Page 6 of The Vintage Dress Shop in Primrose Hill
Everywhere that she turned, she was met with another delight to feast her eyes on. There were the display cabinets (that looked like they belonged on a 1930s ocean-liner) full of costume jewellery, all bright colours like sweeties.
In the centre of the room were two shocking-pink velvet sofas (though they were more chaise longue than settee) and at the back of the room there was a 1930s ocean liner sort of desk, sleek and curvy, and beyond that a series of curtained-off cubicles – the changing rooms.
Immediately, Sophy felt out of place in her on-trend jumpsuit, which had seemed like a perfectly appropriate and easy-wash outfit for her first day in a temporary job, rooting about in an old junk shop. Now it seemed really garish and out of place. Especially when there was a woman standing behind the desk who looked like the very last word in chic. She had a razor-sharp jet-black bob, its edges so straight you could take a ruler to them. She was tall and slim, her figure shown to perfection in the fitted black dress she was wearing, and, when she came out from behind the desk, she glided across the floor in the kind of heels that Sophy had only had nightmares about. Of course, she had the most perfect arched eyebrows and Cupid’s-bow lips outlined in a bright red that Sophy would never have the courage to wear.The lips were currently stretched in a thin sort of smile, which wasn’t even a little bit welcoming.
‘Freddy,’ the woman said in a thin voice to match. Her eyes briefly skimmed over Sophy and then, as if Sophy wasn’t worthy of her attention, her gaze fixed on a point beyond Sophy’s shoulder.
‘Phoebe,’ Freddy said, the tone of his voice not quite as friendly as it had been before. ‘This is Sophy. Johnno’s Sophy. Sophy, this is Phoebe, who practically runs this place single-handedly.’
‘It’s lovely,’ Sophy said with what she hoped was a friendly smile and not a smile that saidI only got this job because of my dad and I’m going to be a constant thorn in your side. ‘I’ve never seen so many gorgeous clothes all in one place. Do you only sell dresses or do you sell separates too because—’
‘Everyone’s waiting upstairs,’ Phoebe said, cutting through Sophy’s perfectly reasonable question. ‘I’ll get Beatrice to cover the shop floor.’
She turned, so Sophy could see that she was wearing seamed stockings, walked past the changing rooms to a door markedPrivateand disappeared.
‘Takes a while to warm up to people,’ Freddy said, gently steering Sophy through the shop, past the cubicles, to a wrought-iron spiral staircase painted gold. ‘We’ll go up to the atelier.’
The atally whaty?
Sophy felt her cheeks flame as she realised that she’d said it out loud, but, to his credit, Freddy didn’t laugh at her gaucheness but gave her a kind, comforting sort of smile. ‘The atelier. It’s where they do the fittings and keep the wedding dresses and expensive gowns,’ he explained.
Sophy wound her way up the stairs, which opened out onto a beautiful room. No, it wasn’t anything as mundane as a room. It was a salon. A gilt-edged salon. Her feet in herknock-off trainers sank into the softest, plushest cream carpet. Up here, closer to heaven, it smelled even more glorious: of roses and geraniums and sheer, understated luxury.
Of course there were more dresses. Wedding dresses, Freddy had said. Their colours ranged from the delicate white of snowdrops to the buttery richness of clotted cream and the dull gold of the old one-pound coins. They were made from lace and satin and silk and fabrics that Sophy could only guess at: organza, shantung, georgette, taffeta … Then she was sidetracked by a glimpse of an anteroom full of the most elegant gowns; hanging there was a pale blue Grecian-inspired dress, intricate beadwork dancing across the fabric.
She turned her attention back to the main room, then wished she hadn’t. There was a raised circular platform where she supposed brides and the sort of women who bought beautiful vintage gowns could admire their own reflection, because they were surrounded on all sides by mirrors. Sophy kept catching glimpses of herself, and she looked as flustered and disconcerted as she felt.
Sophy was realistic about her own utter ordinariness. If it weren’t for her red hair, nobody would ever be able to pick her out of a police line-up; not even if they’d witnessed her committing all sorts of horrific crimes. She was average height, average build; like every other woman she knew she fought a near-daily battle between her dream of dropping a dress size and her love of carbs; and she had all the usual features, which sat in the right place on her face. She liked her blue eyes, courtesy of Johnno, and her full lips, courtesy of her mother. She didn’t like the anxious little furrow between her eyes, which seemed to be a permanent feature these days. Everything else was quite indistinguishable, literally. If Sophy didn’t use mascara and an eyebrow pencil, it was impossible to tell that she had actual eyelashes and eyebrows.
