A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff
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clothes. If I’m with a widower he’ll often go into minute detail about everything that his wife wore, and how much he paid for it in Dickins & Jones in 1965 and how beautiful she looked in it on the QE2.
The easiest scenario by far, I thought as the train pulled in, is where a woman is getting divorced and wants to be shot of everything that her husband ever bought her. In those cases I can justifiably be brisk. But when it comes to seeing elderly women who are selling their entire wardrobe it can be emotionally draining. As I say, these are more than clothes – they’re the fabric, almost literally, of someone’s life. But however much I like to hear the stories I have to remind myself that my time is limited. I therefore try to keep my visits to no more than an hour, which is what I resolved to do with Mrs Bell.
As I came out of the underground at South Kensington I called Annie. She sounded upbeat, having already sold a Vivienne Westwood bustier and two French nightdresses. She also told me that Mimi Long from Woman & Home had asked if she could borrow some clothes for one of her shoots. Cheered by this, I walked down the Brompton Road to Christie’s then turned into the foyer, which was crowded as the fashion sales are popular. I queued to register then picked up my bidding ‘paddle’.
The Long Gallery was about two-thirds full. I sat at the end of an empty row halfway down on the right, then looked around for my competitors, which is always the first thing I do when I go to an auction. I saw a couple of dealers I know and a woman who runs a vintage dress shop in Islington. I recognised the fashion editor of Elle sitting in the fourth row and to my right I spotted Nicole Farhi. The air seemed clogged with expensive scent.
‘Lot number 102,’ announced the auctioneer. I sat bolt upright. Lot 102? But it was only ten thirty. When I was conducting auctions I never messed about, but this man had torn through the list. Pulse racing, I looked at the Balenciaga gown in the catalogue then flicked forward to the Madame Grès. It had a reserve of £1,000 but was likely to go for more. I knew I shouldn’t be buying anything I wasn’t planning to sell, but told myself that this was an important piece that would only appreciate in value. If I could get it for £1,500 or less, I would.
‘Lot 105 now,’ said the auctioneer. ‘An Elsa Schiaparelli “shocking pink” silk jacket from her “Circus” collection of 1938. Note the original metallic buttons in the shape of acrobats. Bidding for this item starts at £300. Thank you. And £320, and £340 … £360, thank you, madam … Do I hear £380?’ The auctioneer peered over his glasses then nodded at a blonde woman in the front row. ‘So, for £360 …’ The gavel came down with a ‘crack’. ‘Sold. To …?’ The woman held up her bidding paddle.’ Buyer number 24. Thank you, madam. On now to Lot 106 …’
Despite my years as an auctioneer my heart was pounding as ‘my’ first lot approached. I glanced anxiously round the room, wondering who my rivals for it might be. Most of the buyers were women, but at the very end of my row was a distinguished-looking man in his mid forties. He was flicking through the catalogue, marking it here and there with a gold fountain pen. I idly wondered what he was going to bid for.
The next three lots were each despatched in less than a minute with telephone bids. The Balenciaga was about to come up. I felt my fingers tighten around my bidding paddle.
‘Lot number 110,’ announced the auctioneer. ‘An elegant Cristóbal Balenciaga evening gown of dark blue silk, made in 1960.’ An image of the dress was projected on to the two huge flat screens on either side of the podium. ‘Note the typical simplicity of the cut and the slightly raised hem, to reveal shoes. I’m going to start the bidding at £500.’ The auctioneer looked around the room. ‘Do I hear £500?’ As there were no bids, I waited. ‘Who’ll offer me £450?’ He peered at us all over his glasses. To my surprise there were no raised hands. ‘Do I hear £400 then?’ A woman in the front row nodded so I nodded too. ‘I have £420 … £440 … £460. Do I hear £480?’ The auctioneer looked at me. ‘Thank you, madam – the bid is yours, at £480. Any advance above £480?’ He looked at the other bidder but she was shaking her head. ‘Then £480 it is.’ Down came the gavel. ‘Sold for £480 to buyer number …’ he peered at me over his glasses and I held up my paddle ‘… 220. Thank you, madam.’
