A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff
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with champagne, had been speckled with sequins to cover the stains. I’d have to point out these alterations to prospective buyers, but at least the clothes had been saved. They were much too beautiful and good just to be thrown away.
‘They’ve come up brilliantly, Val,’ I said as I reached for my bag to pay her. ‘You’re so clever.’
‘Well, my gran taught me to sew; and she always said that if there’s a fault on a garment then don’t just mend it – make a virtue of it. I can still hear her saying it to me now: “Make a virtue of it, Valerie.” Oh.’ She’d dropped her scissors and was staring at them with a look of insane happiness. ‘That’s great.’
‘What is?’
‘They’ve landed with both points sticking into the floor.’ She stooped to pick them up. ‘That’s really good luck,’ she explained, waving them at me. ‘It usually means that more work’s coming into the household.’
‘It is.’ I told her that I was buying a collection of clothes and that about eight of the garments would need minor repairs.
‘Bring them in,’ Val said as I handed her the money I owed her. ‘Thanking you. Ooh…’ She peered at the coat. ‘That bottom button’s a bit loose – let me do it before you go.’
Suddenly the door bell rang three times in quick succession.
‘Val?’ called a gravelly voice. ‘You there?’
‘That’s my neighbour, Maggie,’ Val explained as she threaded her needle. ‘She always rings three times to let me know it’s her. I leave the door on the latch as we’re forever popping in and out of each other’s houses. We’re in the sewing room, Mags!’
‘Thought you would be! Hiya!’ Maggie was standing in the doorway, almost filling it. She was the physical opposite of Val, being big, blonde and spready. She was wearing tight black leather trousers, gold stilettos, the sides of which struggled to contain her plump feet, and a low-cut red top which displayed a massive, if somewhat crepey, cleavage. She was also wearing tawny-toned foundation, bright blue eye-liner and false lashes. As for her age, she could have been anywhere between thirty-eight and fifty. She exuded the scent of Magie Noire mingled with cigarettes.
‘Hi, Mags,’ said Val. ‘This is Hoebe,’ she added through gritted teeth as she bit the end of the cotton. ‘Phoebe’s just opened a vintage dress shop over in Blackheath – haven’t you, Phoebe. By the way,’ she added to me, ‘I hope you put salt on the doorstep like I told you to. It helps protect against misfortune.’
I’d had so much misfortune it would have made no difference, I reflected. ‘I can’t say I did do that, no.’
Val shrugged as she put a rubber thimble on her middle finger. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She began to re-stitch the button. ‘So how’s it going then, Mags?’
Mags sank into a chair, evidently exhausted. ‘I’ve just had the most difficult client. For ages he refused to get started – he just wanted to talk; then he took forever about it, and afterwards he was tricky about paying because he wanted to pay by cheque and I said it’s cash or nothing, as I had made quite clear beforehand.’ She rearranged her breasts in an indignant manner. ‘When I said I’d call the Bill he produced the notes sharp enough. I couldn’t half do with a cup of something though, Val – I’m all in and it’s only half eleven.’
‘Put the kettle on then,’ said Val.
Mags disappeared into the kitchen, her nicotine rasp carrying down the passageway. ‘Then I had this other customer – he had this weird obsession with his mother – he’d even brought one of her dresses with him. Very demanding, he was. I did what I could for him, but he then had the cheek to say that he was “dissatisfied” with my “services”. Imagine!’
The probable nature of Maggie’s business was by now clear.
‘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