Page 25 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop
Thanks to Phoebe’s efforts on Saturday afternoon, the stockroom was already in perfect order. Bea had some stock to photograph for the website but that was very much her domain. First she’d shoot the dress on a mannequin, then as a flat lay before homing in on any details worth highlighting: a matching belt, a diamanté embellishment, a close-up of a print or pattern. Then she’d photograph the dress in sections against a tape measure so that anyone could clearly see what the exact bust, waist, hips and even the sleeve measurements were. Though, according to Bea, that still didn’t stop people emailing to ask what the measurements were.
Phoebe was happy to let Bea get on with things. Apart from Cress, she was the only member of staff who actually did her job with dedication and precision. Because Phoebe had trained her well. When Bea had first started at the job, she hadn’t even known the difference between inches and centimetres.
‘There’s some new stock that’s come in from the States,’ Bea said of the two huge cartons taking up space in one corner of the storeroom. ‘From Victor Vintage Wholesale in Minnesota. Their picks are always first rate.’
Phoebe nodded glumly. Usually a new consignment of dresses was one of her most favourite parts of the job but today she couldn’t summon up much enthusiasm as she sorted out the new inventory. A selection of dead-stock dresses (dead stock not meaning, as Sophy used to think, that the original owner had died while wearing the dress). These were dresses that had never been sold and worn but had sat in a warehouse or the back room of a shop for decades and decades.
The majority of them were 1950s dresses in a light and breezy lawn cotton in pale colours and pretty prints. They’d have to wait a little bit longer to finally meet their destiny andan owner who would give them their moment in the sun. For now, they had to be packed up again until summer.
There were some great party looks too, which they could put out in the shop right away. A 1970s black accordion-pleated, balloon-sleeved dress with a sequined bodice; a 1930s wine red, floral lace, bias-cut rayon dress; a 1940s olive green satin dress with pintucked bodice and yards of fabric in the skirt.
Alas! Phoebe was too despondent to try any of them on. She was glad to escape the shop, and the faux concern of her colleagues, at lunchtime. She and Coco walked to Primrose Hill itself, on high alert. Coco had her phasers on stun and her big ears pricked in case any pesky squirrels needed to be told who was boss. While Phoebe was tense because she didn’t want to bump into Freddy.
How right Phoebe had been to stop herself from getting too carried away with thisthingthat she and Freddy had. Like Mildred had said, you couldn’t trust anyone, but especially men, to look out for you. You had to look out for yourself.
Mildred had also been quite evangelical about the benefits of a brisk walk in the fresh air when you were feeling out of sorts. But the air was damp with the promise of more rain, and any benefits gained were cancelled out by Phoebe’s fear that her fringe was curling up. Also, Coco Chanel hated walking in the rain more than she hated squirrels and Phoebe was forced to pick her up and carry her back to the shop when she suddenly refused to go another step.
At least, that afternoon, Bea let her make some labels for the new stock with the label maker. Which was surprisingly satisfying with the radio on and Coco snoring gently in her fluffiest, plumpest bed in front of the space heater. Or it would have been satisfying, even pleasant if Phoebe could turn her brain off. Simply stop thinking and turning recent events over and over in her mind.
She wasn’t an idiot. Phoebe knew that she wasn’t for everyone. Mildred always said it was best to be your own person rather than having to be someone you weren’t to appeal to the masses. ‘The masses have terrible taste,’ she’d say with that naughty glint in her eye that Phoebe knew she was one of the few people to ever see. ‘Have you seen the way they dress?’
So Phoebe had refused to smooth her rough edges. Or to suffer fools because goodness, there were so many fools out in the wild. She’d tried being nice and sweet when she was a child and so desperately believed that being nice and sweet would bring her a family, a home, to be loved and cared for. It hadn’t worked.
Life and circumstance had made her the person that she was. A prickly sort of person, but could she really be that bad considering she treated Coco Chanel like the queen that she was? Phoebe wasn’t built for love. She didn’t even know what love was, but sometimes when Coco was in her lap, her legs in the ‘up’ position so Phoebe could see her adorable little toe beans and her hairless little belly, which was made of the softest substance known to man – even softer than the plushest velvet – she felt like she might burst with the intense feelings she had. The feeling that she’d willingly take up arms to protect the little dog from harm.
After all, she’d risked arrest, maybe even going to prison, to rescue Coco on a murky December evening some five years earlier. Phoebe had been hurrying to get home, even though she was living in a horrible flatshare in Tottenham with two flatmates who hated her and she hated them right back. The state they left the bathroom in! The audacity of trying toborrowher clothes without asking! Though even if they did ask, the answer would still be a big, fat no!
It was a cold night, and as Phoebe got off the bus, she was intent on popping into the big Tesco to get a bottle of wine and something for dinner. There was a man lurchingacross the pavement and as she tried to give him a wide berth because he looked drunk, she realised he wasn’t on his own. He had a little dog with him, at the end of a piece of rope. A dog that cowered away from him as he caught it with his foot.
He shouted something unintelligible and kicked at the dog again. It was best not to get involved. To get her groceries and go home.
But then the dog made a terrified noise, an anguished yowl that Phoebe felt right in her heart. Everyone else was just walking past, heads down, as the man shouted again, expletives slicing through the air, the dog jerking at the end of its makeshift lead.
‘Leave that poor dog alone!’ The words were out of her mouth before Phoebe had a chance to think about whether it was a good idea to confront a drunk, violent, very unpredictable man.
‘What are you gonna do about it?’ he slurred, swinging round unsteadily so that Phoebe was now the focus of his attention.
Despite the icy chill of the evening, he was red-faced and sweaty. As he lunged at Phoebe she was hit with his fetid stench. Still, she stood her ground. She’d faced worse than this, though she really couldn’t remember when.
‘Leave the dog alone,’ she said again. ‘It’s just a poor defenceless animal and you’re a bully. Pick on someone your own size!’
‘I’ll pick on you, shall I!’ he bellowed, trying to swing an arm at Phoebe who hastily side-stepped out of the way.
People were staring now but still not wanting to get involved as the man let loose a string of colourful swear words at Phoebe, calling into question her parentage, what she did for a living and her appearance. Again, she’d heard much worse than anything this sorry excuse for a human being could spit out.
He charged at Phoebe, again so suddenly that she had to jump out of the way, and the man lost his balance, teetered for a second, arms pinwheeling, before crashing to the ground and dropping the little dog’s lead.
The dog froze for a second as the man lay on his back, still swearing, then its eyes darted to the left, then to the right. Then back to the left as if it had decided that diving out into the rush-hour traffic was the best option.
It really wasn’t.
Once again, Phoebe didn’t stop to think. She grabbed the grimy rope-end that was lying on the pavement, crouched down and scooped the dog up.
Then she ran in heels that weren’t designed for running. She could hear someone, the horrible drunk man probably, shouting but she didn’t stop to find out what he wanted.
She didn’t stop running until she was at her front door. Still clutching the little black dog under her arm, who was shivering and shaking.
Phoebe’s flatmates were quite nice about having an unexpected guest. In the same circumstances, Phoebe would have been furious.
