Page 25 of The Vintage Dress Shop in Primrose Hill
‘But Phoebe’s lovely, so welcoming,’ Cress had insisted when Sophy had prised her away from some beadwork repairs to go and get lunch. ‘We have such a laugh. She made this really funny joke about Elsa Schiaparelli…’
‘Elsa who? Do I know her?’ Sophy had asked and Cress shook her head and patted her arm gently.
‘Never mind. You had to be there.’
And although Sophy knew that a few in-jokes about some obscure fashion designers couldn’t compete with the close friendship, thesisterhood, she had with Cress, it still stung.
It was still stinging the next day when Sophy got out of the tube at King’s Cross and walked up the Grays Inn Road, but, as she took a left towards Clerkenwell, she was also consumed by a feeling of utter dread. She’d have done anything to get out of seeing Charles. She’d been steeling herself to ask Freddy for Charles’s number so she could call him and regretfully decline the lunch invitation. But Charles had sourced her number first, probably from Freddy, and sent her a text.
Looking forward to seeing you on Wednesday, he’d written, following up with detailed directions and a location pin.
Sophy could still have regretfully declined, but she had to face Charles sooner or later. So it might as well be sooner, for what was going to be probably the most excruciating hour of her life. She tried to tell herself that it was no big deal. She’d say sorry and then she and Charles, who was nothing more than a colleague really, would have a slightly awkward lunch together.
It was obvious now to Sophy that the reason why she’d thought Charles was gay wasn’t just because of his daring dress sense or his encyclopaedic knowledge of fashion, it was because not once had he ever even momentarily looked in the direction of her boobs. Or her legs. And clearly the real reason was that he was used to a much higher calibre of woman than Sophy. The kind of women who worked forVogueor were so French, so elegant, that Sophy was like a lumbering oaf by comparison. No wonder Charles was always far more interested in the clothes she wore than in her body. Probably because he wanted to make sure that the sight of Sophy didn’t offend his eyes.
Which had made dressing for their lunch date (no! not a date) quite problematic. Sophy had left the floor of Caroline’s home spa strewn with clothes. She had so many sack-like dresses in a muted colour palette, mostly black. She’d even been tempted to buy another dress yesterday with her staff discount. Yes, it had been black, but it was adorned with red poppies that Cress had promised didn’t clash with her hair. But then Sophy decided that she was being silly. Even with the discount, the dress was over a hundred quid. That was like one hour of the flight to Australia.
In the end she’d waited until Caroline had gone to work and then rifled through her mother’s wardrobe until she found a blue check dress with bracelet sleeves and, although it was semi-sack-like (the apple really hadn’t rolled far from the tree), it did have a waist and a swingy skirt. Sophy paired it with trainers and then hastily arranged her hair in a messy bun, the emphasis being on messy.
It had been much easier in her old job, when she’d worn a black shirt and black trousers every day and pulled her hair back into a ponytail so it wasn’t in her face. Then some tinted moisturiser, mascara, lipgloss and she’d been good to go. Sophy was never going to be one of those pulled-together women, but today she’d taken great care with her make-up. She’d even put on lipstick instead of some barely-there gloss.
Sophy turned right into Hatton Garden. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from London’s jewellery district but it was something a bit more flashy, a bit more showy than just an ordinary London street with quite boring-looking shops. It was also very quiet. There weren’t hordes of wealthy-looking people parading up and down, hoping to throw down wads of cash on some serious stones. Hatton Garden wasn’t boho like Primrose Hill, or as bougie as Bond Street. It was kind of dull, even if most of the shops were jewellers. Some of them even had distinctlyunglamorous signs proclaiming that they bought any kind of gold or diamonds.
Therewasa lot of bling in the windows, but mostly understated bling, Sophy thought as she eyed up a ring that was marked as a baguette cut. So many different cuts.
As she walked in the direction of Holborn, Sophy was sure that the street would get moresophisticated.Charles wouldn’t work anywhere that wasn’t, surely? But when her blue dot met the arrow on Google Maps, she found herself standing outside a bookie’s. Not a sophisticated or glamorous bookie’s either.
Her stomach plummeted to her feet as she pulled out her phone. Charles had instructed her to call him when she arrived. Sophy took a deep breath. She had to stop acting like she was a teenage girl about to go on her first date (no! not a date!).
What if he’d completely forgotten that they’d arranged lunch? What if he’d been called away on some jewellery emergency? What if he was about to give her such a telling-off for what she’d said that…
‘Hi! Sophy!’ Charles sounded very pleased to hear from her when he answered promptly on the third ring. ‘Are you outside? I’ll come down to let you in.’
He hung up before Sophy could say a word. There was just time to check her make-up in her pocket mirror, deal with a stray glob of mascara and button up her denim jacket then decide to unbutton it again, before a small side door to the left of the bookie’s entrance opened. There was Charles, looking splendid in a periwinkle blue suit that matched his eyes and a shirt so crisp and snowy white that it had to be box-fresh.
‘Hello! Hello! Hello!’ he called out, as if he was nervous too.
‘Hey,’ Sophy said, waggling her fingers in greeting.
‘Going to have to hurry you, I’m afraid,’ Charles said, gesturing for Sophy to come inside.
‘Oh, sorry!’ She brushed past Charles, who closed the door behind her. They were in a tiny lobby. Lobby was probably too grand a word. A tiny space between the street door and a steel inner door.
‘I’m trusting you not to look,’ Charles said as he tapped a code into a security pad. ‘Unless you have a photographic memory and you’re actually a very heavily disguised international diamond thief.’
He was being nice to her, which made it easier but also harder. Sophy summoned up a shrug. ‘You’ve found me out. I’ve been working a long con this whole time.’ Her voice was rusty like she’d forgotten how to use it.
‘I knew it,’ Charles said, ushering her through the inner door to a corridor with several doors off it. ‘No lift, I’m afraid, and I’m on the top floor.’
He tapped on another security panel, then pushed open a door that led to a stairwell. ‘How many floors?’
‘Four. Sorry.’
‘I think I’m going to save my energy for climbing and not talking.’ It was the last thing Sophy said until she was standing, legs trembling slightly, outside a fourth-floor door, which Charles unlocked, with just an old-fashioned key this time. There was a discreet gold nameplate on the door.
Charles Radley, vintage gems.
‘There is where the magic happens,’ Charles said. He wasn’t even a little bit out of breath, whereas Sophy could feel her heart thumping hard. She was really unfit. She was going to have to stop taking the lift at Chalk Farm station and take the stairs instead.
