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

‘Because he’s so much older than her, because of his power over her and her fear of offending him… her knowledge of his diary. I like people-watching,’ she added.

‘Are you a writer?’

‘No. I love writing, but I’m an actor.’

‘Are you in anything at the moment?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m “resting”, as they say – in fact, I’ve had more rest than Sleeping Beauty lately, but’ – she heaved a theatrical sigh – ‘I refuse to give up.’ She looked at the prom dresses again. ‘They really are lovely. I don’t have the curves for them, sadly, even if I had the cash. They’re American, aren’t they?’

I nodded. ‘Early fifties. They’re a bit too frothy for post-war Britain.’

‘Gorgeous fabric,’ the woman said, squinting at them. ‘Dresses like that are usually made of acetate with nylon petticoats, but these ones are all silk.’ So she had knowledge and a good eye.

‘Do you buy much vintage?’ I asked as I re-folded a lavender cashmere cardigan and put it on the knitwear stand.

‘I buy as much as I can afford – and if I get bored of anything I can always sell – not that I do, because in the main I’ve always bought well. I’ve never forgotten the thrill of my first find,’ she went on as she put the Thierry Mugler back on the rail. ‘It was a Ted Lapidus leather coat bought in Oxfam in ’92 – it still looks good.’

I thought about my first vintage find. A Nina Ricci guipure lace shirt bought in Greenwich Market when I was fourteen. Emma had pounced on it for me on one of our Saturday foraging trips.

‘Your dress is Cerutti, isn’t it?’ I said to the girl. ‘But it’s been altered. It should be ankle length.’

She smiled. ‘Spot on. I got it in a jumble sale ten years ago, but the hem was ripped so I shortened it.’ She brushed an imaginary speck off the front. ‘Best fifty pence I ever spent.’ She went over to the daywear rail and picked out a turquoise crepe de Chine tiered dress from the early seventies. ‘This is Alice Pollock, isn’t it?’

I nodded. ‘For Quorum.’

‘I thought so.’ She glanced at the price. ‘Out of my reach, but I can never resist looking, and when I read in the local paper that you’d opened I just had to come and see what you had. Oh well,’ she sighed. ‘I can dream.’ She gave me a friendly smile. ‘I’m Annie, by the way.’

‘I’m Phoebe. Phoebe Swift.’ I stared at her. ‘I’m just wondering … are you working at the moment?’

‘I’m temping,’ she replied. ‘Just doing whatever comes along.’

‘And are you local?’

‘Yes.’ Annie looked at me curiously. ‘I live in Dartmouth Hill.’

‘The reason I’m asking … Look, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in working for me, would you? I need a part-time assistant.’ I explained why.

‘Two days a week?’ Annie echoed. ‘That might suit me very well – I could do with some regular work – as long as I could go to auditions. Not that I have many to go to,’ she added ruefully.

‘I’d be flexible about the hours – and there’d be some weeks when I’d need you for more than two days – and did you say you can sew?’

‘I’m fairly nifty with a needle.’

‘Because it would be helpful if you could do a few small repairs in the quiet times, or a bit of ironing. And if you could help me dress the windows – I’m not much good with mannequins.’

‘I’d enjoy all that.’

‘And you wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not you and I would get on, because when you were here I’d mostly be out, which would be the whole point of it. But here’s my number.’ I handed Annie a Village Vintage postcard. ‘Have a think.’

‘Well … actually …’ She laughed. ‘I don’t have to. It would be right up my street. But you ought to get a reference for me,’ she added, ‘if only to make sure I’m not going to run off with the stock, because it would be extremely tempting.’ She smiled. ‘But apart from that, when would I start?’

So this morning, Monday, Annie began work, having provided letters from two previous employers extolling her honesty and industry. I’d asked her to come early so that I could show her how everything worked before I left for Christie’s.

