Page 65 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Phoebe agreed.
They all settled back in their seats but Phoebe couldn’t help herself.
‘Unless George also sews fake Biba labels into nasty 1990s dresses that don’t even look vintage,’ she said and felt Sophy’s huff of annoyance ghost the back of her neck. ‘Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.’
It turned out that George, an absolutely beautiful young man with the flawless complexion of a person with a very rigorous skin regime, was thrilled to meet Phoebe.
‘The woman, the phenomenon, the legend,’ he breathed, slinking down the stairs like a catwalk model, before Phoebe had even taken her coat off. ‘Big fan of your work. But hear you’re not a big fan of my boss Katy.’
‘Do you want me to be polite because I’m a guest in your house or do you want me to be honest?’ Phoebe asked.
‘The latter. Always the latter,’ George said with a wicked smile and though it had taken Phoebe three goes before she’d warmed to Birdy, when it came to George, she suspected that they were going to be instant friends.
‘She’s a monster,’ Phoebe said baldly as George put a hand to his heart and gasped in delight. ‘I don’t know how you put up with her.’
‘You can’t say that about people!’ Sophy tutted, pushing past Phoebe in the narrow hall. ‘Shall we order some food? I’m starving.’
‘But she really is a monster,’ George insisted, putting his arm around Phoebe’s shoulder to lead her into a small living room, its furniture IKEA standard issue and its walls painted renters’ magnolia but livened up with vintage film posters and brightly coloured cushions. ‘FYI, Sophy and Anita too, I’m very cross with you for keeping me and Phoebe apart all this time. I’ve been begging for an introduction.’
Anita made the sign of a cross. ‘Oh God, what have we done?’
‘It’s like matter and anti-matter colliding,’ Sophy added. ‘I don’t know how we’ve managed to keep them apart this long.’
Neither did Phoebe or why, because George was utterly charming and they didn’t stop talking, only pausing the conversation briefly to eat the promised Korean fried chicken with a kimchi mac and cheese on the side.
As both of them had worked in vintage shops for pretty much their entire careers, they had loads of mutuals in common. They’d been to the same vintage all-dayers, must surely have shared the same air at Glorious Goodwood and had both briefly dated a rockabilly called Nelson who’d very quickly proved himself to be ‘a total wrong ’un’, Phoebe remembered darkly.
‘The wrongest wrong ’un,’ George echoed until Anita said that they were monopolising the conversation. So they threw it open to the floor where, apart from Cress who’d spent most of her career repairing ecclesiastical robes and hassocks at an obscure religious museum in Chelsea, they’d all worked in retail and had the war stories to prove it.
Phoebe couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard, clutching her ribs, tears streaming down her face, as Sophy described disturbing a couple in a changing room who weren’t just having sex but also livestreaming it to their OnlyFans.
After dinner, talk turned to the Vintage Christmas Ball, which was only a week away, on the first Saturday in December. In the past, Phoebe had tried to impose a first-look policy where she’d yay or nay her staff’s outfit choices as they were ambassadors for The Vintage Dress Shop and the eyes of the vintage community, and everyone that Phoebe knew, would be on them. It had never gone down that well.
Now Anita treated Phoebe to a winsome smile. ‘I have three different options. I need your opinion.’
‘You’ve never wanted my opinion before,’ Phoebe pointed out but Anita just shrugged.
‘That was because you issued a decree. This would be more of a freeform discussion.’ Anita was already on her feet and heading towards the door, but she stopped to shoot a sly smile at Phoebe. ‘I mean, we both know that you’re dying to have a good nose in my wardrobe.’
It was the absolute truth. Despite Anita’s many other failings, she was always impeccably turned out and had at least three black shop dresses that Phoebe coveted.
Anita’s room was a good size. ‘I’ve lived here the longest so of course I’ve got the biggest bedroom.’ But apart from the bed, every available inch of space, including built-in wardrobes, two chests of drawers and a free-standing clothes rail were given over to her huge collection of vintage dresses, separates, coats (the coats!) and accessories.
Phoebe sat down on the bed, Coco Chanel in her arms and took it all in. It was a lot. And very, very messy. ‘Honestly, Anita, I’d have expected you to be better organised andwirehangers? Surely I’ve brought you up better than that, haven’t I?’
Because they weren’t at work and also because Phoebe was too full of carbs, the words lacked her usual bite.
‘Every year I promise myself that I’m going to do a winter and summer edit, then store what I’m not wearing, and every year I can’t be arsed,’ Anita admitted, flopping down on the bed next to Phoebe, not even caring that she was crushing a 1950s red taffeta ball gown.
‘Well, let’s do it now. It won’t take that long,’ Phoebe said eagerly.
‘But it’s Saturday night!’ Anita promised as Bea also squeezed into the room, but Phoebe wasn’t going to put up with such feeble excuses and between the three of them it didn’t take that long to sort Anita’s clothes into seasons.Then to sort them further into keepers, donators and ‘fit for nothing but the knacker’s yard,’ said Cress who’d also come in to help. Phoebe was glad that, for once, it wasn’t her saying the hard things.
‘What do you do to your clothes, Anita? What have you done to this blouse?’
Cress held up the blouse in question. In a former life it had been a pretty pintucked, short-sleeved white cotton blouse with sweet pink piping on the cuffs and collars. In this life it was a wrinkled rag with torn armholes and missing half its buttons.
‘It’s my deodorant,’ Anita insisted. ‘I swear, it rots clothes.’
