‘But you like these best?’
‘I like these best,’ he agrees, pouring the hot water.
‘Is it because you’re romantic, or just because they’re nice gifts for people?’ I say, leaning on the worktop, trying to help him out because I don’t want him to feel I’ve put him on the spot.
‘I’ll tell you why,’ he says, handing me the coffee and looking into my eyes. ‘The universe is so immense that it puts my life into perspective. And the stars are orderly, a constant, millions of years old while we spin around them. When I’m down, the whole world seems dark, but then I look at the stars and I realise I’m nothing but an infinitesimal spark of energy, nothing more than that.’
‘You’ve been unhappy?’ I don’t need a difficult mother for this particular insight.
‘Yes. I was for a while. Something was missing in my life. I thought Gigi might be the answer, but it went deeper than that. Anyway, I’m better now. My life’s good. You make it easy, Fern.’ He goes into the lounge and comes back with two pieces of Perspex, which he slots into the light box side by side. ‘This is for you.’ He puts it on the worktop and plugs it in. He points to the left one. ‘It’s Virgo.’
‘Aww,’ I say, staring at the constellations, touched by the gift of my very own piece of the night sky. Then I start to laugh. ‘David, I’m not a Virgo.’
‘No, but I am.’ He smiles at me and his eyes crease, and his mouth is on mine and it’s such an incredible kiss that I feel I can take on the world.
LOT 28
White ostrich-feather bolero. Cream satin lining. Coast. One size.
Before I can take on the world, I have to take on my mother.
And I’m going to try not to be too fearful or anxious about her response. It’s not only dogs that bark, my mother barks, too. It’s what she does.
After leaving David’s with my light box, feeling pretty buoyant about things, I hear someone calling me on Chalk Farm Road and it’s Lucy, who’s sitting outside Cotton’s looking gorgeous in the Le Smoking-style trouser suit, with gelled-back hair and a white silk evening scarf.
She’s been given a part in an all-female remake of The Great Gatsby and she’s on a high.
She finishes her coffee and as we’re walking home together along the canal, which is so dense with duckweed that it looks as if it’s lined with artificial grass, I apologise for my mother’s habit of banging on her ceiling with the mop.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got used to it,’ Lucy says. ‘She’s a funny old girl, isn’t she?’
I give a rueful smile. No one has ever described my mother like that before. The hypnotherapy has made me think a bit more about what my mother’s done with her life, which is basically to look good. And she does look good, in a sphinx-style kind of way. I start to wonder if she’s actually not been putting me down all this time but trying to spur me on in her own weird way.
I ask Lucy what she thinks about this theory.
Lucy gestures with her white gloves, which makes her look like a mime artist. ‘Could be. She admires achievement in others. That whole Malcolm McDowell thing. Remember? When she thought I was starring with him in The Gatehouse?’
‘Yes. That’s true.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s ambitious for you. It’s natural that our parents want us to do better than them.’
‘That’s what David said. Something like that, anyway.’ We stand aside to let a wobbling cyclist pass.
The sound of plaintive mandolin music drifts towards us. It’s the music punt, sitting low in the water, with a group of tourists looking happy as they’re serenaded through the weed towards the lock.
‘You’ve got to give the folks something to be proud of once in a while and throw them an achievement now and then,’ Lucy says. ‘It keeps them going for ages, and they feel they’ve done something right and they’re not total failures. They’re an insecure lot, parents.’
That my parents might be insecure has never occurred to me. They act as if they’ve got all the answers. ‘How do you know so much about it?’
‘Well, I’ve had mine ages,’ Lucy says airily. ‘Since before I was born. How about you?’
‘Same.’ We seem to have got incredibly wise all of a sudden.
We leave the canal by the horse stairs and cross the road towards our street.
‘So, what’s in the bag?’
‘It’s one of David’s light boxes.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ She turns her full attention to me. ‘Fern Banks! Do tell.’
‘He’s a Virgo.’
‘Ah, a Virgo. Neat, self-motivated, cautious, sensitive?’
I laugh. ‘All of those.’
‘You’ll suit each other,’ she says. ‘Good for you, Fern.’
