by Isabel Wolff
‘Thank you.’
‘I can take you home to your home,’ Miles said. ‘Or, if you like, to mine.’ He looked into my face, seeking my reaction. ‘I can lend you a tee-shirt again,’ he added quietly, ‘and I can give you a toothbrush. Roxy has a hairdryer, if you need one. She’s at a party tonight, in the Cotswolds.’ So that explained why he hadn’t had twenty calls from her on his mobile. ‘I’m going to collect her tomorrow afternoon. So I thought that you and I could spend the morning together, then have lunch somewhere.’ We stood up. ‘How does that sound, Phoebe?’
The maître d’ was handing us our coats. ‘It sounds … lovely.’
Miles smiled at me. ‘Good.’
As we drove through South London with Mozart’s clarinet concerto on the CD player I felt happy to be going back with Miles. As he pulled up outside his house I glanced at the front garden, which was prettily landscaped with low box hedging enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. Miles unlocked the door and we stepped into a wide hallway with high ceilings, panelled walls and black-and-white marble floor tiles that had been polished to a watery shine.
As Miles took my coat I glimpsed a large dining room with oxblood walls and a long mahogany table. Now I followed him down the hall to the kitchen with its hand-painted units and granite worktops that glittered darkly under the spotlights that spangled the ceiling. Through the French windows I could just make out an expanse of tree-fringed lawn rolling away into the gloom.
Miles took a bottle of Evian out of the American fridge then we went up the wide staircase to the first floor. His bedroom was decorated in yellow, with a big en-suite bathroom with a free-standing iron bath and a fireplace. I got undressed in here. ‘Could I have that toothbrush?’ I called out.
Miles came into the bathroom, gave my naked form an appreciative glance, then opened a cupboard in which I could see bottles of shampoo and bubble bath. ‘Now where is it?’ he murmured. ‘Roxy’s always looking for things in here … Ah – got it.’ He handed me a new brush. ‘And what about a tee-shirt? I can get you one.’ He lifted my hair and kissed the back of my neck, then my shoulder. ‘If you think you’ll need one.’
I turned to him, and slid my arms round his waist. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I won’t.’
We woke late. As I glanced at the clock on the bedside table next to me I felt Miles’ arms encircle me, cupping my breasts.
‘You’re lovely, Phoebe,’ he murmured. ‘I think I’m falling in love with you.’ He kissed me then placed my hands above my head, and made love to me again …
‘You could swim in this bath,’ I said a while later as I soaked in it. Miles poured in some more bubble bath then got in with me, lying behind me while I lay against his chest in an island of foam.
After a few minutes he picked up my hand and examined it. ‘Your fingertips are wrinkling.’ He kissed each one. ‘Time to get dry.’ We both stepped out then Miles picked up a soft white bath sheet from the bale on the bathroom stool and wrapped it round me. We cleaned our teeth then he took the toothbrush from me and put it in the holder with his. ‘Keep it in there,’ he said.
‘My hair.’ I touched it. ‘Could I borrow a dryer?’
Miles wrapped a towel round his waist. ‘Come with me.’
We crossed the landing, the early autumn sunshine flooding through the floor-to-ceiling sash windows. As I looked up I saw a beautiful portrait of Roxy hanging on the far wall.
‘That’s Ellen,’ Miles explained as we paused in front of it. ‘I commissioned it for our engagement. She was twenty-three.’
‘Roxy’s so like her,’ I said. ‘Although …’ I looked at Miles. ‘She has your nose – and your chin.’ I stroked it with the back of my hand. ‘And is this where you lived with Ellen?’
‘No.’ Miles opened a bedroom door with Roxanne on it in pink letters. ‘We lived in Fulham, but after she died I wanted to move – I couldn’t cope with the constant reminders. And I’d been invited to a dinner party at this house and had loved it; so when it came up for sale not long afterwards the owners offered me first refusal. Now …’
Roxy’s room was huge, thickly carpeted in white, with a white four-poster crowned with a pink-and-gold damask canopy. There was a white dressing table on which were an array of expensive face creams and body lotions and several different-sized bottles of J’adore. In front of the pink and gold curtained windows was a chaise longue in pale pink brocade and on a low table beside it were perhaps two dozen glossy magazines, their covers gleaming icily.
