Page 33 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop
‘That’s because you haven’t seen the hundreds of selfies I take and reject,’ Bea said as Phoebe backed her into the little anteroom they used for a studio.
‘Nonsense. And the camera loves Anita,’ Phoebe said, as she approached the big ring light and wondered how to turn it on. She was learning new skills at a frightening rate this week.
‘Anita also loves the camera.’ Bea looked at Phoebe then she sagged in defeat. ‘I can’t argue with you anymore, Pheebs, it’s exhausting. Take some photos of me; then when the website orders dry up because they’re being modelled by a woman who resembles Shrek, you’ll only have yourself to blame.’
Bea said it lightly, but Phoebe wondered if she really was that exhausting. Even before the events of this week, she’d imagined that Freddy seemed tired when they were together. Not even tired but defeated. How his eyes had lost theirtwinkle as if something, or rather someone, had made his glow flicker and fade.
‘I just think we should try something new on the website. It can’t hurt. Then we can also use the pictures on social media. Didn’t you say that the algorithms prefer pictures of people rather than things?’ Phoebe said in a soft, pleading tone, which felt very awkward. ‘Now, could you give me a quick tutorial in how to use a ring light? I hope it’s easier than understanding Camden Council’s website portal.’
It was, but then manning the controls at NASA would be easier than Camden Council’s online interface. They used a proper camera to take pictures and Bea, of course, looked stunning in the dresses that Phoebe put her in because, despite her many faults (and it seemed to Phoebe that currently certain people thought she was ninety-nine per cent faults and one per cent woman) she had a very good eye.
So, it was hardly a surprise when Sophy came down to the basement after lunch and didn’t look very happy about it.
‘Are you busy?’ she asked Phoebe who wasn’t at all busy but watching a YouTube video on how to increase web traffic. ‘Can I borrow you?’
‘Borrow me for what?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Have you found another soul-crushing menial task for me to do?’
‘We’ve got a bride in for her first appointment and she’s having an identity crisis,’ Sophy said calmly but her face was red and then she gnawed her bottom lip anxiously. Phoebe hoped, for Sophy’s sake, that she never tried to play poker.
‘I’m not allowed to be customer-facing under pain of death,’ Phoebe reminded her.
Sophy smiled weakly. ‘I thought it could be our little secret. Freddy need never know.’
Not her circus. Very much not her monkeys. If Sophy had now stepped up as manager then she could get on with it.
But then again. A bride in need?
The success of her most special day hanging in the balance?
Phoebe was already sliding off the stool she was perched on and it took every last ounce of self-control that she possessed not to run up the two flights of stairs to the atelier.
Instead she walked slowly and sedately up the basement stairs, through the shop that was heaving, hopefully heaving enough that they might break even this month, and up the spiral staircase to find a despondent-looking woman standing on the dais in an oyster silk bias-cut 1930s wedding gown, which did absolutely nothing for her.
‘I’m sorry but that’s doing absolutely nothing for you,’ Phoebe said. Sometimes you needed to be brutal and crush the dreams of a woman who’d been visualising herself in the wrong wedding dress for years.
Phoebe wasn’t just being cruel for the sake of it, although Sophy and Cress both winced. Only then would the prospective bride be open to the possibility of having a new dream.
This woman was in her late thirties, with the pasty complexion of many a naturally pale woman during the winter months. Long brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, which again did nothing for her but Phoebe would address that later. Blue eyes. Tiny waist, delicate wrists, but she’d chosen a dress that didn’t make the most of any of those features but instead highlighted every lump and bump and washed out her complexion.
Phoebe thought for a moment and then approached the dress rail that went from champagne to pink and pulled out a blush pink 1950s dress . . .
‘Oh no! I was thinking off-white, floor-length and definitely not a meringue.’
‘It’s not a meringue. It’s a ballerina skirt,’ Phoebe said, holding it up. ‘It will be ankle-length. You have gorgeous wrists so I’m sure you also have gorgeous ankles. Why would you want to hide them?’
It was clear that the woman had never really considered her ankles because she lifted the hem of the bias-cut dress and stared down at her feet in wonder before rotating one elegant ankle.
‘It’s just not the dress I was picturing.’ She raised her head. ‘Do you want to see my Pinterest wedding dress inspo board?’
Judging by the woman’s absolute inability to know what colours and styles suited her, Phoebe would rather stick pins in her eyes. She didn’t say that though, because she wasn’t a monster. Honestly, she really wasn’t.
Instead she rustled the blush ballerina dress in what she hoped was a tempting manner. ‘Humour me. Let’s just try this on and see how you feel in a different silhouette.’
Cress accompanied the woman, Joanna, to the changing room and when she emerged ten minutes later, even the fact that she was still wearing ankle socks and completely the wrong size bra couldn’t disguise the fact that the dress was perfect for her.
Joanna didn’t seem convinced as she walked to the dais, plucking at the frothy tulle that made up the skirt. Then, as soon as she was on the raised platform and looking at herself in the mirrors, her fretful expression softened then disappeared altogether.
She was rapt. Transfixed. Turning this way and that.
