A Random Act of Kindness

by Sophie Jenkins

  I can imagine the ancients lying on the grass looking at the sky. ‘Hey, guys, who else can see a ram?’

  ‘Yeah, man, it’s a ram, for sure.’

  At the back of the shop, Moss is working his way through the rail of dresses waiting to be altered, humming to himself in time with the sewing machine.

  I look around for the unhappy-looking woman, but she’s gone, to my regret. Glancing at the rail, I notice … just a minute! Oh, great. The yellow dress has gone, too.

  I hurry into the yard in a rush of anger, outraged at what she’s stolen from me, as surely as if she’s taken the money right out of my purse. I want to get hold of her and scream at her and snatch the dress out of her hands but as I spin round, she’s lost in the crowds. I curse her under my breath, knowing that it’s my own fault. I should have kept my eye on her.

  I go back to the shop, my heart pounding, trying to get my emotions under control, trying to look on the bright side. Who knows? That dress might be just what she needs. She might put it on, take the rubber band from her hair and find herself smiling …

  Dinah shows up just then, wearing a black Susan Small dress with diamante buttons. Very chic. She’s making obscure hand signals at me like a bad mime artist.

  ‘Morning!’

  ‘Quiet! Where’s Moss?’ she whispers dramatically.

  ‘Right there,’ I say.

  ‘Is he busy?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No! Don’t call him! This is top secret. Come!’ She puts her reading glasses on and smooths out the travel section of the newspaper on David’s table. ‘Listen to this! “A luxury hotel, set in verdant gardens overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, Belmond Reid’s Palace is the ultimate place to stretch out in the sun and relax.”’ She looks at me brightly over her glasses to gauge the keenness of my interest and continues, ‘“Over the years this luxury hideaway has honed the art of pampering, earning a reputation as one of the best hotels in Funchal.” Five stars, and a pool. You been there?’

  ‘No, but it sounds wonderful. Luxury hideaway. Pampering.’

  ‘Stretching out in the sun.’ She lifts her face to the cloudy sky as if she can already feel the warmth on it. ‘It’s a surprise for Moss. It’s for our platinum wedding anniversary. Seventy years.’

  Despite the fact I’ve had it up to here with surprises, it does sound intensely romantic.

  ‘Seventy years,’ I say, marvelling. Literally, a whole lifetime.

  ‘Don’t worry, dahlink,’ she says consolingly, ‘your time will come.’

  ‘You think so?’ The pure hope that sparks up in me when she says that!

  Never one to miss an emotion, she lowers her voice. ‘I’m telling you as a friend, let him into your heart.’

  I shoot a glance at David, who’s now talking to the partner of the bearded man, and they’re back on the subject of Pisces, allegedly the imaginative and dreamy signs of the zodiac. ‘Let him into my heart,’ I repeat. ‘I’m not sure what that means. Anyway, he might not want to come in. He might prefer to hang around on the doorstep.’

  ‘Okay, stop with making the jokes. That’s why you’re single. Men don’t like a joker.’

  ‘If that were true, women comics would all be single.’

  Dinah purses her lips to show her disapproval of my facetiousness. ‘You have my forgiveness,’ she says, ‘only because I need your help. For this luxury hideaway holiday, I’m going to sell three or four of my Chanel suits.’

  My heart lurches with nervous excitement. ‘You’re kidding!’ I whisper. ‘What’s Moss going to say? He’s not going to be happy about that.’

  ‘Of course he isn’t! It’s insufferably rude to giveaway gifts.’ She pats my face. ‘Don’t worry; he’ll be fine. I’m not giving away my favourites.’

  Remembering Moss’s possessiveness over Dinah’s wardrobe, it’s not much of a consolation. ‘Talk it over with him first,’ I advise, seeing as I seem to be so good at giving advice these days. ‘He wasn’t very happy that I’d tried on your Grès gown and that’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Dinah says as if she’s scored a point. ‘If I ask him, he’ll say no.’

  ‘So don’t do it.’ I’m getting a strong sense of déjà vu. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt recently about surprises, it’s that they can go horribly wrong.

