phone conversation with him was that his name was Dan and that he’d said he’d be here at 3.30. My irritation turned to panic that he might not come at all – I needed the publicity. My insides lurched at the thought of my huge loan. As I tied the price tag on an embroidered evening bag I remembered trying to convince the bank that their cash would be safe.
‘So you were at Sotheby’s?’ the lending manager had said as she went through my business plan in a small office every square inch of which, including the ceiling and even the back of the door, seemed to be covered in thick, grey baize.
‘I worked in the textiles department,’ I’d explained, ‘evaluating vintage clothes and conducting auctions.’
‘So you must know a lot about it.’
‘I do.’
She scribbled something on the form, the nib of her pen squeaking across the glossy paper. ‘But it’s not as though you’ve ever worked in retail, is it?’
‘No,’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘That’s true. But I’ve found attractive, accessible premises in a pleasant, busy area where there are no other vintage dress shops.’ I handed her the estate agent’s brochure for Montpelier Vale.
‘It’s a nice site,’ she said as she studied it. My spirits rose. ‘And being on the corner gives it good visibility.’ I imagined the windows aglow with glorious dresses. ‘But the lease is expensive.’ The woman put the brochure down on the grey tabletop and looked at me grimly. ‘What makes you think you’ll be able to generate enough sales to cover your overheads, let alone make a profit?’
‘Because …’ I suppressed a frustrated sigh. ‘I know that the demand is there. Vintage has now become so fashionable that it’s almost mainstream. These days you can even buy vintage clothing in High Street stores like Miss Selfridge and Top Shop.’
There was silence while she scribbled again. ‘I know you can.’ She looked up again but this time she was smiling. ‘I got the most wonderful Biba fake fur in Jigsaw the other day – mint condition and original buttons.’ She pushed the form towards me then passed me her pen. ‘Could you sign at the bottom there, please?’…
Now I arranged the evening gowns on the formal-wear rail and put out the bags, belts and shoes. I positioned the gloves in their basket, the costume jewellery in its velvet trays, then, on a corner shelf, high up, I carefully placed the hat that Emma had given me for my thirtieth birthday.
I stepped back and gazed at the extraordinary sculpture of bronze straw; its crown seeming to sweep upwards into infinity.
‘I miss you, Em,’ I murmured. ‘Wherever you are now …’ I felt the familiar piercing sensation, as though there was a skewer in my heart.
There was a sharp rapping sound from behind me. On the other side of the glass door was a man of about my age, maybe a little younger. He was tall and well built with large grey eyes and a mop of dark blond curls. He reminded me of someone famous, but I couldn’t think who.
‘Dan Robinson,’ he said with a broad smile as I let him in. ‘Sorry to be a bit late.’ I resisted the urge to tell him that he was very late. He took a notebook out of his battered-looking bag.’ My previous interview overran, then I got caught in traffic, but this should only take twenty minutes or so.’ He shovelled his hand into the pocket of his crumpled linen