I can’t say I’m surprised. Thanks to Fern, I already know the incredible power of a frock.
As I rest my feet, I notice that Betty has one of our invitations on her mantelpiece.
Fern Banks Vintage and Cato Hamilton Auctioneers.
You are cordially invited to a charity vintage designer fashion show and auction in the West Yard, Camden Lock for Refugee Aid.
Lots include Christian Dior’s ‘Bar’ Suit ‘New Look’, 1947 from the collection of Mrs Dinah Moss.
Viewing from 10 am to 5 pm
Fashion show and auction from 7 pm
We have unleashed a monster, as Mercia puts it and she’s not just talking about Annabel.
Cato has been in his element, hiring sound systems and lighting for the fashion show part of the evening, setting up phone lines, internet connections, renting marquees, measuring rostrums. He talks about hammer prices and valuation contracts, and then, at a meeting we had yesterday at Dinah’s, he slipped in the astonishing fact that the buyers’ premium of 20 per cent on commission bids comes to a decent five-figure sum on the Christian Dior alone.
Who’d have thought?
Once we’d grasped the enormity of it, Dinah and Moss decided that this should, after expenses, be split between them, me, Cato and Fern. We argued of course, but they took offence at our protestations. They said we were family to them now. And so we are.
Betty brings the tea through and I move my feet off the elephant stool so that she can put the tray on it.
‘I bet Enid would know how to strut,’ she says.
I realise that the whole day has gone by without me thinking of Enid once, and I’m happy to be reminded of her. ‘Would she?’
It makes me smile. I like the thought of Enid strutting.
It’s quite extraordinary. I didn’t think my life would turn out like this.
When she died, I could only see the part of my life that was over. I didn’t realise then that it was the beginning of something different, and new.
Cato Hamilton Auctioneers & Fern Banks Vintage Auction Catalogue
Outside in Camden Lock West Yard, it’s getting dark. The brightest stars are gleaming. The Christian Dior outfit, star of the show, is featured on the screen.
I go back into the marquee. It’s buzzing. I’m buzzing. The models are wearing the outfits that they’re donating to the auction, the clothes that mean something to them, the garments that made a difference to the way they saw themselves.
My mother waggles her fingers at me. She’s chosen the cashmere dress that’s split to the knee. She’s got a tremendous amount of energy and she’s in her element, and as a result, my father is besotted with her once more.
I’ve taken Lucy’s advice to throw her some achievement from time to time, like the fact that Holly Willoughby’s in my client book, but this event has gone a long way to smoothing things over with Ruth Bennett, thus saving her from feeling a failure on my behalf.
Dinah is wearing the black-and-white cotton tweed suit that she had on the second time we met. ‘Dahlink, how do I look?’ she demands, winding down her red lipstick.
‘Stunning,’ I tell her.
‘I’m nervous,’ Kim says, wearing his first frock with the feather trim.
‘You seem so different now,’ I tell him fondly, thinking of the anxious man in the personal styling suite who’d decided he didn’t want to stay.
He looks surprised. Then he says, ‘Fern, I am different.’
Kim and Dinah – they look so gorgeous and I hug them impulsively in a rush of gratitude for my great good fortune in having them as my friends. ‘I’ll never forget this, what you’ve done for me,’ I tell them.
‘Pah!’ Dinah says, brushing it off.
I take a look outside the marquee. It’s incredible, the way Cato’s organised it. Crowds have gathered all around Camden Lock. Our banners are strung up around us.
It’s coming up to seven o’ clock and I’m checking my models as they stand in line, waiting to go up. Kim, his white hair spiked and gelled, Dinah winding a camellia print scarf around her neck, Lucy in Donna Karan. And Alexa, Bethan, Hannah, Daisy, Jenna, Betty, Mercia all waiting to go on, their faces illuminated by neon lights that read #perfectfit and #passiton #refugeeaid, and the lights are flashing and the music is blaring.
We cluster nervously near the entrance and the music changes. Kim’s rubbing his hands together nervously, waiting for his cue.
‘Get ready, Kim,’ my mother orders. ‘Head up, shoulders back, and STRUT!’ She winks at me and I grin back at her because we are once again members of the same tribe.
Cato is on the podium with his gavel and the auction catalogue in his hand.
‘Go!’
Kim strides onto the catwalk in his heels with style.
‘Lot one,’ Cato announces through the PA system. ‘Sky-blue Sixties-style dress, unlabelled, with bracelet-length sleeves and feather trim to neck and hem. Who’ll start the bidding at fifty? Fifty bid …?’
Sitting in the front row, Moss and my father jump to their feet and clap as he moves past them. Kim turns, pauses and swivels on his heels like a pro as Dinah moves forward towards the catwalk with her superior, jaunty walk and blows a kiss to the crowd.
‘A Chanel-style black-and-white cotton tweed suit with bracelet-length sleeves, double “C” gilt buttons, chain-weighted hem and matching skirt, together with a black and white camellia print scarf. Who will start me at eighty pounds? Eighty bid. Eighty-five? Ninety …’
I go to the Roving Bridge to join David.
He’s wearing a blue floral shirt. He’s got Duncan on a lead and I can feel the heat of his arm against mine.
We are standing under the giant light box of the night sky. The floodlights are bouncing colours off the smooth skin of his face; blue, white and red and David turns to face me. He traces his finger down my forehead, down to my lips.
I put my arms around his waist and his hands are stroking my back through my favourite frock; I can feel the music beating through his rib cage and we are thigh against thigh and hip against hip and his mouth is on my mouth and I know the power of the perfect fit.
Acknowledgements
Stories come from many different sources and ideas, but this one has been easier than most to pin down. I’ve been kept afloat by many acts of kindness in recent months and by my wonderful sister, Elaine, who’s steadfastly good and true. The idea for a story about vintage fashion came from my brilliant agent, Judith Murdoch. It’s been honed by editor Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, championed by Sabah Khan and Elke Desanghere, and whetted by Sarah, over weekly coffees and lists. My husband, Paul, is my sounding board, best friend and hero of all of my stories, and our son Joe is a constant source of joy.
My friends, family and readers, you’ve given me many unexpected reasons to be happy even during the sad times and I’m so grateful to you.
With thanks,
Sophie
Follow me on Twitter: @sophiejenkinsuk
www.sophiejenkinsauthor.com
Sometimes happiness can be found where you least expect it …
If you enjoyed A Random Act of Kindness, you’ll love Sophie’s gorgeous debut.
Out Now!
Also by Sophie Jenkins
The Forgotten Guide to Happiness
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