  ‘Don’t do what?’ David asks, coming into the conversation now that his customers have left with his largest size of light box.

  ‘Dinah wants to surprise Moss with a holiday for their wedding anniversary and to fund it she wants to sell her Chanel,’ I whisper.

  His features soften in a way that makes him look like a kid watching a Disney film.

  ‘Dinah, your marriage,’ he says, ‘is so romantic that despite everything, it gives me faith in everlasting love.’

  ‘See?’ she says to me triumphantly. ‘Listen to him! It’s romantic!’

  ‘You must have practically been a child when you married,’ he says.

  Maybe Dinah’s right. Maybe I should let him into my heart instead of standing here cynically rolling my eyes.

  ‘I want you to come with me to the auction house to get them valued. You understand what I want?’ Dinah says, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. ‘Maximum bucks for this holiday. You know the woman. You’ll see she gives me a fair price?’

  ‘Hang on, she’s not buying them from you, it’s up to the buyers bidding on the day.’

  The sewing machine falls silent. David looks up. ‘Quick! Moss is coming!’ he says and he snatches up the travel section, folds it hastily and tucks it under his arm, and we stand around wearing our most innocent expressions.

  ‘Dahlink!’ Dinah says to her husband, arms wide and all smiles.

  ‘My bride!’

  The deceit of it.

  A group of girls comes in and they tell me they’re Daisy’s friends, and can they, too, have a student discount? One of them buys a red organza top and as soon as they’ve gone, and Moss is back at his machine, Dinah says firmly, ‘So, the Chanel. I have many Chanel suits – I’m not going to miss a couple of them. Tell me, are you in?’

  I’ve got a bad feeling about both it and love in general, to be honest.

  David’s holding up the travel supplement and Dinah’s watching me, arms folded, so influenced by peer pressure, I agree to get involved, against my better judgement, in the plan to fund the platinum anniversary gift.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited by my impending proximity to so much Chanel. I make an appointment with Tallulah Young to have Dinah’s suits valued.

  The sun is out and David has moved into the shade. He’s eating a salad out of a Tupperware bowl and balancing the lid of his flask on his book. He looks slightly more cheerful today, as if he’s starting to feel better after a long illness. The reappearance of the flask is a good sign, I think.

  ‘Has Dinah really got enough clothes to convert into a holiday for two?’ he asks.

  I pull my stool up to sit next to him. ‘Absolutely. She could go on a world cruise, if she wanted. Unbelievable. Worth an absolute fortune.’

  ‘Vintage?’

  ‘Haute couture.’

  He laughs then puts the lid back on his salad, pours us both a coffee and looks at me curiously. The light stripes his tanned cheekbone.

  ‘How did Moss make his money? Do you know?’

  ‘He worked for Chanel before the war and then for Norman Hartnell when he came here. Norman Hartnell made the Queen’s wedding dress. Before she was actually Queen, of course.’ I shouldn’t have said that; it might remind him of his failed wedding plans. But David doesn’t seem to notice.

  He stretches his legs. ‘It must be a bit of a comedown for him, working here under a railway arch.’

  I watch a family of holidaymakers ambling past in the sunshine, eating Magnum ice creams. I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking about it. ‘You could say the same about us.’

  He laughs. ‘That’s true. You’re happy th
ough, aren’t you?’

  I think about it and realise that I am. I look at his light boxes. ‘All I need now is a compatible constellation to fit next to mine.’ I’m not sure why I say it. Looking for a response, I suppose. Anyway, he doesn’t take me up on it, so I wish I hadn’t bothered.

  On Monday, while Moss has gone to the sports centre for a morning swim, I get the all clear from Dinah and make my way to her house.

  Dinah takes me straight up to her dressing-room heaven and we stand in the golden light while she opens the wardrobe doors as she did before.

  I swear I can hear angelic music.

  She checks the Polaroids on each garment bag before she unzips them and takes a deep satisfied breath. ‘These are Moss’s birthday presents to me.’ She flashes me an ironic smile. ‘At my age I can afford to lose a few.’ She pulls a bag from the rail and hands it to me. ‘This green one can go. Comes with this camisole. I’m not so keen on green; it doesn’t suit my complexion. It’s 1950s; you can tell by the length of the skirt. Hold it, please.

