When the morning session is over, I nudge Dinah. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
Before we leave I pay by bank transfer. We’ll go back later to pick up the dresses and in the meantime, we stop for a lunchtime glass of wine and a bowl of olives outside a pub.
Dinah is surprisingly subdued, and she unclips her earrings and drops them into her handbag. I assume that, like me, the whole process has exhausted her, but as she spears an olive with a cocktail stick she starts to talk about her own collection.
‘You know how I feel about my wardrobe?’ she says, her excited dark eyes searching mine.
‘Yes,’ I reply cautiously, thinking of Moss’s comments that she was peculiar about it.
‘But now I see they’re worth all that money!’
‘Yes.’ I’m surprised that she’s surprised.
‘I’ve been thinking. Could I sell some clothes in the auction?’ She chews the olive thoughtfully.
‘You could, of course, but why would you want to do that?’
She lowers her eyes modestly. ‘This year it’s our platinum wedding anniversary.’ She laughs at my surprise. ‘I’ve been married to Moss for seventy years. I want to take him on holiday.’
‘But your clothes are part of your history,’ I point out.
She smiles. ‘True. And for you, with clothes, it’s the same, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I can define the big occasions of my life by what I wore when they happened, like the fuchsia broderie anglaise dress with scalloped hem for my first day at school. For my first day at uni I wore a yellow PVC raincoat and silver sandals, and I went on my first date wearing a turquoise-and-white dress, chrome necklace and glittery tights that I borrowed from my mother. I attended my first music festival in second-hand Biba and my first funeral wearing my grandmother’s Rive Gauche, and I lost my virginity in a lilac John Galliano that I got from a church sale. I like to look right. It lifts my heart. The way I see it: what makes the eyes light up – a gift topped by a jaunty bow or a gift in a carrier bag? It’s all in the presentation.’
Dinah laughs. ‘Exactly! And do you still have those clothes?’
‘No. I’ve sold them on. It’s a way of passing on some of my joy.’ After a moment I add truthfully, ‘Also, sometimes I just need the money.’
She looks at me carefully, her head tilted, and she raises an eyebrow. ‘And it doesn’t matter to you that you’re selling your history, does it?’
‘No, because I remember them perfectly well.’
She frowns. ‘Maybe that’s enough for me, too.’
I nod, but I’m full of misgivings about the plan. ‘What would Moss say when he finds you’ve sold the things that he bought for you?’
‘Dahlink, I wouldn’t tell him until afterwards and then it’s too late. You must help me choose what to take,’ she says, tossing the remainder of her green olives to the pigeons. The birds beat their wings and retreat a short distance, keeping their eyes on the prize. ‘Now, remind me what the most expensive lot sold for.’
LOT 13
A 1930s bias-cut black satin figure-hugging midi-length evening dress, with red blouson sleeves, size 14/42.
I’ve reread the invitation from Gigi to her birthday party, with the location and a request to RSVP. It might be fun. I deserve some fun.
‘So,’ I say to David. ‘Gigi’s party. What kind of party will it be?’
David gives me his direct look, his blue eyes meeting mine. He hesitates for a moment and then he says with a smile, ‘The usual kind. Drinks, food. Why?’
His dark blue eyes pierce me to my soul.
I look quickly away; it’s like looking into the sun. But being unable to meet his eyes is not a good move – it’s very shifty. ‘I was just wondering, that’s all. What are you going to do about your stall?’
‘Close it down for the weekend. I booked the house way before I left my job so obviously at the time I didn’t know it was going to be a problem.’
I make most of my money at the weekend. And I’ve just bought those dresses at the auction, which I’m keen to sell on. I’m distracted from my musings by a customer; another smiling face from the past.
‘Er, Fern? Hi! It’s Bethan,’ she adds, to jog my memory.
‘Hi!’ Bethan hasn’t changed much since I last saw her – she’s still got short, highlighted hair, and she’s wearing cropped jeans and a blue-and-white check shirt. She’s somewhere in her fifties and there’s a sadness about her, despite her smile.
‘Do you remember me? I came to see you a few years back when my ex married again.’
‘Of course I remember you.’
She chuckles. ‘You threatened to burn my fleece.’
I remember that fleece; the least flattering garment a woman could wear.
