A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author

A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author
Isabel Wolff

Do fairytale dresses bring fairytale endings?Every dress has a history, so does Phoebe…Phoebe always dreamt of opening her own vintage dress shop. She imagined every detail, from the Vivienne Westwood bustiers hanging next to satin gowns, to sequinned cupcake dresses adorning the walls.At the launch of Village Vintage, Phoebe feels the tingle of excitement as customers snap up the fairytale dresses. Her dream has come true, but a secret from her past is casting a shadow over her new venture.Then one day she meets Therese, an elderly Frenchwoman with a collection to sell, apart from one piece that she won't part with …As Therese tells the story of the little blue coat, Phoebe feels a profound connection with her own life, one that will help her heal the pain of her past and allow her to love again.

A Vintage Affair

ISABEL WOLFF

In memory of my father

What a strange power there is in clothing

Isaac Bashevis Singer

Contents

Epigraph (#ue9e9b873-11c0-5c5c-b3ba-6e5d17f45f96)Prologue (#uf3d5f808-2eeb-543f-a046-a3cba462c129)Chapter One (#u7d4fe6a4-764a-5e2f-a54a-f134b4198099)Chapter Two (#u607a54cf-8cb2-59d8-88f3-6570bbd4c238)Chapter Three (#u347d16f0-496e-5731-afd8-a5221480c709)Chapter Four (#ub01f7d96-25a4-5d69-adb8-b8362f034f9c)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)By the same Author (#litres_trial_promo)Praise For Isabel Wolff: (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#u2ead5159-4ca4-58b7-8a61-f5cfd585c4ee)

Blackheath, 1983

‘… seven-teen, eight-een, nine-teen … twenty! Com-ing!’ I yell. ‘Ready or not …’ I uncover my eyes and begin the search. I start downstairs, half expecting to find Emma huddled behind the sofa in the sitting room or wrapped, like a sweet, in the crimson curtains, or crouched under the baby grand. I already think of her as my best friend although we’ve only known each other six weeks. ‘You have a new classmate,’ Miss Grey had announced on the first day of term. She’d smiled at the girl in the too-stiff blazer standing next to her. ‘Her name is Emma Kitts and her family have recently moved to London from South Africa.’ Then Miss Grey had led the newcomer to the desk next to mine. The girl was short for nine, and slightly plump with large green eyes, a scattering of freckles, and an uneven fringe above shiny brown plaits. ‘Will you look after Emma, Phoebe?’ Miss Grey had asked. I’d nodded. Emma had flashed me a grateful smile …

Now I cross the hall into the dining room and peer under the scratched mahogany table but Emma’s not there; nor is she in the kitchen with its old-fashioned dresser with its shelves of mismatched blue-and-white plates. I would have asked her mother which way she’d gone but Mrs Kitts has just ‘popped to play tennis’ leaving Emma and me on our own.

I walk into the big, cool larder and slide open a low cupboard that looks promisingly large but contains only some old Thermos flasks; then I go down the step into the utility room where the washing machine spasms in its final spin. I even lift the lid of the freezer in case Emma is lying amongst the frozen peas and ice cream. Now I return to the hall, which is oak-panelled and warm, smelling of dust and beeswax. To one side is a huge, ornately carved chair – a throne from Swaziland Emma had said – the wood so dark that it’s black. I sit on it for a moment, wondering where precisely Swaziland is, and whether it has anything to do with Switzerland. Then my eyes stray to the hats on the wall opposite; a dozen or so, each hanging from a curving brass peg. There’s an African head-dress in a pink and blue fabric and a Cossack hat that could be made of real fur; there’s a Panama, a trilby, a turban, a top hat, a riding hat, a cap, a fez, two battered boaters and an emerald green tweed hat with a pheasant feather stuck through it.

I climb the staircase with its wide, shallow treads. At the top is a square landing with four doors leading off it. Emma’s bedroom is the first on the left. I turn the handle then hover in the doorway to see if I can hear stifled giggles or tell-tale breathing: I hear nothing, but then Emma’s good at holding her breath – she can swim a width and a half underwater. I flip back her shiny blue eiderdown, but she’s not in the bed – or under it; all I can see there is her secret box in which I know she keeps her lucky Krugerrand and her diary. I open the big white-painted corner cupboard with its safari stencils, but she’s not in there either. Perhaps she’s in the room next door. As I enter it I realise, with an uncomfortable feeling, that this is her parents’ room. I look for Emma under the wrought-iron bed and behind the dressing table, the mirror of which is cracked in one corner; then I open the wardrobe and catch a scent of orange peel and cloves which makes me think of Christmas. As I stare at Mrs Kitts’ brightly printed summer dresses, imagining them under the African sun, I suddenly realise that I am not so much seeking as snooping. I retreat, feeling a vague sense of shame. And now I want to stop playing hide and seek. I want to play rummy, or just watch TV.

‘Bet you can’t find me, Phoebe! You’ll never, ever findme!’

Sighing, I cross the landing into the bathroom where I check behind the thick white plastic shower curtain and lift the lid of the laundry basket, which contains nothing but a faded-looking purple towel. Now I go to the window, and lift the semi-closed slats of the Venetian blind. As I peer down into the sun-filled garden a tiny jolt runs the length of my spine. There’s Emma – behind the huge plane tree at the end of the lawn. She thinks I can’t see her, but I can because she’s crouching down and one of her feet is sticking out. I dash down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the utility room, then I fling open the back door.

‘Found you!’ I shout as I run towards the tree. ‘Found you,’ I repeat happily, surprised by my euphoria. ‘Okay,’ I pant, ‘my turn to hide. Emma?’ I peer at her. She’s not crouching down, but lying down, on her left side, perfectly still, eyes closed. ‘Get up will you, Em?’ She doesn’t reply. And now I notice that one leg is folded beneath her at an awkward angle. With a sudden ‘thud’ in my ribcage I understand. Emma wasn’t hiding behind the tree, but in it. I glance up through its branches, glimpsing shreds of blue through the green. She was hiding in the tree, but then she fell.

‘Em …’ I murmur, stooping to touch her shoulder. I gently shake her but she doesn’t respond, and now I notice that her mouth is slightly agape, a thread of saliva glistening on her lower lip. ‘Emma!’ I shout. ‘Wake up!’ But she doesn’t. I put my hand to her ribs but can’t feel them rise and fall. ‘Say something,’ I murmur, my heart pounding now. ‘Please, Emma!’ I try to lift her up, but I can’t. I clap my hands by her ears. ‘Emma!’ My throat is aching and tears prick my eyes. I glance back at the house, desperate for Emma’s mother to come running over the grass, ready to make everything all right; but Mrs Kitts is still not back from her tennis, which makes me feel angry because we’re too young to have been left on our own. Resentment at Mrs Kitts gives way to terror at the thought of what she’s likely to say – that Emma’s accident was my fault because it was my suggestion that we play hide and seek. From inside my head I hear Miss Grey asking me to ‘look after’ Emma, then her disappointed tut-tutting.

‘Wake up, Em,’ I implore her. ‘Please.’ But she just lies there looking … crumpled, like a flung-down rag doll. I know I have to run and get help. But first I must cover her as it’s turning chilly. I pull off my cardigan 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!’

ONE (#u2ead5159-4ca4-58b7-8a61-f5cfd585c4ee)

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.