‘Spend some time familiarising yourself with the clothes,’ I advised her. ‘Evening wear is here. This is lingerie … there’s some menswear here … shoes and bags are on this stand. Knitwear on this table … Let me open the till.’ I fiddled with the electronic key. ‘And if you could do a little mending …’

‘Sure.’ I went into the ‘den’ to pick up a Murray Arbeid skirt that needed a small repair. ‘That’s an Emma Kitts, isn’t it?’ I heard Annie say. I came back into the shop. She was gazing up at the hat. ‘That was so sad. I read about it in the papers.’ She turned to me. ‘But why do you have it here, given that it’s not vintage and it says it’s not for sale?’

For a split second I fantasised about confessing to Annie that looking at the hat every day was a form of penance.

‘I knew her,’ I explained as I put the skirt on the counter with the sewing box. ‘We were friends.’

‘That’s hard,’ said Annie softly. ‘You must miss her.’

‘Yes …’ I coughed to cover the sob that I could feel rising in my throat. ‘Anyway … this seam here – there’s a little split.’ I breathed deeply. ‘I’d better get going.’

Annie took the lid off the sewing box and selected a reel of thread. ‘What time does the auction start?’

‘At ten. I went to the preview last night.’ I picked up the catalogue. ‘The lots I’m interested in won’t come up until after eleven, but I want to get there in good time so that I can see what’s selling well.’

‘What are you going to bid for?’

‘A Balenciaga evening gown.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 110.

Annie peered at it. ‘How elegant.’

The long sleeveless indigo silk dress was cut very simply, its scooped neckline and gently raised hem encrusted in a wide band of fringed silver glass beading.

‘I want to buy it for a private client,’ I explained. ‘She’s a Beverly Hills stylist. I know exactly what her customers want, so I’m sure she’ll take it. Then there’s this dress by Madame Grès that I’m dying to get for my own collection.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 112, a Neo-classical sheath of cream silk jersey falling in dozens of fine pleats from an empire-line bust with crossover straps and a chiffon train floating from each shoulder. I emitted a wistful sigh.

‘It’s magnificent,’ Annie murmured. ‘It would make a fabulous wedding dress,’ she added teasingly.

I smiled. ‘That’s not why I want it. I simply love the incomparable draping of Madame Grès’ gowns.’ I picked up my bag. ‘Now I really must go – oh, one other thing –’ and I was just about to tell Annie what to do if anyone brought clothes in to sell when the phone rang.

I picked up. ‘Village Vintage …’ The novelty of saying it still gave me a thrill.

‘Good morning,’ said a female voice. ‘My name is Mrs Bell.’ The woman was clearly elderly and her accent was French, though almost imperceptibly so. ‘I saw from the local newspaper that you have just opened your shop.’

‘That’s right.’ So Dan’s article was still having an effect. I felt a rush of good will towards him.

‘Well … I have a selection of clothes I no longer want – some quite lovely things that I am never going to wear again. There are also some bags and shoes. But I am elderly. I cannot bring them …’

‘No, of course not,’ I interjected. ‘I’d be happy to come over to you, if you’d like to give me your address.’ I reached for my diary. ‘The Paragon?’ I repeated. ‘That’s very near. I could walk up. When shall I come?’

‘Is there any chance that you could come today? I am in the mood to dispose of my things sooner rather than later. I have an appointment this morning, but would three o’clock be possible?’

I’d be back from the auction by then, and I had Annie to mind the shop. ‘Three o’clock would be fine,’ I said as I scribbled down the house number.

As I walked down the hill to Blackheath station I reflected on the art of evaluating a collection of clothes in someone’s home. The usual scenario is that a woman has died and you’re dealing with her relatives. They can be very emotional, so you have to be tactful. They’re often offended if you leave some garments out; then they can be upset if you offer less than they’d hoped for those things you do choose. ‘Only £40?’ they’ll say. ‘But it’s by Hardy Amies.’ And I’ll gently point out that the lining’s ripped, that three buttons are missing, and that it’ll have to go to the specialist dry cleaners for the stains on the cuff.