She really didn’t belong in this place with these people.
Because, like downstairs, there were sofas in the centre of the room; these were cream and gold, and sitting on one of them were two more women in chic black dresses who looked like Hollywood goddesses imported straight from the silver screen. Across from them was a ridiculously handsome man, long of limb, floppy of hair, jutting of cheekbone, wearing an exquisitely cut light grey tweed suit with a perfect pink pocket square. He was tapping away at his phone. Sitting next to him on a powder blue satin cushion was a very grumpy-looking, black French bulldog.
‘Oh my God,’ Sophy muttered under her breath. She wasn’t just miles out of her comfort zone. She was continents away from her comfort zone. The ridiculously handsome man raised his head, as if he’d heard her anguished aside. He was even more ridiculously handsome face-on. Then he very slowly and deliberately winked at Sophy and her nerves were momentarily swept away by a fluttering feel of a very different kind.
‘You’re fine,’ Freddy assured Sophy in a low voice, which was very sweet of him – but absolutely untrue. Phoebe had appeared at the top of the stairs, all ready to give Sophy another flinty look. Her bewitching green eyes (ofcourseshe would have bewitching green eyes) lingered on the patch of jumpsuit where Sophy had managed to spill a tiny drop of coffee earlier. ‘Let me introduce you to everyone.’
‘Everyone’ turned out to be Chloe and Anita, the other sales associates. Chloe was tiny and blonde and Anita was tiny and dark and, though both of them were unfailingly polite, neither of them were exactly friendly.
‘And you’ve met Phoebe,’ Freddy reminded Sophy. Not like Sophy was likely to forget it when Phoebe’s gaze kept resting on her with an expression that flickered from disbelief to faint amusement. Someone should tell Phoebe that she had the worst poker face ever.
‘But you haven’t met Charles,’ said Phoebe, and she actually cracked a genuine, warm smile as she glanced at him. ‘He sources all our jewellery and some of our high-end pieces.’
It was Charles’s turn to look Sophy up and down. Not in an unfriendly way – there was something warm and welcoming about his gaze – but more as if he were assessing the raw material, seeing right down to her bones. Sophy wasn’t sure how she felt about that. If possible, it made her even more flustered than she’d already been. Then he stood up, unfolding his long length from the sofa so Sophy had to look up at him – he was well over six foot – and took the few steps to where she was cowering. She held out her hand, expecting that he probably wanted to shake it, but instead he raised it to his mouth so he could kiss it. It was a very suave, very practised move, but it still made Sophy feel a little swoony. ‘Enchantée,’ he murmured against her skin. Then her hand was back in her custody and Charles gave her one brief but charming smile before he sat down again.
Obviously gay, Sophy thought with a pang of regret. No man wore a suit that exquisitely tailored, had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and murmured something in French instead of ‘pleased to meet you’, and was straight. Sadly.
‘Last, but not at all least, is Coco Chanel,’ Freddy said, and the French bulldog gave Sophy the most withering look of all. She had huge ears and, instead of a collar, a pearl necklace circled her thick neck. ‘She’s the brains of the operation. And of course, everyone – this is Sophy, Johnno’s daughter. Our new sales associate.’
‘Oh no! There’s no need for… I mean, I’m just helping out in a temporary way to save up money to go to Australia,’ Sophy explained. She made a wringing motion with her hands. ‘I’m happy to muck in.’
‘Johnno says Sophy has got over ten years’ experience in retail fashion and we’re very lucky to have her,’ Freddy said, digging anone-too-gentle finger between Sophy’s shoulder- blades. ‘I know she’ll be an asset.’
Nobody else seemed sure about that, including Sophy herself.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of unpleasantness. They all trooped back downstairs, Freddy left and, when Sophy asked Phoebe what she could help with, she was directed down to a windowless basement, where she spent the rest of the day packing up inferior vintage garments, including several boxes of boiled-wool cardigans that smelled of wet dog, to be sent off for recycling.
These clothes were absolutely nothing like the dresses being sold in the shop and Sophy was pretty sure, even odds, that – just as she had feared – someone had died in one of the garments she was gingerly picking through. Maybe up to four or five someones.