  ‘This black-and-gold one, too, and the gold blouse; I wore it a lot – good for day and through to evening, you see? Also Fifties. Look at the contrasting lining! Beautiful. This one with the higher hemline, this is Eighties, you can see, when Karl Lagerfeld moved to Chanel he took the hemlines up – dahlink, let me tell you, Coco would have turned in her grave! She hated women to show their knees. Maybe she was right; the skirt is a little short for me now. Also this white suit with the black braid. It’s not practical anymore; London is so filthy.’

  Struggling with the suits, I sit down on the ottoman.

  ‘How much would you say so far?’ she demands.

  ‘If the last sale is anything to go by, these should make about five hundred each, but as I said—’

  Dinah’s face lights up. ‘That’s enough! Good! Let me find you a good, decent holder for us to put them in and you can take them home tonight; I’ll arrange to meet up with you.’ She goes out of the room and comes back with an enormous leather suit carrier. Suits packed, we leave the house before Moss comes back from his swim.

  I’ve never personally sold anything at auction because of the steep auction costs. It’s more profitable for me to sell direct. So this is a new experience for me and I have the feeling that this is going to change my relationship with Tallulah Young, because she’ll realise I’m not just somebody who buys cheap lots – I’m a serious dealer. On the other hand … ‘What if Moss—’

  ‘Forget Moss!’ Dinah says as we wait at the Tube station. She looks so perky and elegant in a little red suit with a white silk blouse and pearl necklace.

  She’s quite calm, whereas I’m buzzing. She reaches across suddenly and pulls the sleeve of my PVC raincoat, startling me.

  ‘This is nice – and the beret, too. Very nice. And the red lipstick. This coat, how long have you had it?’

  ‘I’ve had it ages.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Thirty pounds from the Sue Ryder charity shop.’

  Dinah nods approvingly, pressing her red lips together. ‘It’s not cheap but also it’s not expensive. Makes you look a little like a hooker, but not too much.’

  On the Tube, I notice that she’s taken my advice and she’s wearing flat shoes.

  I, on the other hand, have taken her advice and I’m wearing heels.

  With a combination of heels and PVC I’m hot and bothered by the time we get to the auction room. I take my coat off, feeling the sweat cool under my arms, which was not the impression I was going for.

  We take a seat and wait our turn, the suit carrier spread over our laps. After a short time our names are called and we take the suit carrier over to the table, where Dinah takes her outfits lovingly out of their garment bags. I’m slightly disappointed that it’s not Tallulah Young herself doing the valuation but her assistant, Cathy, a woman with long dark hair who’s briskly efficient at her job. She examines the labels and looks at the suits with forensic thoroughness, holding them up against the light and examining the seams.

  Dinah’s playing with her pearls, her nose in the air, her eyes averted, and I wonder if she’s starting to regret it.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Perfectly,’ she says. She leans forward and says to Cathy sharply, ‘My husband bought these for me for my birthday.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ Cathy says, looking inside the sleeves. She examines the camisoles with equal thoroughness.

  I can sense that Dinah isn’t altogether happy. She starts fidgeting. ‘What are you looking for?’ she asks irritably.

  ‘I’m checking them for the condition report. So that we can make the valuation.’

  ‘This one here,’ Dinah says, jerking her thumb towards me, ‘thinks seven hundred pounds each. She’s a fashion curator.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Cathy says, looking at me briefly.

  I smile ingratiatingly.

  She lays the black-and-gold jacket down and checks the label again. Then she goes back to the green tweed suit. Now it’s the turn of the white one with the black braid and the A-line Sixties skirt that’s too short.

  ‘You looked at them already!’ Dinah says in frustration. ‘How many times?’

  Cathy gets to her feet. ‘I’m just going to have a word with Tallulah.’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ I say to Dinah once she’s out of the room, ‘what if they’re worth more than we thought? The Fifties ones have got to be rare.’

  ‘Maybe in that case I’ll only sell one,’ Dinah says. ‘The green one.’

  ‘Definitely the green one,’ I agree.

  We look at each other gleefully.

