Page 5 of The Vintage Dress Shop in Primrose Hill
Johnno had mentioned something about a Freddy. ‘You sort things out for Johnno?’
‘I’m actually a solicitor by trade but I hate wearing a suit,’ Freddy said with a shrug and a twinkle in his dark eyes. He had olive skin, that riotous mop of curly chocolate-brown hair and a cheeky, conspiratorial grin. Sophy could see why Johnno liked him. She felt automatically disposed to like him too. ‘Johnno sends his apologies. Said he had to go and see a man about a dog.’
When she’d been little, Sophy had always been excited and hopeful on the numerous occasions that Johnno went to see a man about a dog. Until she realised that there wasn’t going to be a dog. It was just Johnno being completely unreliable yet again. ‘Does he really have a job for me?’
Freddy nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands. Shall we walk and talk?’
There was a lot to talk about. ‘I don’t have my P45 yet. Did Johnno tell you about my last job? That the company went into administration? Everything’s in the hands of some official bankruptcy people, so I’m not sure how it’s all going to work with a temporary job. I’ll probably have to go on an emergency tax code. Can Johnno even afford for me to go on the books or will it be cash in hand? Not that I’m saying I want it to be cash in hand but they take all your money when they put you on an emergency tax code…’
‘Why don’t we go to the shop?’ Freddy suggested. ‘Everyone’s there and they’re dying to meet you.’
Sophy nodded. ‘Are we going to get a bus? We could walk up to Camden and get the 29.’
‘A bus?’
‘To the shop. Or an Uber?’
‘But it’s just round the corner.’
‘Freddy, the Holloway Road is not just round the corner.’
‘The Holloway Road?’ Freddy shook his head. ‘We’re not going to Holloway.’
He took Sophy’s elbow and guided her round the corner so they could walk over the bridge that led to Primrose Hill. Nestling next to the slightly down-at-heel and achingly cool Camden Town, Primrose Hill was one of those villages that London did so well. Full of large stucco white Victorian villas and Regency terraces painted in pretty sherbet colours and a main shopping thoroughfare thronged with chichi boutiques, artisanal eateries and thriving independent shops.
Primrose Hill was for the seriously wealthy; who else would be able to afford its multimillion-pound houses? It was the perfect place to take their designer pooches for a stroll on Primrose Hill itself, with its views stretching over nearby Regent’s Park and, beyond that, the church spires and skyscrapers of London.To jog along the towpath of the Regent’s Canal. Or watch the world go by from the window of a café where there wouldn’t be much change from a ten-pound note after purchasing a Peruvian-blend latte made with Fairtrade newly activated almond milk.
Primrose Hill was not a place where the tat that Johnno sold would go down very well. No wonder Sophy was confused. ‘Has the junk shop moved then?’
It seemed like Freddy was equally confused. ‘The junk shop? What junk shop?’
Sophy frowned. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Why would Johnno move the shop to Primrose Hill? Primrose Hill issoposh and Johnno’s Junk is not posh. It’s like the absolute opposite of posh.’
‘I don’t know what Johnno’s Junk is and, quite frankly, I don’t want to. Here we are.’
Herewas a terrace of shops. The fanciest of merchants. A yoga studio. An interiors shop. A dry-cleaner’s that looked more minimalist than any dry-cleaner’s that Sophy had ever seen.
The last shop in the little terrace had its exterior painted the most perfect Wedgwood blue. In the window was one dress. But what a dress! It was black and strapless, with a tight bodice, sweetheart neckline and a skirt that consisted of layers and layers and layers of tulle shot through with something to make them sparkle. It was one of the most beautiful dresses that Sophy had ever seen. It was the kind of dress that you had adventures in. She could picture a woman, an impossibly beautiful and willowy woman, wearing that dress in a nightclub. She’d be drinking champagne from a slender flute while a jazz band played and a coterie of debonair men hung on her every word. It was that kind of a dress.
Sophy finally tore her eyes away from the dress to look at the signage.The Vintage Dress Shop, it said, in an elegant, understated script, like the shop signhad been rolled through an old-fashioned typewriter.
‘This isn’t Johnno’s Junk,’ Sophy pointed out.
Freddy gave her an even stare, though a muscle in his cheek was pounding away. Maybe this was what Egan had meant during their vicious, final argument when he’d said that she was the most annoying woman he’d ever met. ‘No, it’s not. Johnno did mention another shop he used to have but that closed down at least twenty years ago.’
A pang of guilt speared Sophy’s insides. She hadn’t known that. She knew the barest of facts about Johnno’s day-to-day doings. But then for her to know all the ins and outs and latest developments in Johnno’s life, he’d have had to have been in her life too.
‘He never said,’ she muttered, as Freddy opened the door and gestured for her to step through it.
It might have fancy signage and a fancy font and a beautiful dress in the window, but Sophy steeled herself for the fusty, musty smell of old clothes that people had probably died in.
She actually put a hand over her nose to ward off the stench – until she realised that the interior of the shop didn’t smell of mothballs and wet wool but something expensive and exclusive. Clean, very clean, and with the faintest scent of perfume. Like the times that Sophy had dared to set foot in some swanky Bond Street boutique, then promptly walked out again when the snooty sales assistant had given her the evil eye.
Sophy did a slow three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn as she tried to take it all in. There was so much that her eyes wanted to linger on. Rather than being dark and poky with racks of garish clothes and cubbyholes and baskets full of tacky accessories like the vintage shops that Sophy had been in before, usually dragged there by her stepsister Cress, the shop was light and airy.
The walls and floorboards were painted a soft, chalky white: a perfect backdrop for the dresses. So many dresses. They were arranged by colour. There was an entire wall of green dresses: from the lightest softest seafoam to a bright emerald and a dark, mossy bottle green. The yellow rail spanned lemon sherbet to the most vibrant egg yolk. There were blue dresses, purple dresses, red dresses. An entire section devoted to little black dresses.
It was a lot like the frock equivalent of the perfectly curated and colour-coded bookshelves that Sophy had seen on Pinterest and Instagram.
