‘That’s okay, thanks, I’ve got a flask.’
‘Oh, fine.’ Obviously, he’s a practical guy with his dovetail joints and stuff. Of course he’s going to have a flask. ‘Won’t be long,’ I tell him and I make my way along the maze of cobbled lanes past the vaults, winding through the steamy stalls selling sizzling street food. It’s exciting, like being transplanted to another continent. Here, with the profusion of smells and multitude of languages, it feels like anywhere but England.
I cross Camden Lock Place and call in at Chin Chin Labs for a liquid nitrogen ice cream. I like the process, watching the chilly vapour freeze the cream, choosing the flavours and sprinkles.
Cutting through the West Yard, I lean on the humped black-and-white Roving Bridge to eat the ice cream. It’s a sunny day and the place is busy. Beneath me, clumps of green weed undulate gently on the surface of the sluggish canal.
By the time I finish off my cone I start to feel more optimistic. I’ll get new stock. I’ll message everyone on my mailing list. I’ll begin a new push for sales. I’ll make a name for myself.
David has started to pack up when I get back. It’s early, just gone five, and the market doesn’t close until seven.
‘How did you get on today?’ I ask him.
He looks at me blankly, as if he’s distracted. ‘It’s all relative, isn’t it?’ he says after a moment. His eyes are tired, but he smiles. ‘There’s no pressure, that’s the main thing. You can’t put a price on that, right?’
The way he says it makes me wonder what’s been going on in his life, because he doesn’t sound that convincing. I want to ask him, but before I can he’s gone back to packing away his stall.
The following evening I pick up the Camden New Journal from the doormat, where it lies surrounded by Pizza flyers and taxis offering trips to airports, to find Lucy and me on the front page, standing outside our house. She with her black towel wrapped around her looking amazing in a cloud of the photographer’s apple-scented billowing smoke and me looking shocked and enigmatic in my trench coat, my hair falling over my right eye, holding my beautiful dresses like a wartime heroine.
Compared with me, Lucy looks terribly underdressed. Compared with her, I look ridiculously overdressed. I’m not sure what prompted me to grab my raincoat, apart from it being Burberry. I had some vague notion of it being appropriate for an emergency, I think.
The important thing is, we look good and neither of us looks particularly traumatised, despite the headline: ‘Actress and Fashion Curator in Sauna Trauma’. I like my low chin-tilt. I don’t remember adopting it at all, but then I realise I was trying to keep the clothes from falling.
I go back outside, hurry up the steps and ring Lucy’s doorbell.
Lucy flings her door open. ‘Hey, Fern! Come in,’ she says cheerfully, picking up her copy of the Journal from the mat. The word ‘Welcome’ is really faded. It’s literally outworn its welcome.
‘We’re on the front page,’ I say, unfurling my paper to show her.
‘Oh, great!’ She looks at the photograph critically for a moment or two and reads the headline. ‘Actress? Actress?’
I try to look sympathetic that the paper didn’t call her an actor, but I’m secretly thrilled at being called a fashion curator in print. I read it aloud for Lucy’s benefit:
‘Actress Lucy Mills escaped from a blaze in her sauna on Saturday afternoon. Lucy, who’s currently starring as Lady Macbeth at The Gatehouse theatre, Highgate, said, “It’s a miracle we got out of there alive.” Fellow resident, Fern Banks, curator of wearable vintage fashion at Fern Banks Vintage in Camden Market, lost a sizeable amount of irreplaceable stock in the blaze. “I hope my company will survive this. I intend to be like a phoenix rising from the ashes.”’
I glance at Lucy. ‘Uh-oh. It sounded good when I said I’d lost a sizeable amount of stock, but now people are going to think I’ve got nothing left to sell,’ I comment gloomily. ‘And they’d be right.’
‘Don’t worry about it. What you have to do is give it a couple of weeks and call the Camden Journal to tell them you actually are a phoenix rising from the ashes. Get your name out there before everyone forgets it. They always like a good story for the inside pages. You can do an advertorial, with local people rallying around you.’
I like her optimism. ‘Good idea! Sounds expensive, though. But I’ll think about it, because as we’re on the front page,’ I point out, ‘they might put me rising from the ashes on the front page, too.’
‘Aw, Fern. Trust me, they won’t. Because a fire’s bad news. Rising like a phoenix is good news. They never put good news on the front page – who’d buy it?’
Which is a sad indictment of life today.
We study the article once more in silence.
‘Have you forgiven me yet?’ Lucy asks in a small voice when she comes to the end of the column. ‘I feel really bad about it.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I reply, giving her a hug. ‘After all, it was an accident. The fire officers made more mess than the fire did, what with chopping bits out of my door and the water damage,’ I point out ruefully. I don’t believe in bearing a grudge – I don’t want to be like my mother.
But it is a big problem, all the same, and it’s adding to my worries.
So far, the loss adjusters are reluctant to pay out for the hole between our flats, because they see the fire as an act of negligence on Lucy’s part, and the estate management isn’t happy with the fact she’s got a sauna at all.
I haven’t told my parents about the fire yet, because one way or another, going by past experience, they’re going to blame me for it. Ideally, if I have my own way, they’ll never find out.
But if the worst comes to the worst and we have to pay for it ourselves, I can’t afford to go halves with Lucy to mend the hole. My priority is to get more stock to sell. The whole ‘rising from the ashes’ bit is all very well, but without stock I’m not going to have a business left.
‘I’ve arranged for the flats to be thermo-fogged,’ she says after a moment.
Apparently, thermal fogging is a kind of deodorising method of blasting out the smoke smell, replacing it with something citrusy and nasally acceptable, despite being toxic to aquatic life.
‘Great! No more smoke smell!’ I’m very happy about that. Obviously not the toxic bit, but I love the idea of the flat smelling citrusy for a change.
Back at mine, determined to do as much as I can to put things right, I make a coffee, get my paintbrush and go outside to paint the front door. I’m kneeling on the doormat, when my phone rings in my back pocket. I balance my paintbrush on the pot. It’s a number that I don’t recognise. Spam, at a guess, but I answer it just to be sure.
It’s a woman. ‘Fern Banks Vintage?’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say warily. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Chalk Farm Library. Just a moment, I have a call for you. Here you are.’
I’m perplexed. I have no idea why Chalk Farm Library is calling me. I’m not even a member. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’ The voice is high-pitched and accented, vaguely familiar. ‘Is this Fern Banks who’s in the paper today?’
‘Yes,’ I say again, getting to my feet because I’ve been kneeling for ages on the bristles of the doormat and they’re prickling my knees.
‘Good! You’re the woman who stopped the bus to give me my money back. You see, I recognised you from your picture. You have a very distinctive style. My name’s Dinah Moss. M-O-S-S,’ she repeats with emphasis. ‘And