We’re now outside our house.
Lucy goes up the three steps to her flat. I go down the steps to mine.
I can hear voices inside. My mother: laughing merrily.
And a man, laughing heartily.
But it’s not my father’s laugh.
My stomach crunches into a ball.
Well, it’s all clear now, isn’t it, the reason she left home? She’s got herself a love nest and like a cuckoo, she’s manoeuvring me, the little chick, out of it. Right.
I make as much noise as possible as I open the front door. Then I stamp vigorously on our new Home, Sweet Home doormat until I practically wear the tread off my shoes.
‘Darling!’ my mother cries effusively, coming into the hall. ‘You do have the nicest friends!’
Do I?
And sitting next to each other on the red sofa, Bloody Marys in hand, is Cato Hamilton in his tweeds and Kim Aston who’s wearing my mother’s white ostrich-feather bolero.
It turns out that they haven’t come to see my mother at all, they’ve come to see me, but my mother, sorry, Annabel, has invited them to wait. They must have been waiting ages, because Cato and Kim look pink and rosy, and my mother looks extremely merry in a beige cashmere dress slit to the knee. She’s chewing on a stringy celery stick.
‘They’ve come about the fashion show,’ my mother tells me.
Seriously, how long have I been out of the house? ‘What fashion show?’
‘Fashion show and auction,’ Cato says, undoing the top button of his tweed waistcoat, thereby recklessly breaking with sartorial tradition.
‘Yes, fashion show and auction,’ Kim agrees.
I honestly have no idea what they’re talking about. ‘What are you auctioning?’
‘Dinah’s fake Chanels and special frocks your clients have bought from you that have made a difference to them,’ Kim says. ‘Proceeds to a charity of your choice.’
‘Really?’ I ask, deeply touched, fingering the neckline of my nude dress. I can feel my throat tighten.
‘Yes, everyone wants to get involved – it’s the best way we could think of to thank you.’
I’m stunned, overcome with gratitude.
‘Oh,’ he adds, fishing for something on the sofa, ‘that reminds me – here you are, Fern, here’s your client book back.’
I’m astounded. ‘I wondered where that had gone!’ I take the book from him and flick through the names that bring warmth to my heart and I look at Kim again, my eyes blurring. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘I’m going to teach the models the catwalk strut,’ my mother says, hanging on to her glass and wobbling to her feet to demonstrate. ‘Look at me! I’ve still got it!’ she declares triumphantly, holding onto the wall for support.
Kim raises his glass to her.
‘You know what your business USP is, Fern?’ Cato asks me. ‘Customer service. The personal touch. Everyone talks about it. That’s why your clients keep coming back.’
‘Do you really have to go back into a department store?’ Kim asks kindly, extracting a stray feather from his mouth.
‘No,’ I admit, glancing at Annabel.
‘I should think not, Fern. Why on earth would you? You’re making such a success of things,’ m
y mother says in such a brazen turnabout that I’m once again lost for words.
LOT 29
From Christian Dior’s first collection, 1947, la Ligne Corolle, the iconic ‘Bar’ suit comprising a corseted waspwaisted skirt suit of Shantung silk and wool crêpe pleated skirt, with padded hips. 10/36, from the collection of Dinah Moss.
Moss is sitting outside the shop, recovered from his viral infection. He’s having a coffee break in the sunshine to top up his vitamin D while he reads the Jewish Chronicle. The top button of his white shirt is unbuttoned, his sleeves are rolled up and his jacket is folded carefully over the back of his chair.
David is sitting at his table, meticulously personalising a light box for a wedding anniversary. Sensing my longing gaze on him, he looks up at me and smiles. I smile back with a sudden rush of heat and the sensation makes me melt with pleasure.
I don’t know if there’s anything in the whole astrology business, but Lucy called it perfectly. He’s neat, self-motivated, cautious, sensitive. And good-looking, very good-looking. I’d be crazy to leave that fact out.