I noticed a doll’s house on a side table – a Georgian townhouse with a gleaming black front door and floor-to-ceiling sash windows. ‘It’s just like this house,’ I said.
‘It is this house,’ Miles explained. ‘It’s an exact copy of it.’ He opened the front and we peered inside. ‘Every detail is correct, right down to the chandeliers, the working shutters, and the brass doorknobs.’ I gazed at the replica of the claw-footed iron bath in which I’d just soaked. ‘I gave it to Roxy for her seventh birthday,’ I heard Miles say. ‘I thought it would help to make her feel more at home – she still plays with it.’ He straightened up. ‘Anyway … come through here …’ Now we were in her dressing room. ‘This is where she keeps her hairdryer.’ He nodded at a white table on which was an arsenal of hairdressing appliances. ‘I’ll go and make breakfast.’
‘I won’t be long.’
I sat at Roxy’s hairdressing station, with its professional hairdryer and its smoothing irons and curling tongs and carousel of heated rollers, and its paddle brushes, combs and slides. As I quickly blow dried my hair I looked at all the clothes on the rails which ran around the three walls. There must have been a hundred dresses and suits. To my left was a brick red Gucci suede coat that I recognised from last year’s spring collection. In front of me I could see a Matthew Williamson satin trouser suit and a Hussein Chalayan cocktail dress. There were four or five skiing outfits and at least eight long dresses bagged up in muslin protectors. Ranged beneath the clothes was a chrome rack on which were around sixty pairs of shoes and boots. Along one wall were a number of sisal baskets containing perhaps three dozen bags.
By my feet was a copy of this month’s Vogue. I picked it up and it fell open at a fashion spread, half the garments in which had been marked with heart-shaped pink Post-its. A Ralph Lauren baby blue silk ball gown costing £2,100 had a pink heart next to it; as did a Zac Posen one-shouldered black dress. A Roberto Cavalli hot pink mini dress at £1,595 had been similarly earmarked with Check Sienna Fenwick’s not getting this scribbled on the heart in large, round letters. A Christian Lacroix couture ‘stained glass’ silk evening gown had also been stickied. It cost £3,600. By special order only, Roxy had written. I shook my head as I wondered which of these creations Roxanne was destined to possess.
I turned off the hairdryer, putting it back exactly where I’d found it. As I walked back through her bedroom I paused to shut the front of the doll’s house which Miles had left ajar. As I did so I looked inside it again and now noticed in the sitting room two dolls – a daddy doll in a brown suit and next to him on the sofa a little girl doll in a pink-and-white gingham pinafore.
Now I went back to Miles’ bedroom, got dressed and made up, retrieved my earrings from the green saucer on the bathroom mantelpiece, then followed the scent of coffee downstairs.
Miles was standing at the breakfast bar with a tray of toast and marmalade.
‘The kitchen’s lovely,’ I said glancing around. ‘But it’s different from the one in the doll’s house.’
Miles depressed the plunger on the cafetiere. ‘I had it done up last year – not least because I wanted a professional wine store.’ He nodded to my left and I glanced at the store with its two large fridges and its floor-to-ceiling bespoke wooden racks for red wine. He picked up the tray. ‘We’ll have some Chante le Merle sometime, as you like it.’
On the wall by the French windows was a photo montage with a dozen or so snaps of Roxy skiing, riding, mountain biking and playing te
nnis. There was a photo of her smiling in front of Table Mountain, and another of her standing on top of Ayers Rock.
‘Roxy’s incredibly lucky,’ I said as I looked at a photo of her fishing from the back of a yacht in what looked like the Caribbean. ‘For a girl of her age she’s done so much – and, as you said, she has so much.’
Miles sighed. ‘Probably too much.’ I didn’t reply. ‘But Roxy’s my only child and she means the world to me – plus she’s all I have of Ellen.’ His voice had caught. ‘I just want her to be as happy as possible.’
‘Of course,’ I murmured. Elle est son tendon d’Achille. Is this what Cecile had meant? Simply that Miles spoilt Roxy?
As we stood on the terrace I gazed at the long, wide lawn fringed on both sides by undulating beds of herbaceous plants and shrubs. Miles put the tray on the wrought-iron table. ‘You wouldn’t get the newspaper, would you? It’ll be outside the front door.’
