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

‘My assistant was right,’ I said as I folded the dress into a large carrier. ‘You are the perfect husband-to-be.’

As Pete waited for his receipt I saw him idly looking at the tray of cufflinks. ‘Those gold and abalone cufflinks,’ he said, ‘the ones you had the other day – I don’t suppose …’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But they’ve gone.’

As Pete left, I wondered who would buy the other cupcake dresses. I thought of the sad girl who’d looked so lovely in the lime one. I’d seen her on the other side of the road once or twice, looking preoccupied, but she hadn’t come in. I’d also seen a photo of her boyfriend in the South London Times. He’d been the guest speaker at a Business Network Dinner at Blackheath Golf Club. It seemed he owned a successful property company, Phoenix Land.

Saturday started badly and got worse. Firstly the shop was very busy and, although I was happy about this, it was as much as I could do to keep an eye on the stock. Then someone came in eating a sandwich so I had to ask them to leave, which I disliked having to do, especially in front of other customers. Then Mum phoned up and needed a bit of a cheer-up as she’s often down at weekends.

‘I’ve decided not to have Botox,’ she said.

‘That’s great, Mum. You don’t need it.’

‘That’s not the point – the clinic I went to said I’ve left it too late for Botox to make any difference.’

‘Then … never mind.’

‘So I’m going to have gold threads in my face instead.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Basically they insert these gold threads under your skin, and on the ends of them are these tiny hooks which they catch up so that the thread pulls taut – and up comes your face with it! The trouble is, it costs £4,000. But then it is 24 carat,’ she mused.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said. ‘You’re still very attractive, Mum.’

‘Am I?’ she said mournfully. ‘Ever since your father left me, I’ve felt like a gargoyle.’

‘Nothing could be further from the truth.’ In fact, like many dumped wives, Mum had never looked better. She’d lost weight, bought some new clothes and was now far better groomed than when she was with Dad.

Then at lunchtime the woman who’d bought Guy’s dress came back with it.

At first I didn’t know who she was.

‘I’m so sorry,’ this woman began as she lifted a Village Vintage carrier on to the counter. I looked inside it and my spirits sank. ‘I don’t think the dress is right after all.’ How could she ever have thought that it was? As Annie had said, the woman was completely the wrong shape, being short and broad – like a milk loaf. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated as I took the dress out of the bag.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not a problem,’ I lied. As I refunded her the money, I wished I hadn’t been quite so quick in sending the £500 to Unicef. It was now a donation that I couldn’t afford.

‘I guess I got carried away with the romance of it,’ the woman explained as I waited to tear off the receipt. ‘But this morning I put on the dress, looked at myself in the mirror and realised that I’d been, well…’ She turned up her palms as if to say, I’m not exactlyKeira Knightley, am I! ‘I don’t have the height,’ she went on. ‘But do you know what?’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘I can’t help thinking that it would suit you.’

After the woman had left, a succession of customers came in, including one fifty-something man who showed an unhealthy interest in the corsets: he even wanted to try one on, but I wouldn’t let him. Then this woman phoned up offering me some furs that had belonged to her aunt, including – and this was meant to be the clincher – a hat made out of a leopard cub. I explained that I don’t sell fur, but the woman insisted that as these particular furs were vintage there shouldn’t be a problem. So I told her that I can’t bring myself to touch let alone deal in bits of dead baby leopard, however long it might have been since the poor creature had been murdered. Then a little later my patience was tested again when a woman came in with a Dior coat that she wanted to sell me. I could see at a glance that it was fake.

‘It is by Dior,’ she protested after I’d pointed this out to her. ‘And I’d call £100 a very reasonable price for a genuine Christian Dior coat of this quality.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I’ve worked in vintage fashion for twelve years and I can assure you that this coat is not by Dior.’

‘But the label –’

‘The label is original. But it’s been sewn into a non-Dior garment. The interior construction of the coat is all wrong, the seams aren’t finished properly, and the lining, if you look a little more closely, is by Burberry.’ I pointed to the logo.

The woman went the colour of a Victoria plum. ‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ she sniffed. ‘You’re trying to get it at a knock-down price, so that you can sell it for £500 like that one you’ve got over there.’ She nodded at a mannequin on which I’d put a Dior dove grey grosgrain New Look winter coat from 1955 in pristine condition.

‘I’m not trying to “get” it at all,’ I explained pleasantly. ‘I don’t want it.’

The woman folded the coat back into the carrier bag, radioactive with affected indignation. ‘Then I shall have to take it elsewhere.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ I replied calmly, resisting the temptation to suggest Oxfam.

The woman turned on her heel, and as she stomped out, another customer, on his way in, politely held the door open for her. He was elegantly dressed in pale chinos and a navy blazer and was in his mid forties. I felt my heart lurch.

‘Good God!’ Mr Pin-Stripe’s face had lit up. ‘If it isn’t my bidding rival – Phoebe!’ So he’d remembered my name. ‘Don’t tell me – is this your shop?’

‘Yes.’ The euphoria I’d felt on seeing him suddenly evaporated as the door opened again and in came Mrs Pin-Stripe on a cloud of perfume. As I’d imagined she was tall and blonde – but so young that I had to fight the urge to call the police. She couldn’t