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

I felt in the left-hand seam. ‘And here’s the tiny trademark pocket that Ossie Clark put in each one. Just big enough for a five-pound note –’

‘– and a key,’ Mrs Bell concluded. ‘A charming idea.’

There was also quite a bit of Jaeger, which I told her I wouldn’t be taking.

‘I’ve hardly worn it.’

‘It’s not that – it’s because it’s not old enough to qualify as vintage. I don’t have anything in the shop that’s later than the early eighties.’

Mrs Bell fingered the sleeve of an aquamarine wool suit. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with it, then.’

‘They’re lovely things – surely you could still wear them?’

She gave a little shrug. ‘I rather doubt it.’

I looked at the labels – size 14 – and realised that Mrs Bell was at least two sizes smaller than when she’d bought these clothes, but then people often shrink in old age.

‘If you’d like any of them altered, I could take them to my seamstress for you,’ I suggested. ‘She’s very good, and her charges are fair. In fact, I have to go there tomorrow, so –’

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Bell interjected, shaking her head, ‘but I have enough to wear. I no longer need very much. They can go to the charity shop.’

Now I pulled out a chocolate brown crepe de Chine evening dress with shoe-string straps, edged in copper sequins. ‘This is by Ted Lapidus, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. My husband bought it for me in Paris.’

I looked at her. ‘Is that where you’re from?’

She shook her head. ‘I grew up in Avignon.’ So that explained the lavender field painting and the Provençal curtains. ‘It said in that newspaper interview that you go to Avignon sometimes.’

‘I do. I buy things from the weekend markets in the area.’

‘I think that’s why I decided to phone you,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘I was somehow drawn to that connection. What sort of things do you buy?’

‘Old French linen, cotton dresses and nighties, broderie anglaise vests – they’re popular with young women here. I love going to Avignon – in fact, I’ll need to go again soon.’ I pulled out a black-and-gold silk moiré evening gown by Janice Wainwright. ‘And how long have you lived in London?’

‘Almost sixty-one years.’

I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘You must have been so young when you came here.’

She nodded wistfully.’ I was nineteen. And now I am seventy-nine. How did that happen …?’ She looked at me as though she genuinely thought I might know, then shook her head and sighed.

‘And what brought you to the UK?’ I asked as I began looking through a box of Mrs Bell’s shoes. She had neat little feet, and the shoes, mostly by Rayne and Gina Fratini, were in excellent condition.

‘What brought me to the UK?’ Mrs Bell smiled wistfully. ‘A man – or more precisely an Englishman.’

‘And how did you meet him?’

‘In Avignon – not quite “sur le pont”, but close by. I had just left school and was working as a waitress in a smart café on the Place Crillon. And this attractive man a few years older than me called me over to his table and said, in atrocious French, that he was desperate for a proper cup of English tea and could I please make him one? So I did – to his satisfaction, evidently, because three months later we were engaged.’ She nodded at the photo on the bedside table. ‘That’s Alastair. He was a lovely man.’

‘He was very good looking.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘He was un bel homme.’

‘But didn’t you mind leaving your home?’

There was a little pause. ‘Not really,’ Mrs Bell replied.

‘Nothing felt the same after the war. Avignon had suffered occupation and bombing – I had lost …’ She fiddled with her gold watch. ‘Friends. I was in need of a new start – and then I met Alistair …’ She ran her hand over the skirt of a damson-coloured gabardine two-piece. ‘I adore this suit,’ she murmured. ‘It reminds me so much of my early life with him.’

‘How long were you married?’

‘Forty-two years. But that is why I moved to this flat. We’d had a very nice house on the other side of the Heath, but I couldn’t bear to stay there after he …’ Mrs Bell paused for a moment to collect herself.

‘And what did he do?’

‘Alastair started his own advertising agency – one of the first. It was an exciting time; he did a lot of business entertaining, so I had to look … presentable.’

‘You must have looked fantastic.’ She smiled. ‘And did you – do you – have a family?’

‘Children?’ Mrs Bell fiddled with her wedding ring, which was loose on her finger. ‘We were rather unfortunate.’

As the subject was clearly painful, I steered the conversation back to her clothes, indicating the ones I wished to buy. ‘But you must only sell them if you’re truly happy to do so,’ I added. ‘I don’t want you to have any regrets.’

‘Regrets?’ Mrs Bell echoed. She placed her hands on her knees. ‘I have many. But I will not regret parting with these garments. I would like them to go on and – how did you put it in that newspaper article – have a new life …’

Now I began to go through my suggested prices for each piece.

‘Excuse me,’ Mrs Bell suddenly said, and from her hesitant demeanour I thought she was about to query one of my valuations. ‘Please forgive me for asking,’ she said, ‘but …’ I looked at her enquiringly. ‘Your friend … Emma. I hope you don’t mind …’

‘No,’ I murmured, aware that, for some reason, I didn’t mind.

‘What happened to her?’ Mrs Bell asked. ‘Why did she …?’ Her voice trailed away.

I lowered the dress I was holding, my heart thudding, as it always does when I recall the events of that night. ‘She’d become ill,’ I replied carefully. ‘No one realised quite how ill she was, and by the time any of us did realise, it was too late.’ I looked out of the window. ‘So I spend a large part of each day wishing that I could turn back the clock.’ Mrs Bell was shaking her head with an expression of intense sympathy, as though she was somehow involved in my sadness. ‘As I can’t do that,’ I went on, ‘I have to find a way of living with what happened. But it’s hard.’ I stood up. ‘I’ve seen all the clothes now, Mrs Bell – there’s just that one last dress there.’

From down the corridor I could hear the telephone ringing. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said.

As I heard her retreating footsteps I went to the wardrobe and took out the final garment – the yellow evening dress. The sleeveless bodice was of a lemon-coloured raw silk and the skirt was of knife-pleated chiffon. But as I pulled it out I found my eye drawn to the garment hanging alongside it – a blue woollen coat. As I peered at it through its protective cover, I saw that it wasn’t an adult’s coat but a child’s. It would have fitted a girl of about twelve.

‘Thank you for letting me know,’ I heard Mrs Bell say as she concluded her phone call. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until next week … I saw Mr Tate this morning … Yes – that remains my decision … I do understand, perfectly … Thank you for calling …’

As Mrs Bell’s voice carried down the hall, I wondered why she would have a girl’s coat hanging in her wardrobe. It had clearly been cherished. A tragic explanation flashed into my mind. Mrs Bell had had a child – a girl, and this coat had been hers; something awful had happened to her and Mrs Bell couldn’t bear to part with it. She hadn’t said that she hadn’t had any children – only that she and her husband had been ‘rather unfortunate’ – very likely an understatement. I felt a wave of sympathy for Mrs Bell. But then, as I furtively unzipped the clear plastic cover to look at the coat more closely, I realised that it was much too old to fit my scenario. As I pulled it out, I could see that it was from the 1940s and was of woollen worsted with a re-used silk lining. It had been hand made with considerable skill.

I heard Mrs Bell’s returning steps and quickly zipped up the cover, but too late: she saw me holding the coat and flinched.

‘I am not disposing of that particular garment. Kindly put it back.’ Taken aback by her tone, I did. ‘I did ask you not to look at anything beyond the yellow evening dress,’ she added as she stood in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry.’ My face went hot with shame. ‘Was the coat yours?’ I added quietly.