Page 27 of The Vintage Dress Shop in Primrose Hill
‘Bloody hell! Take it off!’ Sophy reached up to fumble with the clasp but Charles gently pulled her hands down, his fingers encircling her wristsmore delightfully than any bracelet ever could.
‘Oh, sweetheart, we haven’t even got started,’ he drawled, threading his fingers through hers for one fleeting second before setting her free.
Then Charles proceeded to load Sophy up with semi-precious stones. Sliding the most extravagant rings onto her fingers. His thumb pressing against the pulse at her wrists, which was fairly thundering away, as he put bracelet after bracelet on her, like they were made of candy and not the gemstones whose names he recited like poetry.
Aquamarine. Aventurine. Ametrine. Amethyst. Carnelian. Citrine. Garnet. Heliodor. Jade. Jasper. Lapis lazuli. Malachite. Moonstone. Onyx. Obsidian. Opaline. Pearl. Peridot. Quartz. Seraphinite. Serpentine. Sunstone. Tanzanite. Tiger eye. Tanzanite. Tourmaline. Turquoise. Verdite. Zircon.
It was the single most sensual experience of Sophy’s thirty years. For eight of those years she’d been with Egan and he’d never come close to making her tremble like this, her heart thumping, her breath catching, limbs heavy and languid, by just saying words at her. Though to be fair, Egan was more likely to recite the names of the clubs in the Premier League or his preferred items from the menu of his favourite Chinese takeaway, Golden Valley.
There’d also been absolutely no lavishing her with semi-precious stones. Just a silver ring (‘that absolutely doesn’t mean anything so don’t be getting any ideas, Soph’) for her twenty-fifth birthday from a high street chain of jewellers.
So no wonder that, as Charles opened the last box, which was bigger than all of the others, Sophy was all but swooning.
‘Finally, thepièce de résistance,’ he said as he removed an actual blooming tiara from its resting place. ‘Pearls, opals and alexandrite.’
Sophy didn’t know what alexandrite was but it sparkled in the light as Charles placed the tiara on her head with as much reverence as if he were crowning a new monarch. She held her breath as he adjusted the surprisingly heavy coronet, then stroked back a few errant strands of hair that had escaped her bun.
‘Exquisite,’ he said with great satisfaction. ‘Oh, Sophy, you have the most ideally shaped head for a tiara.’
As compliments went, it was one of the most random ones Sophy had ever received. But the real compliment was the look in Charles’s eyes, as if the sight of Sophy with her ideally shaped head afforded him so much pleasure. Although she was weighted down with jewels, she also felt so light that she could easily float off the sofa.
To break the gaze, to stop looking at Charles, who had ideally shaped everything, Sophy picked up the hand mirror and looked at herself. The tiara did look good – she was ready for a ball at Downton Abbey – but the necklaces, the brooches, the bracelets… She bit her lip but one stray breathy giggle leaked out of her mouth. Then another one caught her unawares and another and another until she had to lean back on the sofa because she was laughing so hard.
‘Charles… I look… like a Christmas tree,’ she spluttered. ‘They could stick me up in Trafalgar Square this December and job done!’
Charles looked affronted. He sucked in a breath and furrowed his brow in such an exaggerated way that Sophy was sure he was doing it for comic effect. ‘Too much?’
She held up a hand, which was quite the feat when she was wearing so many rings and bracelets. ‘Just a bit.’
Then Charles was laughing too. He laughed so hard that he wheezed and had to wipe the tears from his eyes. ‘Phoebe would be the first to tell you that Coco Chanel said that before leaving thehouse, you should look in the mirror and take one thing off.’
Sophy nudged Charles with her elbow. ‘Coco Chanel said that? But Coco Chanel is a dog!’
It set Charles off again. He laughed so hard that he listed to one side so he was leaning against Sophy, his forehead on her shoulder, which was the only part of her upper body that was semi-precious-stone-free.
‘Please… tell me you’re joking and… You do know who the original Coco Chanel is, don’t you?’ he begged plaintively once he could form words again.
Sophy was tempted to draw the moment out but instead she rolled her eyes and poked him in the ribs with her elbow again. ‘I couldn’t resist. I do know a few things about fashion designers from yesteryear.’
‘Of course you do,’ Charles soothed. He was still pressed against her, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, but then he sat up straight. ‘Though I’m sure the canine Coco Chanel shares her namesake’s view that women should always be a little underdressed.’ He eyed Sophy speculatively, which had her all giddy and fighting for breath again. ‘You, my dear, need to take off quite a few things.’
He meant the jewellery, but Sophy knew that she’d be reliving the husky way he’d said that last sentence for quite a few weeks. She really needed to get a grip on herself and, actually, talking of Coco Chanel, the pooch edition, reminded her of… ‘Phoebe. I’m finding it quite hard to um, establish, any kind of, you know, rapport with her. Any tips?’
‘Phoebe’s a lovely woman…’
‘I’m not saying she isn’t…’
‘Prefers dresses and that malodorous dog to people, but you just have to… It is an awkward situation,’ Charles allowed. Sophy knew all about awkward situations. ‘Have you talked to Johnno about it?’
‘We don’t really see each other that often.’ Sophy frowned. ‘Or really talk to each other that much.’
‘He’s very fond of you,’ Charles said, and objectively Sophy knew that, or hoped it was true, but also there’d never been much concrete evidence of that fondness. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about Phoebe.’
‘You wouldn’t?’
‘Not when you’re disappearing off to Australia soon,’ Charles reminded her. ‘Not much call for knowing about vintage designers of yesteryear when you’re working on a sheep station.’
He actually shuddered a little as if even the concept of a sheep station was horrifying, even though it was very near the coast.