‘Did I?’ I steer her away from David, who’s just made some kind of noise, a cross between a snort and a laugh. Honestly, it’s surprising I wasn’t fired a lot sooner than I was. ‘This is my stall here.’
‘Small, isn’t it? I saw you in the Camden New Journal. Not being funny, but you haven’t exactly risen from the ashes yet then – this is a bit different from personal shopping. No champagne, I don’t suppose?’
I laugh merrily. ‘Sadly, no.’
‘It’s crisis time again. My daughter, Zoe, is getting married and of course he wants his new wife to be there. If I had my way she wouldn’t go; what’s it got to do with her? She’s not her daughter,’ Bethan says heatedly. ‘It’s sickening. He’s making such a big deal of the whole thing because he’s paying for it. He and I got married quietly in Tuscany. It was a small wedding with a handful of good friends and it was, you know, lovely. That’s the kind of wedding Zoe wants.’ For a moment, she turns her head, blinking away the tears. ‘But no, he wants her to do it “properly”,’ she says, drawing imaginary speech marks around the word, ‘as if ours was some kind of second-rate way to tie the knot. And his mother loves his new wife because, apparently, she’s so approachable, and his mother is sure if I make an effort that we’ll get on perfectly well. See?’ She shrugs miserably. ‘Everything’s perfect, apart from me.’
‘“If you make an effort?”,’ I repeat. ‘Why do you have to get on with her at all? That’s a big ask, in the circumstances.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Bethan curls her lip and forces a laugh. ‘As if it’s just a matter of putting my mind to it. The worst thing is, his new wife really is nice. She’s got one of those faces that – uch.’ She shudders.
I hazard a guess. ‘Too much make-up?’
‘Ha! Worse than that! She doesn’t wear any at all. She looks really innocent and pure, like a cherub or a seraph, but not the ones that just have a head and two wings, I mean the normal-looking ones. And her hair is all – natural. She wears organic cotton.’
I’ve never heard anyone put so much contempt into the word natural before. ‘She sounds awful.’
Bethan opens her tote and finds a tissue. ‘Yeah. She’s not though, that’s the problem. She’s much nicer than I am. How can I fight that?’ She blows her nose violently and tucks the tissue into her jeans. ‘Sorry. Anyway. Bottom line, I need an outfit that makes me look nice, even if I don’t feel it. If I look good and I don’t drink any alcohol at all, I think I can get through it.’
It’s a tough brief. Nice. I’ve never met anyone who wants to look nice before – I’m not even sure what it looks like. ‘Just to clarify – nice like Kate Middleton?’
Bethan shudders. ‘No, she’s too mumsy. I don’t want to look as if I’m just the mother of his child. I want him to look at me and feel at least a pang of regret for Tuscany. But I don’t want to look too sexy, either, because that’s going to make me look desperate.’ Her gaze skims disinterestedly over the clothes hanging up behind me.
I know in a flash of insight exactly what she means and exactly how she needs to look to give her the confidence to get through the day. ‘Don’t go for nice,’ I tell her. ‘You can’t out-nice the nice new wife. You want to look a bit edgy, kind of da
ngerous,’ I tell her. ‘Believe me, the last thing you want to do is look nice.’
‘Dangerous.’ Bethan smiles, and for a moment her cloud of sadness lifts. ‘As if I’m capable of anything. Well I am,’ she adds. ‘I’m Welsh.’
‘Exactly! You want to look so amazing that no one can take their eyes off you. Because they’re scared of taking their eyes off you.’
Bethan nods. ‘And I want people to wonder why the hell he left me.’
‘You need a what-the-hell dress.’ And I know the very one, the black one with red silk chiffon sleeves. I unhook the dress for her to look at it.
The red sleeves are full and floaty against the black satin and it doesn’t look at all like the sort of dress that the mother of the bride would wear to a wedding breakfast (unless she was still wearing it from the night before).
Dinah has turned up mid-conversation, apparently having heard enough to get her interested. ‘Wear it with a red hat,’ Dinah says, ‘a big one.’
‘Bethan, this is Dinah, my assistant. Dinah, this is Bethan, a good client of mine.’
Dinah pouts at me, probably because I’ve called her my assistant.