While he poured the coffee I went and picked up The Sunday Times and carried it back out to the garden. As we sat having our breakfast in the soft autumn sunshine Miles read the main section while I flicked through Style. Then I unfolded the business section to take out the News Review, and as I did so I saw the heading PHOENIX falls. I looked at the half-page article. It had picked up on the Black & Green story, repeating the allegation of fraud. Except that there was a photo of Keith Brown’s girlfriend, captioned KELLY MARKS: BLEW THE WHISTLE. So she was the source?
The article alleged that Brown had once drunkenly bragged to his girlfriend about the way he had planned and carried out the fraud; he’d blamed it on a dis gruntled employee who, it turned out, had false I.D, and who had disappeared after the fire, presumably to evade justice. The police had circulated a photo-fit, but the man had never been traced and was still classified as a missing person. Brown, euphoric after securing some huge property deal, had foolishly boasted to Kelly Marks that not only had the man never existed, but he himself had started the blaze. Two weeks ago she had decided ‘after searching her conscience’ to reveal this to the Black & Green. The article had a quote from Matt saying that, although he couldn’t comment on his sources, he stood by every word that his newspaper had printed on the matter.
‘How extraordinary,’ I breathed.
‘What is?’ I passed Miles the article and he quickly read it. ‘I know about this case,’ he said. ‘A barrister friend defended the insurance company against Brown’s claim. He said he never believed Brown’s story, but as it wasn’t possible to disprove, Star Alliance were forced to pay up. Brown obviously thought he’d got away with it – and then he was careless.’
‘It did cross my mind that it might be his girlfriend.’ I told Miles about their unhappy visit to Village Vintage. ‘But I dismissed the idea – why would she shop him, given that he was her employer as well as her boyfriend?’
Miles shrugged. ‘Revenge. Brown was probably two-timing her – that’s the usual scenario – or he was trying to dump her and she found out. Or maybe he’d promised her a promotion then given it to someone else. Her motive will come out in the wash.’
I suddenly remembered what Kelly Marks had said when she’d paid for the dress:
It’s £275. That was the price.
ELEVEN
This morning I called Mrs Bell.
‘I would love to see you, Phoebe,’ she said, ‘but it will not be possible this week.’
‘Is your niece still staying with you?’
‘No, but my husband’s nephew has invited me to stay with him and his family in Dorset. He is collecting me tomorrow and bringing me back on Friday. I need to go now, while I am still well enough to trave l…’
‘Then can I see you after that?’
‘Of course. I will not be going anywhere else,’ Mrs Bell said. ‘So I would be particularly glad of your company if you have a little time.’
I thought of the Red Cross form still in my bag. ‘Could I come on Sunday afternoon?’
‘I look forward to it: come at four.’
As I put the phone down I looked at Dan’s invitation for his party on Saturday. It gave nothing away, being just an At Home card with his address and the time. It didn’t even mention his shed, which was obviously something much grander, I reflected; perhaps a summer house or one of those offices in the garden. Maybe it was a games room with a massive billiards table or some fruit machines – or an observatory, with a telescope and a sliding roof. Simple curiosity compelled me to go – combined with the fact that I’d come to enjoy Dan’s conversation and his joie de vivre and his warmth. I also hoped to be able to ask him about the Phoenix Land story. I still wondered why Brown’s girlfriend had done what she’d done.
On Monday there was more about it in the press. Kelly Marks had admitted to the Independent that she was the source but, when quizzed about her motive, had refused to comment.
‘It was the dress,’ Annie said as she looked at the Black & Green’s latest piece about it on Tuesday morning. She lowered the paper. ‘I told you – vintage clothes can be transforming; I reckon the dress made her do it.’
‘What? You mean the dress possessed her and “told” her to shop him?’
‘No … but I think her intense desire for it gave her the strength to dump the man – in spectacular fashion.’
On Thursday the Mail ran a piece headed TOP MARKS applauding Kelly for exposing Brown, and citing other women who’d shopped their ‘dodgy’ boyfriends. The Express had a piece about arson-linked fraud, pegged to ‘Keith Brown’s alleged torching of his own warehouse in 2002’.
