A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff
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‘But what I don’t understand is why it then followed, sad though you were, that you had to end what appeared to be a happy relationship with a very nice man. I think you had a sort of nervous breakdown,’ she went on. ‘It wouldn’t be surprising …’ She smacked her lips together. ‘I don’t think you knew what you were doing.’
‘I knew exactly,’ I retorted calmly. ‘But you know what, Mum, I don’t want to talk ab—’
‘How did you meet him?’ she suddenly asked. ‘You never told me that.’
I felt my face heat up. ‘Through Emma.’
‘Really?’ Mum looked at me. ‘How typically sweet of her,’ she said as she turned back to the mirror. ‘Introducing you to a nice man like that.’
‘Yes,’ I said uneasily …
‘I’ve met someone,’ Emma had said excitedly over the phone a year ago. ‘My head’s in a spin, Phoebe. He’s … wonderful.’ My heart had sunk, not just because Emma was always saying that she’d met someone ‘wonderful’, but because these men were usually anything but. Emma would be in raptures about them, then a month later she’d be avoiding them, saying they were ‘dreadful’. ‘I met him at a fund-raising do,’ she’d explained. ‘He runs an investment fund – but the good thing,’ she’d added with her usual, endearing artlessness, ‘is that it’s an ethical one.’
‘That sounds interesting. So he must be clever then.’
‘He got a first from the LSE. Not that he told me that,’ she added quickly. ‘I got it from Google. We’ve been on a few dates, but things are moving on so I’d like you to check him out.’
‘Emma,’ I sighed. ‘You are thirty-three years old. You are becoming very successful. You now dress the heads of some of the most famous women in the UK. Why do you need my approval?’
‘Well …’ I heard her clicking her tongue. ‘Because I guess old habits die hard. I’ve always asked your opinion about men, haven’t I?’ she mused. ‘Right from when we were teenagers.’
‘Yes – but we’re not teenagers now. You’ve got to have confidence in your own judgement, Em.’
‘I hear what you say. But I still want you to meet Guy.
I’ll have a little dinner party next week and sit you next to him, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I sighed …
I wish I didn’t have to be involved, I thought as I helped Emma in the kitchen of her rented house in Marylebone the following Thursday evening. From the sitting room came the sound of nine people laughing and talking. Emma’s idea of a ‘little’ dinner party was a five-course meal for twelve. As I got down the plates I thought of the men Emma had been ‘madly in love with’ over the past couple of years: Arnie the fashion photographer who’d two-timed her with a hand-model; Finian the garden designer who spent every weekend with his six-year-old daughter – and her mum. Then there’d been Julian, a bespectacled stockbroker with an interest in philosophy but precious little else. Emma’s latest attachment had been to Peter, a violinist with the London Philharmonic. That had looked promising – he was very nice and she could talk to him about music; but then he’d gone on a three-month world tour with the orchestra and had come back engaged to the second flute.
Maybe this chap Guy would be a better bet, I thought as I rummaged in a drawer for Emma’s napkins.
‘Guy is perfect,’ she said as she opened the oven, releasing a burst of steam and an aroma of roasting lamb. ‘He’s the one, Phoebe,’ she said happily.
‘That’s what you always say.’ I began folding the napkins.
‘Well, this time it’s true. I’m going to kill myself if it doesn’t work out,’ she added gaily.
I stopped mid-fold. ‘Don’t be so silly, Em. It’s not even as though you’ve known him that long.’
‘True – though I know what I feel. But he’s late,’ she wailed as she took the lamb out to rest it. She thumped the Le Creuset meat dish down on to the table, her face a mask of anxiety. ‘Do you think he’s going to turn up?’
‘Of course he is,’ I said. ‘It’s only eight forty-five – he’s probably just been held up at work.’
Emma kicked shut the oven door. ‘Then why didn’t he phone?’
‘Maybe he’s stuck on the tube …’ Anxiety contorted her features again. ‘Em – don’t worry …’
She began basting the meat. ‘I can’t help it. I’d love to be calm and collected like you usually are, but I’ve never had your poise.’ She straightened up. ‘How do I look?’
‘Beautiful.’
She smiled with relief. ‘Thanks – not that I believe you, as you always say that.’
‘Because it’s always true,’ I said firmly.
Emma was dressed in her usually eclectic way, in a Betsey Johnson floral silk dress, with canary yellow fishnets and black ankle boots. Her wavy auburn hair was held off her face by a silver band.
‘And does this dress definitely suit me?’ she asked.
‘Definitely. I like the sweetheart neckline, and the silhouette’s flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.
‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ Emma’s face fell. ‘Please don’t say that, Phoebe – not today of all days. I know I could do with losing a few pounds, but –’
‘No, no – I didn’t mean that. Of course you’re not fat, Em, you’re lovely, I just meant –’
‘Oh God!’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘I haven’t done the blinis!’
‘I’ll do them.’ I opened the fridge and got out the smoked salmon and the tub of crème fraîche.
‘You’re a fabulous friend, Phoebe,’ I heard Emma say. ‘What would I do without you,’ she added as she began sticking bits of rosemary into the lamb. ‘Do you know’ – she waved a sprig at me – ‘we’ve now known each other for a quarter of a century.’
‘Is it that long?’ I murmured as I began to chop the smoked salmon.
‘It is. And we’ll probably know each other for, what, another fifty?’
‘If we drink the right brand of coffee.’
‘We’ll have to go into the same old people’s home!’ Emma giggled.
‘Where you’ll still be getting me to check out your boyfriends. “Oh, Phoebe,”’ I said in a crotchety voice, ‘“he’s ninety-three – do you think he’s a bit old for me?”’
Emma snorted with laughter then chucked the bunch of rosemary at me.
Now I began grilling the blinis, trying not to burn my fingers as I quickly turned them over. Emma’s friends were talking so loudly – and someone was playing the piano – that I’d only dimly registered the ring of the door bell, but the sound electrified Emma.
‘He’s here!’ She checked her appearance in a small mirror, adjusting her hair-band; then she ran down the narrow staircase. ‘Hi! Oh, thanks,’ I heard her squeal. ‘They’re gorgeous. Come on up – you know the way.’ I’d registered the fact that Guy had been to the house before – that was a good sign. ‘Everyone’s here,’ I heard Emma say as they came up the stairs. ‘Were you stuck on the tube?’ By now I’d assembled the first batch of blinis. Then I reached for the peppermill and vigorously turned the top. Nothing. Damn. Where did Em keep the peppercorns? I began to look, opening a couple of cupboards before spotting a new tub of them on top of her spice rack.