‘A red hat?’ Bethan asks Dinah. ‘How about a fascinator?’
Dinah lets out a little shriek. ‘Not a fascinator; never a fascinator – it’s an apology of a hat. You want a statement hat and red lipstick. Not that pink you’re wearing now, which is pointless because you can barely see it. Red. Make sure you leave it on some collars.’
Bethan laughs a real good belly laugh and goes behind the makeshift curtain while Dinah and I wait outside, breathless with anticipation.
Dinah’s clasping her hands together. ‘And black shoes, not those flesh ones, yuk!’ She covers her eyes theatrically. ‘Fern, you have some hats in your house?’
‘No, I don’t sell hats.’
‘What can I tell you, we should get hats,’ Dinah murmurs under her breath as if it’s long been a bone of contention between us.
‘Women don’t wear hats to weddings anymore.’
Dinah looks askance. ‘What weddings do you go to, that they have no hats?’
Just then, Bethan comes out from behind the screen, putting an end to our bickering.
Knees together, a quick wiggle, turning her back to us. ‘Could you zip me up, please?’
Dinah gets there first and Bethan turns around then strikes a pose for us. It’s then that I know so certainly it’s the dress for her that tears spring to my eyes. It fits her like a dream. ‘Perfect!’
Dinah isn’t so easily pleased. She turns Bethan around, looking at her critically from close to and then stepping back across the alley, all the way to the wall of Stables Market, where she makes binoculars of her two hands before coming close again to smooth the silk over Bethan’s hips.
Honestly, I’ve never seen such a performance in all my life.
‘Perfection,’ Dinah declares at last, opening up her arms to catch imaginary bouquets from the heavens.
She’s incorrigible.
‘David, let’s have a man’s opinion.’
David gets to his feet, turns his clear, intimate gaze on Bethan and raises his dark eyebrows.
It doesn’t sound much, compared with Dinah’s extravagant display of admiration, but Bethan blushes and clutches her throat.
How does he do that?
Bethan’s excitement shows all over her face. ‘I’d never think to wear this for a wedding,’ she says. ‘Dare I?’ She raises her arms and the sun glows through the floaty red sleeves.
‘Oh, my dahlink – heh – I’d give anything, truly, to see your ex-husband’s face when he sees you.’
‘And a hat …’
‘Tell you what, Dinah’ll go hat shopping with you. Won’t you, Dinah?’ I say, volunteering her.
‘Who, me? Well, maybe I could. Why not?’
Bethan smiles, closes the curtain. As she takes the dress off she says, slightly muffled, ‘I didn’t ask you the price.’
‘It’s two hundred and fifty pounds,’ Dinah says.
What? I glare at Dinah, annoyed on two counts: first, because it’s not her decision to make, and secondly, because I can’t drop the price now.
Bethan comes back out holding the dress. To my surprise, she gets her credit card out and seems okay with the price, but still, it should have been my decision. I wrap the dress up in tissue and she and Dinah make arrangements to meet in Fenwick in Bond Street the following day.
Once she’s gone, Dinah sits on my stool, admiring her legs and looking very pleased with herself.
Me, I’m not so pleased. In fact, I’m annoyed. ‘You know we’ve overcharged her.’
Dinah glowers at me and turns away.
After a few more minutes of silence I relent and say, ‘I know you’re looking at it from a business point of view, but—’
‘Business?’ Dinah explodes. ‘Of course, business! But, more importantly, she loves that dress. You saw her. How’s she going to feel about it if she doesn’t pay much for it? Who feels good in a cheap dress? At her daughter’s wedding? With the mother-in-law and the second wife there? She wants to splash out the cash – don’t you know anything about women?’ She gets to her feet and stalks off.
She doesn’t go far. Coming back, she says patiently, ‘Huh. It’s not your fault. You’re no businesswoman, that’s the problem. Lucky for you, you’ve got me around.’
LOT 14
Yellow Chloé dress with fitted lace overlaid bodice, cutaway sleeves and silk chiffon handkerchief hem, 1970s.
‘Who better to look after my stall for the weekend of the party than Dinah Moss? She’s a bloody good saleswoman,’ I tell Lucy. ‘I’ll probably be able to retire by Monday.’
