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

‘You poor sweetheart,’ said Val warmly as Mags reappeared with a packet of digestives. ‘Those punters of yours don’t half take it out of you.’

Mags gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You can say that again.’ She took out a biscuit, and bit on it. ‘Then to cap it all, I had that woman at number 29 – Sheila Whatsit.’ My eyes started from my head. ‘She was a right nuisance. Wanted to get in touch with her ex-husband. He’d dropped dead on the golf course last month. She said she felt so bad about how she’d treated him when they were married that she couldn’t sleep. So I get through to him, right …’ Mags sank into the chair. ‘And I begin passing on his messages to her, but within two minutes she’s furious with him about something and starts screaming and shrieking at him like a bagful of cats –’

‘I think I heard her through the wall,’ Val said evenly as she pulled the thread taut. ‘Sounded like quite a carryon.’

‘You’re telling me,’ agreed Mags as she flicked crumbs off her lap. ‘So I said, “Look, sweetheart, you really shouldn’t talk to dead people like that. It’s dis respectful.”’

‘So … you’re a medium?’ I said shyly.

‘A medium?’ Maggie looked at me so seriously that I thought I’d offended her. ‘No – I’m not a medium,’ she said. ‘I’m a large!’ At that she and Val hooted with laughter. ‘Sorry,’ Maggie snorted. ‘I can never resist that one.’ She wiped away a tear with a scarlet talon. ‘But to answer your question…’ She patted her banana yellow hair. ‘I am a medium – or clairvoyant – yes.’

My pulse was racing. ‘I’ve never met a medium before.’

‘Never?’

‘No. But…’

‘There you are, Phoebe – all done!’ Val snipped the end of the thread, deftly wound it round the shank five or six times, and quickly folded the coat back into the bag. ‘So when do you want to bring the other things over?’

‘Well – probably a week today as I have help in the shop on Mondays and Tuesdays. Will you be here if I come at the same time?’

‘I’m always here,’ Val replied wearily. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

I looked at Maggie. ‘So … I’m … just wondering …’ I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. ‘Someone very close to me died recently. I was very fond of … this person. I miss them …’ Maggie nodded sympathetically. ‘And … I’ve never ever done this before and in fact I’ve always been sceptical – but if I could just talk to them, if only for a few seconds, or hear something from them,’ I went on anxiously. ‘I’ve even looked up a few psychics in Yellow Pages – there’s this thing called “Dial-a-Medium”; and I actually selected one of them and called their number but then I couldn’t bring myself to speak because I felt so embarrassed but now that I’ve met you I feel I –’

‘Do you want a reading?’ Maggie interjected patiently. ‘Is that what you’re trying to tell me, sweetheart?’

I sighed with relief. ‘It is.’

She reached into her cleavage and pulled out first a packet of Silk Cut, then a little black diary. She slid the tiny pen out of its spine, licked her index finger and flicked over the pages. ‘So when shall I put you in for?’

‘Well … after I’ve dropped off the things I’m bringing Val?’

‘This time next week then?’ I nodded. ‘My terms are fifty quid cash, no refunds for a bad connection – and no dissing the deceased,’ Mags added as she scribbled away. ‘That’s my new rule. So …’ She tucked the diary back into her bosom then opened the pack of cigarettes. ‘That’s a private sitting at eleven a.m. next Tuesday. See you then, sweetheart,’ she said as I left.

As I drove back to Blackheath I tried to analyse my motives for going to a medium. I’d always regarded such activities with distaste. My grandparents had all died, but I’d never felt the slightest urge to try and contact any of them on ‘the other side’. But since Emma’s death I’d increasingly been aware of the desire, somehow, to reach her. Meeting Mags had made me feel that I could at least try.

But what did I hope to get out of the experience? I wondered as I approached Montpelier Vale. A message from Emma, presumably. Saying what? That she was … okay? How could she be? I reflected as I pulled up outside the shop. She’s probably floating around in the ether, bitterly pondering the fact that thanks to her so-called ‘best friend’ she was now never going to get married, have children, turn forty, go to Peru like she’d always wanted to do, let alone get the OBE for services to the fashion industry as we’d often drunkenly predicted. She would now never get to enjoy the prime of her life, or the peaceful retirement that should have followed it, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. That Emma had been deprived of all this was, I reflected bleakly, thanks to me – and to Guy. If only Emma had never met Guy, I wished as I parked …

‘It’s been an amazing morning,’ Annie said as I pushed on the door.

