‘Okay – tell me what you think of the shop. You haven’t seen it for weeks.’
Mum walked round, her elegant little heels tapping over the wooden floor. ‘I like it. It’s not remotely like being in a second-hand shop – it’s more like being somewhere nice, like Phase Eight.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ I lined up the flutes of champagne gently fizzing on the counter.
‘I like the stylish silver mannequins, and there’s a pleasantly uncluttered feel.’
‘That’s because vintage shops can be chaotic – the rails so crammed that you give yourself an upper-body workout just going through them. Here there’s enough light and air between the garments so that browsing will be a pleasure. If an item doesn’t sell, I’ll simply bring out something else. But aren’t the clothes lovely?’
‘Ye-es,’ Mum replied. ‘In a way.’ She nodded at the cupcake dresses. ‘Those are fun.’
‘I know – I adore them.’ I idly wondered who would buy them. ‘And look at this kimono. It’s from 1912. Have you seen the embroidery?’
‘Very pretty …’
‘Pretty? It’s a work of art. And this Balenciaga opera coat. Look at the cut – it’s made in just two pieces, including the sleeves. The construction is amazing.’
‘Hmm …’
‘And this coatdress – it’s by Jacques Fath. Look at the brocade with its pattern of little palm trees. Where could you find something like that today?’
‘That’s all very well, but –’
‘And this Givenchy suit: now this would look great on you, Mum. You can wear a knee-length skirt because you’ve got great legs.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d never wear vintage clothes.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve always preferred new things.’
‘I don’t know why.’
‘I’ve told you before, darling – it’s because I grew up in the era of rationing. I had nothing but hideous hand-me-downs – scratchy Shetland jumpers and grey serge skirts and coarse woollen pinafores that smelled like a damp dog when it rained. I used to long for things that no one else had owned, Phoebe. I still do – I can’t help it. Added to which I have a distaste for wearing things that other people have worn.’
‘But everything’s been washed and dry-cleaned. This isn’t a charity shop, Mum,’ I added as I gave the counter a quick wipe. ‘These clothes are in pristine condition.’
‘I know. And it all smells delightfully fresh – I detect no mustiness whatsoever.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Not the faintest whiff of a mothball.’
I plumped up the cushions on the sofa where Dan had been sitting. ‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘It’s the thought of wearing something that belonged to someone who’s probably …’ – she gave a little shudder – ‘died. I have a thing about it,’ she added. ‘I always have had. You and I are different in that way. You’re like your father. You both like old things … piecing them together. I suppose what you’re doing is a kind of archaeology, too,’ she went on. ‘Sartorial archaeology. Ooh, look, someone’s arriving.’
I picked up two glasses of champagne, then, with adrenaline coursing through my veins and a welcoming smile on my face, I stepped forward to greet the people walking through the door. Village Vintage was open for business …
I always wake in the early hours. I don’t need to look at the clock to know what time it is – it’s ten to four. I’ve been waking at ten to four every night for six months. My GP said it’s stress-induced insomnia, but I know it’s not stress. It’s guilt.
I avoid sleeping pills, so sometimes I’ll try to make the time pass by getting up and working. I might put on a wash – the machine’s always on the go; I might iron a few things, or do a repair. But I know it’s better to try and sleep so I usually lie there, attempting to lull myself back to oblivion with the World Service or some late-night phone-in. But last night I didn’t do that – I just lay there thinking about Emma. Whenever I’m not busy she goes round and round my mind, on a loop.
I see her at our little primary school in her stripy green summer dress; I see her diving into the swimming pool like a seal; I see her kissing her lucky Krugerrand before a tennis match. I see her at the Royal College of Art with her milliner’s blocks. I see her at Ascot, photographed in Vogue, beaming beneath one of her fantastic hats.
Then, as my bedroom began to fill with the grey light of dawn I saw Emma as I saw her for the very last time.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered.
You’re a fabulous friend.
‘I’m sorry, Em.’
What would I do without you …?
As I stood under the shower I forced my thoughts back to work and to the party. About eighty people had come including three former colleagues from Sotheby’s as well as one or two of my neighbours from here in Bennett Street and a few local shop-owners. Ted from the estate agent’s just along from the shop had popped in – he’d bought a silk waistcoat from the menswear rail; then Rupert who owns the florist’s had turned up and Pippa who runs the Moon Daisy Café dropped in with her sister.
One or two of the fashion journalists I’d invited were there. I hoped that they’d become good contacts, borrowing my clothes for shoots in return for publicity.
‘It’s very elegant,’ Mimi Long from Woman & Home said to me as I circulated with the champagne. She tipped her glass towards me for a refill. ‘I adore vintage. It’s like being in Aladdin’s cave – one has this wonderful sense of discovery. Will you be running the place on your own?’
‘No – I’ll need someone to help out part time so that I can be out and about buying stock, and taking things to be cleaned and repaired. So if you hear of anyone … They’ll need to have an interest in vintage,’ I added.
‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground,’ Mimi promised. ‘Ooh – is that real Fortuny I can see over there …?’
I’ll have to advertise for an assistant, I thought now as I dried myself and combed my wet hair. I could place an ad in a local paper – perhaps the one Dan worked for, whatever it was called.
As I dressed – in wide linen trousers and a short-sleeved fitted shirt with a Peter Pan collar – I realised that Dan had correctly identified my style. I do like the bias-cut dresses and wide-leg trousers of the late thirties and early forties; I like my hair shoulder length and falling over one eye. I like swing coats, clutch bags, peep toes and seamed stockings. I like fabric that drapes like oil.
I heard the clatter of the letter box and went downstairs where there were three letters on the mat. Recognising Guy’s handwriting on the first I tore it in half and dropped the pieces in the bin. I knew from his others what this one would say.
In the next envelope was a card from Dad. Good luck with your new venture, he’d written. I’ll be thinking of you, Phoebe. But please come and see me soon. It’s been too long.
That was true. I’d been so preoccupied that I hadn’t seen him since early February. We’d met at a café in Notting Hill for a conciliatory lunch. I hadn’t been prepared for him bringing