The aroma of stirfry is wafting over from the food stalls. My frocks are quivering on their rails in the summer breeze and passing women are coming to look at them like butterflies attracted to flowers. I’m wearing an electric-blue dress with wide Eighties shoulder pads that makes me feel like an American footballer, able to tackle anything, which is lucky because I’ve got my notebook on my knee, and I’ve been given the task of compiling the auction catalogue using Tallulah Young’s post-sales reports as a guide to the estimates.
I’m still working on it when my mother unexpectedly turns up at lunchtime in her taupe Sweaty Betty gym gear, cream hair in a ponytail, looking remarkably pleased with herself. Commanding our attention with her hands on her hips, she says, ‘Hello everybody, guess where I’ve been?’
I close my notebook. ‘Taking a wild guess here – the gym?’
‘No.’ She sits on the edge of David’s table. ‘Just for the record, darling, Ruth Bennett was completely wrong,’ she says, loosening her hair so that it falls around her face. She looks at David over her shoulder. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ he replies cheerfully.
‘Wrong about what?’ I ask eagerly, wondering what accounts for her good mood.
‘Your father’s yoga teacher is not a femme fatale.’ She smirks. ‘He happens to be a chap in his sixties from Amsterdam. The class is for retired men.’
‘Uh-oh,’ I laugh, ‘don’t tell me – you crashed it, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ she says smugly. ‘I was asked to leave.’
I grin, sensing from her tone there’s more. ‘And?’ I prompt her.
‘And then Jonathan came rushing out after me,’ she says, suddenly as breathless as a schoolgirl on her first crush. ‘He’s desperate for us to talk things over. But of course, I had to get back here, because I’m teaching Kim how to walk in heels. Oops!’ She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, darling; it’s supposed to be a surprise.’
This is news to me. ‘Wow. It’s literally going to be a whole new step for Kim.’
‘I honestly could not have that man striding down the runway in flats. My reputation depends on it.’
She has sent invitations out to fashion magazines, dailies and supplements, name-dropping wildly.
That’s interesting, but I bring her back to the main topic. ‘So … how did you leave things with Dad?’
‘Let’s just say he’s taking me to dinner tonight and I’ve decided to give him a second chance. The fashion show has sparked up old memories of my modelling days, if you know what I mean.’ She looks over her shoulder at David. ‘For your information, David, old is a figure of speech, I’d just like to point out.’
‘I know that,’ he says mildly.
David remains wonderfully impervious to both her charms and her moods. I’m getting better at coping with them too; I’d say my current transformation is from a wilting orchid to a thriving dandelion, which is never a look I thought I’d go for.
Moss lowers his newspaper. ‘Annabel, listen, anyone asks, tell them you’re over twenty-one,’ he advises my mother soberly.
She’s flattered. ‘You’re right, Moss,’ she says. ‘That’s all anyone needs to know about me. No Dinah today?’
‘My bride will be here soon,’ Moss replies confidently, looking at his watch. He folds up his newspaper and gets slowly to his feet. ‘This fashion show and auction. The proceeds are for refugees, no?’
I nod. It wasn’t a difficult decision, seeing as the main attraction will be Dinah’s ‘Chanel-style’ suits, as I’ve cautiously described them. ‘Why?’
Moss’s worn face creases into an enigmatic smile and he taps his nose.
My mother gets up from the edge of David’s table. ‘I’m going to start holding deportment classes. Our models might not be all model-shaped, but I’m making damned sure they’ll walk like them,’ she says nobly. She waggles her fingers at us. ‘See you later,’ she adds as she struts away.
I go back to my pricing, scratching my head with my pen.
‘Good afternoon,’ Dinah announces moments later, bulldozing her way through the crowds, pushing a large, shiny silver suitcase. She’s wearing a pink and cream tea-length dress and a little cream jacket with strings of pink faux pearls. She looks as cool as an ice cream. ‘Where’s mein mann? Oh, there you are.’
David and I exchange glances, because she and Moss are so obviously up to something.
However, she seems to have a crisis of confidence because she clasps her hands together and says to Moss, ‘You tell her.’
‘Very well.’ Moss puts his black jacket on, as if he suddenly feels improperly dressed. He fastens the top button. ‘Fern, we have an additional item for the auction. My bride and I have decided to sell Christian Dior’s ‘Bar’ Suit,’ he announces with gravitas.