‘Has it?’

‘The Pierre Balmain evening gown has sold – subject to the cheque clearing, but I doubt there’ll be a problem.’

‘Fabulous,’ I breathed. That would help the cash flow.

‘And I’ve sold two of those fifties circle skirts. Plus you know the pale pink Madame Grès – the one you don’t want?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that woman who tried it on the other day came back –’

‘And?’

‘Bought it.’

‘Great.’ I clapped my hand to my chest in relief.

Annie looked at me with puzzlement. ‘Well, yes, it means you’ve taken over £2,000 and it’s still only lunchtime.’ I couldn’t tell Annie that my reaction to the sale of the dress had nothing to do with the money. ‘The woman’s completely the wrong shape for it,’ Annie went on as I went through to the office, ‘but she said she had to have it. The card payment was fine, so she took it away.’

For a split second I wrestled with my conscience – the £500 from the sale of the gown would be so useful. But I had vowed to give the money to charity and that’s what I’d do.

Suddenly the bell over the door tinkled and in came the girl who’d tried on the turquoise cupcake dress.

‘I’m back,’ she announced happily.

Annie’s face lit up. ‘I’m delighted,’ she said with a smile. ‘The prom dress looked lovely on you.’ She went to get it down.

‘Oh, I haven’t come for that,’ the girl explained, although she threw the dress a glance that was tinged with regret. ‘I’ve come to buy something for my fiancé.’ She went over to the jewellery display and pointed to the 18-carat-gold art deco octagonal cufflinks with abalone insets. ‘I saw Pete looking at these when we were here the other day and thought they’d make a perfect wedding present for him.’ She opened her bag. ‘How much are they?’

‘They’re £100,’ I replied, ‘but with the five per cent discount that’s £95, and there’s an additional five per cent off as I’m having a good day, so that makes them £90.’

‘Thank you.’ The girl smiled. ‘Done.’

As Annie had now done her two days I manned the shop for the rest of the week. In between helping customers I was assessing clothes that people brought in, photographing stock for the website and processing online orders, doing small repairs, talking to dealers, and trying to keep on top of my accounts. I posted the cheque for Guy’s dress to Unicef, relieved to have no reminders left of our few months together. Gone were the photos, the letters, the e-mails – all deleted – the books, and the most hated reminder of all, the engagement ring. And now, with the dress sold, I breathed a sigh of relief. Guy was finally out of my life.

On the Friday morning my father phoned, imploring me to visit him.

‘It’s been such a long time, Phoebe,’ he said sadly.

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’ve had so much on my mind these past few months.’

‘I know you have, darling, but I’d love to see you; and I’d love you to see Louis again. He’s so sweet, Phoebe. He’s just …’ I heard Dad’s voice catch. He gets a bit emotional sometimes, but then he’s been through a lot, even if it is of his own making. ‘How about Sunday?’ he tried again. ‘After lunch.’

I looked out of the window. ‘I could come then, Dad – but I’d rather not see Ruth – if you’ll forgive my candour.’

‘I understand,’ he replied softly. ‘I know the situation has been hard for you, Phoebe. It’s been hard for me too.’

‘I hope you’re not appealing for sympathy, Dad.’

I heard him sigh. ‘I don’t really deserve it, do I?’ I didn’t reply. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘Ruth’s flying to Libya on Sunday morning for a week’s filming, so I thought that might be a good time for you to come over.’

‘In that case, yes, I will.’

On Friday afternoon Mimi Long’s fashion editor came in and chose some clothes for their shoot – a seventies-style spread for their January edition to be called ring in the old. I had just given them the receipt for the things they’d chosen, and was about to cash up, when I looked up and saw Pete the fiancé tearing over the road towards Village Vintage, his tie flapping over his shoulder.

He pushed on the door. ‘I’ve just dashed here from work,’ he panted. He nodded at the turquoise cupcake dress. ‘I’ll take it.’ He reached for his wallet. ‘Carla still hasn’t found anything to wear for the party tomorrow and she’s in a panic about it and I know that the reason why she still hasn’t found anything is because she really liked this dress and okay it is a bit pricey but I want her to have it and to hell with the money.’ He put six £50 notes on the counter.