It’s getting dark and we’re sitting outside in my garden under the ragged banana trees, drinking cider. The lights are going on in the windows around us. Above us, the navy sky is studded sparsely with stars that are outshone by the city’s glow. ‘See that there? That’s Leo. Possibly,’ I add, because they look very faint. ‘I recognise it from David Westwood’s light boxes.’
‘Tell me again why you’re going to this party?’ Lucy asks suspiciously.
‘Because! Because Gigi likes vintage and her friends like vintage, so I’m going to be handing out my business cards and doing a bit of networking.’ I chink my glass against hers.
‘Oh, is that all? A bit of networking. Nothing to do with the fact that you fancy her partner and want to know him a little better then?’
‘Lucy Mills! Shame on you! Of course not! David’s totally in love with Gigi. He’s making her a beautiful chopping board for her birthday.’
‘Why? Is she a butcher?’
‘Ha ha!’ I say. ‘It’s made of burwood, which is really hard to work with.’
‘Burwood? Get you! Since when have you been interested in carpentry?’
‘No, listen, he’s personalising it. He’s carved her name on it and her date of birth.’
‘Oh, he’s carved her name on it! Why didn’t you say so? That makes all the difference.’
Her sarcasm makes me defend him more heatedly than it warrants. ‘It’s romantic,’ I tell her. ‘He’s put a lot of work into it. Even if she hardly ever uses it, she’s going to love it just because he’s made it.’
Lucy’s silent for a moment, mulling it over. ‘You think?’
‘I would, wouldn’t you?’ A moth flutters towards us and folds up on the lighted window.
‘In that case, lucky her.’
If he’d carved my name on it, I’d cherish it forever. I look longingly up at the dark sky, trying to see it as he sees it, and I feel a shiver of misgiving.
Lucy’s right. I’ve got it bad.
I haven’t got a car because it’s too expensive for me to drive in London, with the congestion and emissions charge, so I arranged to borrow my mother’s motor to drive to Gigi’s birthday party in the Cotswolds.
This involves catching the train to Berkhamsted first, to pick up the car
from their house. I get there by two o’clock. Shamelessly, as a walking endorsement of Fern Banks Vintage, and nothing to do with David, I’m wearing a yellow off-the-shoulder crêpe-de-Chine long dress with a lace bodice. I’ve let my hair dry naturally and it’s got a bit of a curl.
My mother answers the door. She’s wearing a pink Ralph Lauren cotton sweater and white jeans. Her hair’s tied up in a ponytail and she’s uncharacteristically pale.
‘Hi, Mum.’
She winces, as if I’ve scraped my fork on her favourite china. ‘I’d prefer you to call me Annabel, darling.’ After brushing her cheek lightly against mine by way of greeting, she stands back to look at me without comment.
The house is very quiet. ‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask, because since he’s retired, they do everything together.
‘He’s at yoga,’ she says and smiles ruefully at my surprise. ‘I know! Can you believe it? He says it helps him de-stress. Come on through. I’ve made us a late lunch. We never have the chance to talk, just the two of us.’
Lunch? I’d imagined grabbing the car keys and staying for a quick coffee, maybe, to be in the Cotswolds by late afternoon, but I follow her into the dining room.
The table is set for two, formally, with white linen. I don’t know how long yoga lasts, but my father’s obviously not joining us. Through the French windows, the lawn is as bright and precision-cut as a bowling green, the borders are weedless, the laurel bushes shaped into perfect spheres. ‘What’s he stressed about?’ I ask, half expecting her to say me.
‘I don’t know and I’m not sure he does, either. He’s not sleeping very well.’
‘Do you want a hand in the kitchen?’
‘Sit. It’s all ready, darling.’ She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a salad of leaves, capers and pomegranate seeds, and a plate of goat’s cheese. She sits opposite me and gives a faint smile as she unfolds her napkin.
It’s been so long since we spent time together, just the two of us, that the silence is unsettling. ‘Everything’s all right between you two, isn’t it?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course. We get in each other’s hair from time to time, but retirement is a period of transition. The Bennetts went through the same thing. Francis said at one point he was thinking of committing a crime so that Ruth could only visit him in prison once a week.’
A Random Act of Kindness Page 16
