‘Fine,’ I tell him, grinning back. I don’t want to ruin his mood.
Most people would take this statement at face value and I assume he has, too, because he strolls back around to his side. Then he returns with a single blue acrylic panel and holds it up to the light for me to look through.
‘This is what the constellation of Leo looks like,’ he says.
As I lean over the counter to look, chin in hand, I can feel his warmth radiating through his black T-shirt.
‘Yeah?’ I squint at it, trying hard to make something of the random holes. How the ancients got a lion out of that, I’ll never know. David’s tanned thumb is holding the Perspex, and I look at the pale crescent of his nail. ‘Nice!’
‘This is the tail, see?’ he says, slowly tracing the shape of a lion to the rump, down a leg, along the back and up the neck to the mane and the muzzle and the chest.
Our faces are so close that I can smell him, clean and fresh, even on this hot day in the dusty city. I swallow so hard my throat squeaks. ‘So that’s Leo,’ I say hoarsely, the holes leaking sunbeams along my finger.
‘This particular lion has golden fur. It makes it fearless and indestructible.’ He shifts his face a little to look at me and he’s still holding up the Perspex, its blue colour deepening his eyes and shading his face. ‘You’ll be okay,’ he says seriously.
Without warning, I feel as if I’m going to cry. I’m nodding agreement, pressing my lips together to stop the trembling. ‘Yeah, I know.’
He straightens before I do. ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘That’s Leo.’
When he goes back to his stall I feel as if the earth has shifted underneath me. To ground myself, I do what I was intending to do a few minutes before. I call Mick.
‘Hey, Doll,’ he says in his rich, soft voice.
I can hear music in the background and I know he’s home.
‘When did you get back?’
‘This morning. I got a lift with Roscoe.’
Roscoe’s a member of the band. ‘That’s good,’ I say wistfully, staring at the glow of the sun through the canvas roof.
‘I was going to call you. What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asks.
I smile. ‘Nothing.’
He chuckles softly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Let’s make a day of it and go—’
‘Oh!’ I interrupt him quickly, suddenly remembering about Dinah. ‘Actually, I am doing something! I’m meeting a woman about a business proposition. But that’s not until the afternoon, anyway.’
‘Ah, hell, Fern. Can’t you do it another time?’
Through the corner of my eye I can see David’s legs outstretched on the cobbles, his polished shoes gleaming, and I lower my voice. ‘Well – not really, no, Mick. It’s business. How about we make it Tuesday?’
The volume of the music increases. What time is this to be partying?
‘I’ll get back to you, Doll,’ he said and hangs up.
I laugh merrily once he’s gone, in case David’s listening and thinks my love life is as much of a failure as my business. ‘Bye!’ Damn. I’m a Leo. I’m fearless and indestructible, I tell myself firmly, putting my phone away.
Utilitarian glamour – that’s the look I’m going for as I head to Dinah’s for tea. Dinah’s house is in Netherhall Gardens, a quiet, residential part of Hampstead with large, impressive red-brick houses, architectural plants and electronic gates. I’m thinking of reminding her about the first time we met. The way I look at it, the first time was chance, the second time was a coincidence, but I feel in my optimistic heart that this third meeting is meant to be.
Dinah’s house has a brown wooden gate and a crazy-paving path leading to the front door. I ring the bell and she opens the door immediately as if she’s been standing behind it waiting for me to arrive. She greets me graciously, posing with one arm on the doorframe and looking very Coco Chanel in a little cream silk shift dress accessorised with a cascade of faux pearls. Her dyed black hair is curling slightly around her sharp jawline; her lipstick is bright scarlet.
She, of course, is scrutinising me in turn. I’ve dressed very carefully for this business meeting in a navy shirtwaister with square shoulders and a narrow belt. I’m posing, too. I’ve rolled back my fringe from my face, very Forties, and with my peach blusher and red lipstick I look as healthy as a land girl. Dinah beckons me in and we bond immediately over a familiar subject.
‘I like your look,’ she says approvingly. ‘Although you gave me a start when I first saw you with that suitcase. There was all that dreadful rattling noise and it unsettled me. I’m a person who’s very susceptible to noise.’