It’s like being punched in the chest. This is huge! I’m astounded, and speechless. This is the ‘New Look’ waspwaisted skirt suit of Shantung silk and wool crêpe that Dinah showed me the first day I went to her house.
‘It’s a very sexy ensemble,’ Dinah adds for David’s benefit, playing with the beads around her neck. ‘Dior was a sexy man – he died having sex,’ she explains to David matter-of-factly. ‘Trust me, dahlink, don’t you believe what anyone else says; that he choked on a fishbone. The fishbone story is all nonsense because he hated fish, he told me so himself. Anyway. We want to give this ensemble to the auction.’
Moss adds, ‘Also we would like it to be labelled From the Collection of Dinah Moss.’
Despite the sunshine, I can feel the warmth draining out of me. I’m in a state of shock. ‘Moss, I’m telling you, this is something else. This a game changer.’
Moss jerks his head. ‘Don’t you worry,’ he says gruffly, ‘we already know how much it’s worth. Kim has a google. Six figures, he says. Now you tell her,’ he says to Dinah.
Dinah clears her throat and steps forward, pushing the shiny suitcase towards me. ‘In here we have a gift for you. Keep the case, too and get rid of that old noisy one.’ She frowns. ‘You still have it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anyway.’ She waves at the case. ‘Go on! Open it.’
I crouch down on the cobbles and open it nervously.
Wrapped in tissue is the Grès ivory one-shouldered Grecian-draped full-length couture gown that I’d tried on in her dressing room. It’s too much. Overcome by their kindness I try to control my emotions. ‘Thank you both so much.’
‘Come. Get up. Don’t cry,’ Dinah says kindly, reaching for my hand. Her fingers grip mine tightly. ‘It’s for you to wear at your wedding. It will make you happy.’
I get up slowly, holding the dress in my other hand, glad that that my hair is loose and hiding my flushed face, and risk a glance at David.
The situation between me and David is that despite spending our spare time in his bed like two people who have been separated from
each other for way too long, I am still spending my nights on the sofa in the flat.
I know he’s not on the rebound from Gigi, because he’s told me so. But I don’t want to move in with him for the wrong reasons, because it’s expedient, or even if it just seems that way. So marriage isn’t anything that we’ve talked about and I don’t want him to feel forced into it by Moss and Dinah’s romantic dreams.
He’s watching me with a smile as I clutch the gown. He mouths, ‘I love you’ at me, and then he covers his eyes. ‘I don’t want to see it yet,’ he says. ‘I want you to surprise me.’
KIM
I’m in Betty’s parlour, wearing navy stilettos and a Jean Muir navy jersey dress with plenty of stretch, hopping from one foot to the other because my toes are crushed together, tortured and squashed unnaturally into tiny cones of leather, hurting like they’ve never hurt before.
‘Kim, don’t be such a baby,’ Annabel says briskly, flicking her pale hair away from her face. ‘Are you ready? One more time!’
For some reason, Mercia and Betty, who I normally think of as my friends, find this all very amusing, but Annabel is unsympathetic. She starts the music again, issuing orders.
‘Go! Swing your hips, Kim! Don’t slump! Keep your head up! Strut, don’t mince! That’s better! Keep going! Aim for the window! Stride, stride, stride, stride … No, no, no. That won’t do at all. Watch me!’
I’m ruing the day that Betty got rid of the kilims because I would happily break my ankle at this moment so I’d never have to swing my hips again.
‘I’m just going to put the kettle on,’ Betty says, taking pity on me, and I gladly kick off my navy shoes and slump next to Mercia on the sofa.
To my surprise, once the shoes are off and I’ve propped my feet on a stool in the shape of a carved elephant, my mood improves and life immediately starts looking up again.
‘This is my reputation on the line,’ Annabel explains, by way of apology. ‘The whole world will be watching us!’
Not the whole world, but fashion archivists from museums in Japan, the USA, France and the UK have all expressed an interest in Dinah’s Dior gown, a gown which I am told changed fashion forever.
A Random Act of Kindness Page 30