My euphoria at having got the Balenciaga at such a good price was swiftly replaced by stomach-churning anxiety as bidding for the Madame Grès approached. I shifted on my seat.
‘Lot number 112,’ I heard the auctioneer say. ‘An evening gown, circa 1936, by the great Madame Grès, famed for her masterful pleating and draping.’ An aproned porter carried the dress, which had been put on to a mannequin, up to the podium. I cast a nervous glance around the room. ‘I’m going to start at £1,000,’ the auctioneer announced. ‘Do I hear £1,000?’ To my relief only one other hand went up with my own. ‘And £1,100. And £1,150.’ I bid again. ‘And £1,200. Thank you – and £1,250?’ The auctioneer looked at us in turn – the other bidder was shaking her head – then returned his gaze to me. ‘Still at £1,250. The bid is with you, madam.’ I held my breath – £1,250 would be a great price. ‘Last call. Last call then,’ the auctioneer repeated. Thank you, God. I closed my eyes with relief. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Confounded, I looked to my left. To my irritation the man at the end of my row was now bidding. ‘Do I hear £1,300?’ enquired the auctioneer. He glanced at me and I nodded. ‘And £1,350? Thank you, sir.’ I felt my pulse race. ‘And £1,400? Thank you, madam. Do I hear £1,500 now?’ The man nodded. Damn. ‘And £1,600?’ I raised my hand. ‘And will you give me £1,700, sir? Thank you.’ I threw another glance at my rival, noting his calm expression as he drove up the price. ‘Do I hear £1,750?’ This suave-looking creep wasn’t going to stop me from getting the dress. I raised my hand again. ‘At £1,750 – still with the lady at the end of the row there. Thank you, sir – with you now at £1,800. And £1,900? Are you still in, madam?’ I nodded, but beneath my excitement I was seething. ‘And £2,000…? Will you bid, sir?’ The man nodded again. ‘Who’ll give me £2,100?’ I raised my hand. ‘And £2,200? Thank you, sir. Still with you, sir, at £2,200 now…’ The man gave me a sideways glance. I raised my hand again. ‘I have £2,300 now,’ said the auctioneer happily. ‘Thank you, madam. And £2,400…?’ The auctioneer stared fixedly at me, whilst extending his right hand to my rival as though to keep us locked in competition – a familiar trick. ‘£2,400?’ he repeated. ‘It’s the gentleman against you, madam.’ I nodded now, adrenaline scorching my veins. ‘£2,600?’ said the auctioneer. I could hear people behind me shift on their seats as the tension mounted. ‘Thank you, sir. Do I hear £2,800? Madam – will you bid £2,800?’ I nodded, as if in a dream. ‘And £2,900, sir? Thank you.’ There were whispers from behind. ‘Do I hear £3,000 … £3,000?’ The auctioneer peered at me as I raised my hand. ‘Thank you very much, madam – £3,000 then.’ What was I doing? ‘At £3,000 …’ I didn’t have £3,000 – I’d have to let the dress go. ‘Any advance on £3,000?’ It was sad, but there it was. ‘£3,100?’ I heard the auctioneer repeat. ‘No, sir? You’re out?’ I looked at my rival. To my horror he was shaking his head. Now the auctioneer turned to me. ‘So the bid is still with you then, madam, at £3,000…’ Oh my God. ‘Going once …’ The auctioneer raised his gavel. ‘Twice …’ He flicked his wrist, and with a strange mix of euphoria and dismay I watched the gavel come down. ‘Sold then for £3,000 to buyer – what was the number again, please? –’ I held up my paddle with a shaking hand ‘– 220. Thank you everyone. Terrific bidding there. Now on to lot 113.’
I stood up, feeling sick. With the buyer’s premium, the total cost of the dress would be £3,600. How, with all my experience, not to mention my supposed sangfroid, could I have got so carried away?
As I looked at the man who’d bid against me an irrational hatred overwhelmed me. He was a City slicker, polished in his Savile Row pin-stripe