A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff
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He sighed with relief then lifted the baby out and cradled him with a tender but somehow puzzled expression. ‘Ruth’s away filming so I had to bring him. Oh …’ Dad peered at Louis anxiously. ‘Do you think he’s hungry?’
I looked at Dad, appalled. ‘How on earth should I know?’
As Dad rummaged in the changing bag for a bottle I stared at Louis, his chin shining with dribble, not knowing what to think, let alone say. He was my baby brother. How could I not love him? At the same time, how could I love him, I wondered, when his conception was the cause of my mother’s distress?
Meanwhile Louis, unfazed by the complexities of the situation, had grasped my finger in his tiny hand and was smiling at me gummily.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I’d said …
The third envelope was from Emma’s mother. I recognised her writing. My thumb trembled as I ran it under the flap.
I just wanted to wish you every success with your new venture, she’d written. Emma would have been so thrilled. I hope you’re all right, she’d gone on. Derek and I are still taking things one day at a time. For us the hardest part remains the fact that we were away when it happened – you can’t imagine our regret. ‘Oh yes, I can,’ I murmured. We still haven’t gone through Emma’s things… I felt my insides coil. Emma had kept a diary. But when we do, we’d like to give you some small thing of hers as a keepsake. I also wanted to let you know that there’ll be a little ceremony for Emma on the first anniversary – February 15th. I needed no reminder – the date would remain seared on my memory for the rest of my life. I’ll be in touch nearer the time but, until then, God bless you, Phoebe. Daphne.
She wouldn’t be blessing me if she knew the truth, I thought bleakly.
I collected myself, took some French embroidered nightdresses out of the washing machine, hung them to dry, then locked the house and walked to the shop.
There was still some clearing up to be done and as I opened the door I detected the sour scent of last night’s champagne. I returned the glasses to Oddbins in a cab, put the empty bottles out for recycling, swept the floor and squished Febreze on the sofa. Then as the church clock struck nine I turned over the ‘Closed’ sign.
‘This is it,’ I said to myself. ‘Day one.’
I sat behind the counter for a while repairing the lining of a Jean Muir jacket. By ten o’clock I was dismally wondering whether my mother might not be right. Perhaps I had made a huge mistake, I thought as I saw people pass by with no more than a glance. Perhaps I’d find sitting in a shop dull after the busyness of Sotheby’s. But then I reminded myself that I wouldn’t simply be sitting in a shop – I’d be going to auctions and seeing dealers and visiting private individuals to evaluate their clothes. I’d be talking to Hollywood stylists about sourcing dresses for their famous clients and I’d be making the odd trip to France. I’d also be running the Village Vintage website, as I’d be selling clothes directly from that. There’d be more than enough to do, I told myself as I re-threaded my needle. Then I reminded myself of how pressured my previous life had been.
At Sotheby’s I’d constantly been under the cosh. There was the continual pressure to put on successful auctions, and to conduct them competently; there was the fear of not having enough for the next sale. If I did manage to get enough then there was the worry that the clothes wouldn’t sell, or wouldn’t sell for a high enough price, or that the buyers wouldn’t pay their bills. There was the constant anxiety that things would get stolen or damaged. Worst of all was the habitual, gnawing fear that an important collection would go to a rival auction house – my directors would always want to know why.
Then February 15th happened and I couldn’t cope. I knew I had to get out.
Suddenly I heard the click of the door. I looked up expecting to see my first customer; instead it was Dan, in salmon-coloured cords and a lavender checked shirt. The man had zero colour sense. But there was something about him that was attractive; perhaps it was his build – he was comfortingly solid, like a bear, I now realised. Or perhaps it was his curly hair.
‘I don’t suppose I left my pencil sharpener here yesterday, did I?’
‘Er, no. I haven’t seen it.’
‘Damn,’ he muttered.
‘Is it … a special one?’
‘Yes. It’s silver. Solid,’ he added.
‘Really? Well … I’ll keep a look out for it.’
‘If you would. And how was the party?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Anyway …’ He held up a newspaper. ‘I just wanted to bring you this.’ It was the Black & Green and on the masthead was Dan’s photo of me, captioned PASSION FOR VINTAGE FASHION.
I looked at him. ‘I thought you said the article was for Friday’s paper.’
‘It was to have been, but then today’s lead feature had to be held back for various reasons, so Matt, my editor, put yours in instead. Luckily we go to press late.’ He handed it to me. ‘I think it’s come out quite well.’
I quickly glanced through the piece. ‘It’s great,’ I said trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. ‘Thanks for putting the website at the end and – oh.’ I felt my jaw slacken. ‘Why does it say that there’s a five per cent discount on everything for the first week?’
A red stain had crept up Dan’s neck. ‘I just thought an introductory offer might be … you know … good for business what with the credit crunch.’
‘I see. But, that’s a bit of a … cheek, to put it mildly.’
Dan grimaced. ‘I know … but I was busy writing it up and I suddenly thought of it, and I knew your party was going on so I didn’t want to phone you, and then Matt said he wanted to run the piece straight away and so … well …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ I said grudgingly. ‘I must say, you took me aback, but five per cent is … fine.’ In fact it would be good for business, I reflected, not that I was prepared to concede that. ‘Anyway,’ I sighed, ‘I was a little distracted when we were talking yesterday – who did you say gets this paper?’
‘It’s handed out at all the stations in this area on Tuesday and Friday mornings. It also goes through the doors of selected businesses and homes, so potentially it reaches a wide local audience.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ I smiled at Dan, genuinely appreciative now. ‘And have you worked for the paper long?’
He seemed to hesitate. ‘Two months.’
‘From the start then?’
‘More or less.’
‘And are you from round here?’
‘Just down the road in Hither Green.’ There was an odd little pause, and I was just waiting for him to say that he ought to be on his way when he said, ‘You must come Hither.’
I looked at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
He smiled. ‘All I mean is you must come round sometime.’
‘Oh.’
‘For a drink. I’d love you to see my …’ What? I wondered. Etchings?
‘Shed.’
‘Your shed?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a fantastic shed,’ he said evenly.
‘Really?’ I imagined a jumble of rusty gardening tools, cobwebbed bicycles and broken flowerpots.
‘Or it will be when I’ve finished.’
‘Thanks,’