Page 69 of The Vintage Dress Shop in Primrose Hill
One of the best things about going to Australia was never having to see Phoebe again. Not talk to her. Not reason with her. Not have to deal with her on a day-to-day basis. When Sophy thought about it like that then Australia couldn’t come soon enough. ‘You know what, Pheebs?’ Sophy heard herself say, even though she knew that being called Pheebs was another thing that made Phoebe’s eyes flash. ‘I’m thirty years old. I have been dressing myself for the last twenty-five years and what I wear on my own time has got absolutely nothing to do with you. OK?’
‘You’ll have to pay for your own ball ticket,’ Phoebe hissed and, not for the first time, Sophy wondered why she was such a bad-tempered, prickly individual.
‘Fine, I’ll email Freddy and ask how much I owe him for the ticket, shall I?’ Which were the magic words to get Phoebe’s eyes to flash for a third time. If she’d been a fruit machine, her mouth would have fallen open and a cascade of gold coins would have come tumbling out.
‘Fine!’
‘I know it’s fine!’ Phoebe was one of those people who always made Sophy want to get the last word in.
‘At least get a bra that fits you properly,’ was Phoebe’s parting shot because she was the undisputed champion of getting the last word in. ‘You’re a 34B, not whatever it is you’re wearing.’
The next few days weren’t much better. The weather had made the customers crotchety too, so that no dress was ever right for them. One woman had come in and tried on over twenty dressesand hadn’t bought a single one. Coco Chanel had managed to get hold of a rancid piece of pizza during one of their lunchtime jaunts and had thrown up through the open steps of the spiral staircase, narrowly avoiding Chloe’s head. And even though Sophy checked her email on an hourly basis, there was still nothing from the Australian Immigration Service. Worst of all, the weekend before the ball Charles went to Scotland on a buying trip, so that was five precious evenings of the time Sophy had left in which she didn’t get to see him. Though, of course, he didn’t know that her travel plans had changed and that she might be going to Australia in July, rather than August. He didn’t know because Sophystillhadn’t told him. Hadn’t told anyone. What was the point until she knew what was happening with her citizenship? It wasn’t as if the date of Jean’s hip replacements had been definitely confirmed.
‘But I’ll see you at the ball,’he reminded her via the very boring medium of text message, because he couldn’t get a decent enough signal in the wilds of Aberdeenshire to call her.‘By the way, I just assumed you knew about it, which was why I didn’t say anything. Do you dance? I can only shuffle but will be heavenly to shuffle together, cheek to cheek.’
It was a relief when there was a tremendous thunderstorm on the Thursday night before the ball; the sky lit up with cracks of lightning, the streets shaking from the belly-deep rumble of thunder. Sophy had lain awake, listening to the sound of rain lashing against the windows, Lollipop sitting on her chest because although he liked to think he was the neighbourhood tough guy he hated getting wet.
Friday was fresher. Sophy even had to wear a cardigan on the way to work and when she said good morning to Phoebe she got a very pleasant good morning and a smile back. Sophy wondered what the catch was but there didn’t seem to be one. ‘Oh, Hege and Ingrid are coming in to pick up their dresses,’ Phoebe said as she checked theappointments book. ‘I’ll buzz you to come up so you can see the dresses one final time.’
‘And seethem,’ Sophy gently said, because she didn’t want to ruin their currententente cordiale.
‘Yeah, that’s what I meant.’ Phoebe sighed, her face suddenly soft and wistful. ‘But the dresses do really look wonderful.’
Hege and Ingrid arrived mid-afternoon when Sophy was engaged in round two with the woman who’d tried on over twenty different dresses the week before. This time she made it to thirty-four before she decided to buy a blue velvet Bus Stop dress from the seventies with a cut-out back, which was the least flattering garment of all the things she’d trialled.
By the time Sophy had put back the discarded dresses, there was a message from Phoebe summoning her upstairs. Considering what had happened last time Hege and Ingrid had visited the shop with the bridal party from hell, and considering that she wanted to give Phoebe a wide berth, it was with heavy heart and heavy tread that Sophy climbed the stairs.
She was greeted by a sight guaranteed to lift her spirits; both Hege and Ingrid were on the dais wearing their wedding outfits. Hege looked impossibly chic in her grey 1930s dress and coat, and a black velvet pillbox hat with the tiniest of veils.
While Ingrid looked as beautiful as any bride could want to look on her wedding day. Cress had done a miraculous job with the oyster satin, bias-cut dress, which had been at least ten centimetres too long and big everywhere else; it now looked as if it had been made for Ingrid. Her hair had been swept back and pinned as Phoebe advised. ‘I wouldn’t go for a veil. You’re so tiny, Inge, it would just swamp you and pull the eye away from the clean lines of your dress. I suggest that you get your florist to make you a flower headdress; just a little baby’s-breath.Keep your jewellery simple. Gold is best with the oyster, not silver. You are going to be a simply stunning bride. What am I saying? You already are!’
It was like the Phoebe of the last two weeks had been replaced with a much-improved model, Sophy thought as Phoebe brought her hands together and sighed rapturously at the bridal vision that was Ingrid.
‘You both look amazing,’ Sophy said and hoped it sounded sincere in the face of Phoebe’s extreme gushiness. ‘I’m actually getting a bit teary.’
It was no word of a lie. Sophy could already feel the telltale prickle of her tear ducts getting ready to unload. ‘Dare I even ask where the rest of the gang are?’
Hege shuddered. ‘Please don’t,’ she said.
Ingrid grinned. She was a world away from the stressed-out bride-to-be of a few weeks ago. Phoebe did always say that once the dress was sorted, everything else fell into place. ‘What’s more important on your wedding day than your wedding dress?’ she was fond of asking, though Sophy thought that maybe the person you were actually marrying might come higher in the pecking order than the dress. But in Ingrid’s case, certainly, now that she wasn’t stressing about the frock she looked a lot happier.
‘They’re getting ready for my hen weekend,’ she said with a theatrical shudder. ‘I’ve been instructed to arrive at St Pancras this evening with my passport so I’m hoping we’re going to Paris and it’s going to be tasteful. No penis straws or stripper policeman.’
Having met three of the hens, Sophy decided that was a case of hope over experience. ‘You really do both look gorgeous. Do you want me to take some pictures of you?’ she asked, holding up her phone.
They did, though in the end Sophy let Phoebe take over because she had very strong ideas about how the pictures should look. She even got Ingridto agree that they could post one of them on the shop’s Instagram as long as it was after the wedding.
‘And don’t forget to tag us in any wedding photos you post on social media too,’ Phoebe added brightly but with a subtle threat that said, ‘I know where you both live and I will hunt you down if you don’t.’
There wasn’t much left to do but to help Hege and Ingrid disrobe and pack their dresses in the special boxes they used for the high-ticket items. Cress popped out of her garret to tie the boxes with baby blue ribbon in a way that only Cress could.
‘Well, I should be getting back downstairs,’ Sophy said.
‘Yes, you really should,’ Phoebe agreed but Hege put her hand out.
‘Not so fast. We just wanted to thank you, Sophy, well all three of you, really,’ she said, delving into her handbag. ‘This is just a small and entirely inadequate token for the way you’ve gone above and beyond.’
‘And really, I’m so sorry about what happened last time,’ Ingrid added. ‘I’m still mortified every time I think about that slut-drop.’