‘Sorry. It’s a cheap case and one of the wheels is coming off.’
‘Oh,’ she says, spreading her hands, ‘and there’s a hole in my handbag; it’s come unstitched!’
There’s something in the way that we’ve just swapped stories of our shoddy goods that makes us both laugh.
‘It’s being repaired now,’ she adds gravely, ‘at the Handbag Clinic.’
‘Good. I’m afraid there’s no hope for my suitcase. I’m going to have it put down.’
She nods seriously. ‘Put out of its misery; yes. I think that’s best – it looked a sorry thing.’ Her mood brightens. ‘First of all, before we have tea I want to show you something that you’ll appreciate as a curator of fashion. Come. Always one must put pleasure before business.’
We climb an oak spiral staircase, which leads up to the first floor.
Dinah takes me into a windowless dressing room with mirrored wardrobes on all three walls. She invites me to sit on a large ivory velvet ottoman. The chandelier throws pools of rainbow light on the polished floor. With a flourish, she touch-opens each of the wardrobe doors in turn. Our reflections disappear and the interiors of the wardrobes glow with lights.
Dinah’s smiling, more to herself than to me. ‘This is my collection,’ she says shyly.
‘Wow.’
It’s like falling into my favourite dream. Her clothes are hanging in muslin garment bags that shroud the dresses inside them. Each garment bag has a vinyl pocket with a Polaroid of the garment tucked into it. I’m seriously excited by these wrapped-up delights, impressed by the care she’s taken to look after them, and I’m filled with a rush of anticipation.
She laughs gleefully at my expression. ‘It’s taken you by surprise, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes!’ I’m looking at the Polaroids and through the muslin bags I can see the vague but enticing outline of her clothes.
She sweeps her hand along them carelessly but possessively, like a lover, and looks at me coquettishly over her shoulder. ‘I have a question for you. How would you catalogue a lifetime’s collection of couture like this?’ she asks.
Is this something she wants me to do? My heart is beating fast with anticipation. Oh please, yes, I’d do it in a heartbeat. ‘I guess I’d do it by designer and by era,’ I say, wondering if this is the actual interview.
‘That’s exactly what I do,’ she says approvingly. ‘I keep them all in chronological order, in the order I was given them by my dahlink husband.’
I’d like a husband like that. ‘Really? Going back to when?’
Again, she turns her head to look at me, her hands on her hips, raising her eyebrows briefly, enjoying my surprise.
‘Let’s see how clever you are, shall we? Tell me, what was the style in post-war nineteen forties?’
I laugh. ‘Come on, that’s too easy. I’m wearing it. Utilitarian, flannel, no more than five buttons due to clothes rationing, two pockets—’
She wags her finger at me. ‘Shame on you, Fern Banks! I’m talking about couture! Here! Look!’ She pulls out a bag, unzips it and takes out the garment to show me.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s a wasp-waisted jacket over a corseted black silk dress with a midi-length full pleated skirt, so boned and perfectly structured that even on the hanger it holds the shape of the wearer – it could probably stand up by itself.<
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Christian Dior. I’m stunned, lost for words. My skin prickles with adrenaline. I’ve only ever seen this ensemble in books and, unexpectedly, here it is, a museum piece hanging in a wardrobe.
Dinah thrusts it into my arms and chuckles. ‘Go on! Take it! Feel!’ she says. ‘Don’t we always have to feel?’
Seeing my hesitation, her smile fades and suddenly her mood changes. She says sharply, ‘The cat got your tongue? Tell me about this!’
She’s testing me. I might, after all, be a fake. ‘Well, it’s obviously …’ I hardly dare to say it. ‘It looks like – it’s in the style of Christian Dior’s New Look collection. Spring nineteen-forty-seven, right? La Ligne Corolle. After the war he wanted to move on from the relaxed, practical frocks that women were used to and he chose the corseted, exaggerated cinch-waist styles.’ I’m looking under the skirt at the seams, at the finish of it. I glance uncertainly at her, trying to read her expression, wondering what this is all about, what exactly my role is.
She relaxes again. ‘Of course, you’re quite correct,’ she says languidly, swatting away my words with her hand as if they’re not important anyway. ‘It also has a hat with it. I have it in a box.’