  Tallulah Young comes into the room with Cathy. She’s wearing a sleeveless cotton camisole and culottes, her grey hair tucked behind her ears. She doesn’t acknowledge either of us. She, too, looks carefully at the suits and then at the labels, and then she looks at Dinah. Her expression isn’t that of someone who’s about to deliver good news and I’m suddenly churned with nerves.

  ‘These aren’t right,’ the auctioneer says to Dinah. ‘We can’t accept them.’

  Dinah turns to me and spreads her hands in a gesture of incredulity. ‘What’s she saying? I don’t understand.’

  Me neither. ‘What’s the problem?’

  Tallulah Young says, ‘They’re couture standard, beautifully constructed, but the label’s wrong.’

  I’m confused. ‘In what way?’

  ‘You’re blind,’ Dinah says, her anger rising. ‘My husband bought these for me many years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tallulah says.

  I stare at her, utterly baffled by this development. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ She turns down her mouth in a gesture of sympathy. ‘I’m afraid there are a lot of fakes out there.’

  Cathy begins to move the garments from the table, draping them over the chairs we were originally sitting on.

  ‘Hey!’ Dinah says to Cathy. ‘Stop that!’ And to Tallulah: ‘Fakes?’

  I try to think of a rational explanation; how Moss, in the 1950s, came by these suits and was duped. ‘Moss must have been misled,’ I say.

  ‘Misled?’ Dinah seizes the word vigorously. ‘Who misled Moss?’

  ‘Look,’ I say, trying to climb out of the nightmare, ‘it might not even have been deliberate – what I mean is, the person who sold them to him might have been taken in as well, because as she just said, they’re haute couture quality.’

  Dinah interrupts me angrily. ‘What person who sold them to him? Coco Chanel? Of course they’re couture quality! They’re not copies! Let me tell you what they’re doing, Fern. They want it for a cheap price so they can put a low estimate on it. You can’t see that?’ She throws the green jacket at Tallulah. ‘They have labels!’ she yells.

  Tallulah hands the jacket to Cathy, who puts it with the others.

  I put my coat back on for a quick getaway. People are looking at us. I’m trying to keep calm.

  Dinah’s eyes flash
with anger. She pushes her chair back and the legs scream against the floor. ‘I don’t believe it. It’s not possible. It’s not possible.’ She frowns and pats her lips. ‘Moss bought them from Paris. He bought them from Paris, Fern. They have my measurements at the fashion house.’ She’s pleading with me to believe her. She winces in pain.

  ‘Dinah, are you okay?’ I say in alarm, afraid the shock is going to kill her.

  ‘We went to Claridge’s,’ she says, pushing away a strand of dark hair that’s falling into her eyes, ‘and he told me …’ She tails off and looks at me uncertainly, as though she can’t trust this story anymore. She turns back to Cathy. ‘All of them are fakes? Every one?’

  With obvious effort, she musters together her dignity and stands up very straight. ‘Well then, he couldn’t have bought them where he said he did, could he? They came from somewhere else.’

  All around us people are coming and going.

  Her mind is working the same routes as mine did and she clutches her throat. ‘Obviously, he lied to me about Paris. He knew they weren’t genuine, right?’ She blinks hard, squeezing back the tears.

  Trapped in her drama, I feel frozen. ‘I don’t know, Dinah. I guess so.’

  She takes in a deep, shuddering breath and looks through the window at a man pushing a buggy, a toddler kicking his chubby legs in the front. ‘Okay, so they’re copies,’ she says bitterly, nodding to herself. ‘As she says, good ones. Bah!’ She gazes out of the window thoughtfully and strokes her chin with her elegant fingers. ‘All that money for the real thing. So, if it’s as good as the real thing, it might as well be the real thing – it’s got the workmanship. That’s what he told himself, isn’t it? But where did he …?’

  The truth dawns on her and she raises her fine eyebrows. ‘Moss made them himself,’ she says.

  Of course he did. Now I understand why he was so hostile, why he didn’t want me to be friends with Dinah, why he didn’t want me to see her wardrobe. It wasn’t because he thought I was dishonest. It’s because he was.