Page 75 of The Vintage Dress Shop in Primrose Hill
Charles sucked in an unsteady breath. ‘I’d like that very much. A nightcap or do you mean a nightcap that isn’t really a nightcap?’
For once, it was Sophy who had to crouch down to kiss Charles and not the other way round. ‘Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean.’
Chapter Thirty
Something seemed to have changed at The Vintage Dress Shop.
Now that they’d gone out, danced and got drunk together, Sophy was no longer an interloper; Johnno’s daughter who’d been found a job though she wasn’t really needed.
Once you’d given your last tampon to a colleague and also not cared that they’d seen you demolish a battered sausage in three hungry bites, you were part of the gang.
Chloe, Anita and Beatrice had always been polite, cordial even, but never really actively friendly. But when Sophy arrived at The Vintage Dress Shop on Monday morning, still quite fragile because she’d decided that the best way to cure her hangover was to drink most of a bottle of Chardonnay over a late Sunday lunch, she was greeted like she’d just got back from a six-month deployment to some war-torn country.
‘Sucha good time on Saturday night,’ Beatrice said, as Sophy fetched a stool from the office because it was Monday morning, which was always quiet, and she could just sit behind the desk and hope there wouldn’t be any loud noises. ‘I think we should make it a regular thing.’
‘And, girl, you have got serious moves,’ Chloe said, as she pretended to waltz with the Pucci-inspired minidress she was meant to be hanging up. ‘You’ll have to teach me how to do the foxtrot.’
‘We can definitely fit in a few foxtrot lessons before I go to Australia,’ Sophy said, even though the next however many weeks were goingto be crammed. Caroline had all sorts of plans for the two of them, from a spa day in an actual spa to getting Sophy to help her clear out the understairs cupboard.
She also wanted to spend as much time with Cress as possible, really work on implanting the idea that there was nothing stopping her from coming out to Australia for a long holiday. And she wasn’t averse to going out dancing with the girls either.
But she’d also be happy to spend every day, and every night, of those however many weeks with Charles. They’d barely scratched the surface and there was so much more that Sophy wanted to know about him, do with him—
‘Sophy! You look rough!’ cried Phoebe as she came down the stairs. Maybe some things hadn’t changed. ‘Are you one of those people who have two-day hangovers?’
‘This is my hangover from yesterday. My hangover from Saturday night was completely different,’ Sophy admitted, because when you had pale skin it was very hard to hide exactly how ropey you felt. ‘That was more headachey. This is more like I might keel over at any moment.’
Phoebe paused in caressing a pastel blue, silky evening shift like she wanted to go to second base with it. ‘Well, if your hands are clean…’
‘Always!’ With great effort Sophy managed to waggle her clean fingers.
‘Then I don’t mind if you want to sit on the sofa and sort through a box of evening gloves we’ve just had come in,’ Phoebe said crisply but also quite kindly. ‘Can you arrange them by colour, light to dark? Though it might be an idea to remove your sunglasses first.’
If Sophy needed any further sign that she’d now been accepted into The Vintage Dress Shop Official Club, then it happened about thirty minutes into her glove sorting as she was pondering whereto put the three pairs of green gloves, after or before blue?
There was the sound of nails skittering on the wrought-iron treads of the spiral staircase, and much huffing as Coco Chanel descended. Then she waddled over to where Sophy was sitting and headbutted her shins until Sophy got the message and hefted her up (Coco Chanel was as dense and heavy as a bowling ball) so the dog could turn in a circle three times before collapsing into a bagel shape, resting her chin on Sophy’s thighs. She immediately went to sleep. Sophy couldn’t help but envy her.
It was a slow, quiet day in the shop and Sophy spent most of it in the basement checking the inventory. There were rails of plastic-shrouded garments and cardboard boxes of accessories that she suspected everyone had forgotten about – and she was right. When Phoebe came down the basement stairs to offer Sophy an unprecedented cup of tea, her eyes widened at the pile of dresses Sophy was checking for the dreaded signs of moths.
‘Is that…? Are those…?’ Phoebe put one hand on the banister to steady herself. ‘Is that the 1960s Chelsea Girl deadstock that I decided I must have dreamed about because I’ve been looking for it for months?’
‘I hate that term, deadstock.’ Sophy held up a lime green minidress. ‘But yes, they’ve still got their tags on. They were in two bin bags that had fallen behind one of the clothes rails.’
‘I could kiss you,’ Phoebe announced, then thought better of it. ‘But I won’t. I might ask Beatrice though to pop out and get you a cupcake.’
‘I would much rather have a cupcake than a kiss from you, no offence.’
‘None taken!’ Phoebe called out; she was already halfway up the basement stairs. If Phoebe had turned over a new leaf, a very friendly, personableleaf, it almost made Sophy wish she were staying at the shop. Almost.
Though Sophy no longer felt like she wanted to die or go to sleep for a very long time as she had done that morning, she was hitting her mid-afternoon energy slump and was in need of caffeine and sugar.
She took her cupcake and her mug of tea out onto the terrace and marvelled, not for the first time, that she was only two miles away from Oxford Circus. Yet out here she could hear gentle birdsong, the distant chug of a boat coming towards her. The sun cast beams of light on the water, interrupted only by the shadow of the leaves of the overhanging trees.
It was a sight worth sighing over. Sophy sipped her tea, determined to take her time. And as she did whenever she had a break, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her sack dress to reach for her phone and see if she had a message from Charles.
There wasn’t a message from Charles but there was an email from someone called E. Harper at the Australian Department of Home Affairs. The subject line was just Sophy’s reference number, so no clues there.
Her hands were actually shaking as she opened up the email, the words swimming in front of her eyes. She blinked and tried to focus.