Fascinated, I hold the Dior at arm’s-length. It’s like looking at something incredible, like a sunset, and trying to put a price on it. I’ve got an idea how much this outfit is worth. Probably six figures. Does she?
My speechless admiration amuses her. She laughs and takes it from me – she has other things to show me and she shares in my delight. I get a glimpse of the most beautiful fabrics: chiffon, crêpe romaine, crêpe marocaine, crêpe de chine, gossamer, moiré, organzine, shantung, brocade, velvets in jewel colours – emerald, amethyst, turquoise, lapis lazuli, ruby, sapphire, ivory; dresses so beautiful that I groan in pleasure.
‘They’re all here,’ she says with great pride, spreading her arms wide. ‘The best of the best. Dior, Givenchy, Balenciaga, Laroche, Schiaparelli.’
The names are poetry to me.
Dinah pauses and glances at me conspiratorially. ‘And Chanel.’ She raises her hand. ‘No, don’t say it! I know you’re wondering, Chanel? How could she? Well, I forgave her in the Fifties.’
‘You did? For what?’
Dinah frowns and her expression hardens. ‘What do you think? For cosying up to the Germans during the occupation, of course. Everyone knows she had an affair with that diplomat, the Baron.’ She shrugs. ‘But she was cleared of being a collaborator, so what can you do? Maybe, after all, it was just sex. I chose to forgive,’ she says haughtily, sliding the hangers along the rails. ‘Look! Here’s a Grès that might interest you.’
‘Madame Alix Grès,’ I say, showing off my knowledge, and Dinah pats my cheek sharply but approvingly.
‘Of course, dahlink. Madame Alix,’ she says fondly. ‘Who else but us remembers her anymore?’
She pulls out the gown, in Grecian draped and pleated ivory. It’s breathtaking, a miracle of construction, the pinnacle of elegance. As she holds up the hanger, her arm trembles with the weight; it’s heavy, lavish with fabric. I want to hold it. Hell, I’d kill to wear it.
‘You like it, huh?’ Dinah shakes the hanger so that the dress shimmies gracefully. ‘See how it hangs? Magnificent, isn’t it?’
It takes my breath away. ‘I’ve seen one in the Victoria and Albert Museum. I never thought I’d get to hold one.’
Dinah smiles. ‘How about you try it on? Would you like to?’
‘Really? Yes, please!’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t look,’ she says, turning her back to me, but as soon as I step out of my dress she turns around and issues a series of stern orders.
‘Here, slip that arm out of your bra strap, see, it’s one-shouldered. Undo the side zip – no, not there, it’s on the right. Don’t step into it, pull it over your head. Okay, wait. There.’ Dinah’s tugging it into place, her cold fingers rough against my skin.
The gown slides down my body as cool and silky as a waterfall.
‘This hooks onto this – stand still, will you!’ She jerks me almost off my feet. ‘That shoulder isn’t straight – pull it up. There. Okay. Look at me.’
I turn to face her.
Her face softens and she clasps her knuckles to her mouth, her chin crumpling, tears shimmering in her eyes. ‘So beautiful,’ she says softly. She shuts a wardrobe door with the toe of her shoe. ‘Look at yourself in it.’
I stand tall, shoulders back. My reflection shows me as my very best self – the person I dream of being. The gown is a masterpiece of design, the definition of elegance. The fabric knots in the front and falls from my hips, Grecian and feminine. I step forward in it, and the chandelier’s reflection sparkles beneath my feet, the folds caressing my legs and ankles. It’s the sexiest dress I’ve ever worn. It elevates me to a new state of being. No one could possibly feel ugly or inferior in this gown. If it were mine, I’d keep it and it would give me permanent confidence and I’d never take it off.
I turn to look over my shoulder, seeing myself from the back. ‘Oh, Dinah.’ It’s the most surreal experience of my life. ‘And you’ve worn all of these,’ I say to my reflection, trying to comprehend what it must be like to own these clothes.
‘Yes, of course. They exist to be worn,’ Dinah says airily. ‘Well, you know, in those days, my husband and I, we socialised.’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘It’s amazing to imagine. It’s like another world to me.’ But the thing is, I can imagine it. ‘Do you ever wear them now?’
She shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Now and then, if there’s an occasion. Weddings; dinners; we attend wearing our best and doing nothing more energetic than picking up a fork.’
She gestures for me to turn and, reluctantly, I stand still and raise my right arm for her to unfasten the gown. She helps me out of it then I put my navy blue day dress back on and become myself again, trying to ignore the anticlimax.
Dinah tucks the clothes away, taking time to put them back in the right order. Then she straightens them and briskly closes all the wardrobe doors, and the two of us stand side by side with our sunray of multiplied reflections in the mirrors.
She looks at herself critically in her knee-length cream Chanel, one hand on her hip, and tilts her head. ‘How do I look?’
‘Fabulous,’ I reply.
She grips my hand. ‘You think I’m beautiful?’
I almost say yes just out of politeness but she asks the question so intently that I consider it seriously. She’s not beautiful, actually, although on first impression I thought she was. Her eyes are large and close together, like a lion’s eyes. Her dyed hair is neat and wavy, her nose is narrow and her mouth well shaped in that bright red lipstick so similar to my own. She’s not beautiful, that’s not the word at all, but she is striking.
‘Come! It’s not difficult! It’s a yes or no question,’ she says brusquely.
What kind of question is that to ask someone who’s practically a stranger, anyway? ‘You give the general impression that you are.’
This makes her smile.
‘Good! The impression is what counts! And now, let’s have tea.’
Once again, I find myself wondering about the nature of the business deal. I’m eager to find out what it is and return to the fantasyland of haute couture.
She leads the way back downstairs and we go into the far end of the dining room. Facing the lush green garden is a seating area with two worn sage green velvet armchairs and an occasional table piled with Sunday supplements. On the mahogany sideboard stands a seven-branched candelabra, a Jewish menorah.
She’s laid a butler’s tray with china cups and saucers, milk and sugar cubes, and she goes into the kitchen then comes back with a teapot with a felt tea-cosy.
She pauses before pouring and looks at me steadily. ‘In Chalk Farm, you stopped the bus for me so that I could be reunited with my money. I’m grateful for that. So now it’s time for me to do something for you.’ She has a sharp and lively glea
m in her eyes. ‘Let’s talk business,’ she says, pouring the tea. ‘It’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?’
‘Obviously, I’m curious,’ I reply, my heart thumping with excitement.
‘Do you know of a place called Morland Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, good. There is a post office there, do you know it?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Next to the post office is my husband’s tailor shop. It’s a big shop; you can’t miss it. You know the one I mean?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, it’s there, anyhow. He also offers dry-cleaning but,’ she pulls a face, ‘that’s something that he farms out to another company and there’s no money in it. Dressmaking is what he does best.’
She’s lost me. I have absolutely no idea where this conversation is going, but I nod.
The tea is dark and very strong; I can taste the tannin on my tongue. I take the sugar tongs and put in a couple of sugar lumps just for the novelty value. Now it’s very sweet, too.
‘Tell me, who do you use for your alterations?’
‘What?’ Yikes. She’s got the entirely wrong idea about me. I don’t need a tailor. My thoughts keep returning longingly to those rows of garment bags lined up in the wardrobes. Dior, Chanel, Grès … ‘I don’t offer that kind of service. My clients get it done themselves if they need to.’
She sucks her breath in sharply and tuts. ‘But you’re a curator of fashion. You need a good tailor for couture. My husband was in the atelier for a French fashion house. You know the word atelier?’
I nod. ‘It’s the workshop where the dressmakers stitch the garments.’
‘Exactly, yes. You know how important that job is, the dressmaking?’
‘Sure, of course.’
‘Well then. Before the war he was with Chanel and after coming here as a refugee, he worked for Norman Hartnell, so you see, he has credentials. He’s been in the rag trade all his life and between you and me,’ she says, lowering her voice, ‘his life has been a long one. Listen to me. He’s the best. I can recommend him to you.’ She grips my wrist, pulling me towards her. ‘You helped me out and now I’m helping you out, as a friend.’
A Random Act of Kindness Page 7