‘How can the newspapers print all this?’ I said to Miles that afternoon. He’d popped into the shop on his way back to Camberwell: as there were no customers he’d stayed for a chat. ‘Isn’t it prejudicial?’ I asked him as he sat on the sofa.
‘As criminal proceedings haven’t started yet, no.’ He got out his BlackBerry, put on his spectacles and began thumbing it. ‘For the time being, the papers can repeat the allegations about Brown and print anything else they can justify – like the girlfriend’s role in revealing his alleged crime. Once he’s been charged, they’ll have to watch what they say.’
‘And why hasn’t he been charged yet?’
Miles looked at me over his glasses. ‘Because the insurers and the police are probably arguing about who’s going to bring the prosecution – a costly business, obviously. Now, can we please talk about more uplifting matters? On Saturday I’d like to go to the Opera House. They’re doing La Bohème and there are still a few seats in the stalls, but I’ll need to book them today. In fact I could call them right now… I’ve just got the number.’ Miles began to dial it then looked at me again, perplexed. ‘But you don’t seem keen.’
‘I am – or rather I would be; it sounds wonderful. But … I can’t.’
Miles’ face had fallen. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m already doing something.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m going to a party – just locally. It’s very low key.’
‘I see … And whose party is it?’
‘This friend of mine – Dan.’
Miles was staring at me. ‘You’ve mentioned him before.’
‘He works for the local paper. It’s a long-standing invitation.’
‘You’d rather go to that than to La Bohème at the Opera House?’
‘It’s not that, it’s simply that I said I would go, and I like to keep my word.’
Miles was looking at me searchingly. ‘I hope that he’s … not more than a friend, is he, Phoebe? I know we haven’t been together for very long, but I’d rather know if you have any other …’
I shook my head. ‘Dan’s simply a friend.’ I smiled. ‘A rather eccentric one, actually.’
Miles stood up. ‘Well … I’m a bit disappointed.’
‘I’m sorry – but it’s not as though we’d planned anything for Saturday.’
‘That’s true. But I just assumed …’ He sighed. ‘It’s okay.’ He picked up his bag. ‘
I’ll get Roxy to come.
I’m taking her to buy her ball gown in the afternoon, so accompanying me to the opera can be the quid pro quo.’
I tried to grasp the notion that being taken to the Royal Opera House would be the ‘price’ Roxanne paid for her father buying her an incredibly expensive dress …
‘Perhaps we could do something early next week?’ I said to Miles as he stood up. ‘Would you like to go to the Festival Hall? Say on Tuesday? I’ll get tickets.’
This seemed to reassure him. ‘That would be lovely.’ He kissed me. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Saturday was, as usual, a very busy day, and although I was happy to be doing such a good trade I realised that I could barely manage on my own. After lunch, Katie came in. She saw the Lanvin Castillo dress hanging where the yellow cupcake had been and her face fell. For a moment I thought she was going to cry.
‘It’s okay,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ve put it on the Reserved rail.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ She clapped her hand to her chest. ‘I’ve got £160 now, so I’m more than halfway there. I’m on my break from Costcutters so I thought I’d dash up. I don’t know why, but that dress has really got to me.’
I was hoping to get away on the dot at five thirty, but at five twenty-five a woman came in and tried on about eight garments, including a trouser suit that I had to get off a mannequin out of the window, before rejecting all of them. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she put on her coat. ‘I guess I’m just not in the right mood.’ By now, at five past six, neither was I.
‘No problem,’ I said with as much geniality as I could muster. It doesn’t do to be irritable if you run a shop. Then I locked up and went home to get ready for Dan’s party. He’d written seven thirty on the invitation with a request that we should be there by eight.
It was almost dark when my cab pulled up outside the house – a Victorian villa in a quiet road close to Hither Green station. Dan had made an effort, I reflected as I paid the driver. He’d threaded fairy lights through the trees in the front garden; he’d hired caterers – an aproned waiter opened the door. As I walked in I could hear talking and laughing. It was quite a select gathering, I now realised as I went into the sitting room where there were a dozen or so people. There was Dan, smartly dressed for once in a dark blue silk jacket, chatting to everyone and topping up champagne glasses.
