A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff

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       TWO

      I always wake in the early hours. I don’t need to look at the clock to know what time it is – it’s ten to four. I’ve been waking at ten to four every night for six months. My GP said it’s stress-induced insomnia, but I know it’s not stress. It’s guilt.

      I avoid sleeping pills, so sometimes I’ll try to make the time pass by getting up and working. I might put on a wash – the machine’s always on the go; I might iron a few things, or do a repair. But I know it’s better to try and sleep so I usually lie there, attempting to lull myself back to oblivion with the World Service or some late-night phone-in. But last night I didn’t do that – I just lay there thinking about Emma. Whenever I’m not busy she goes round and round my mind, on a loop.

      I see her at our little primary school in her stripy green summer dress; I see her diving into the swimming pool like a seal; I see her kissing her lucky Krugerrand before a tennis match. I see her at the Royal College of Art with her milliner’s blocks. I see her at Ascot, photographed in Vogue, beaming beneath one of her fantastic hats.

      Then, as my bedroom began to fill with the grey light of dawn I saw Emma as I saw her for the very last time.

      ‘Sorry,’ I whispered.

      You’re a fabulous friend.

      ‘I’m sorry, Em.’

       What would I do without you …?

      As I stood under the shower I forced my thoughts back to work and to the party. About eighty people had come including three former colleagues from Sotheby’s as well as one or two of my neighbours from here in Bennett Street and a few local shop-owners. Ted from the estate agent’s just along from the shop had popped in – he’d bought a silk waistcoat from the menswear rail; then Rupert who owns the florist’s had turned up and Pippa who runs the Moon Daisy Café dropped in with her sister.

      One or two of the fashion journalists I’d invited were there. I hoped that they’d become good contacts, borrowing my clothes for shoots in return for publicity.

      ‘It’s very elegant,’ Mimi Long from Woman & Home said to me as I circulated with the champagne. She tipped her glass towards me for a refill. ‘I adore vintage. It’s like being in Aladdin’s cave – one has this wonderful sense of discovery. Will you be running the place on your own?’

      ‘No – I’ll need someone to help out part time so that I can be out and about buying stock, and taking things to be cleaned and repaired. So if you hear of anyone … They’ll need to have an interest in vintage,’ I added.

      ‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground,’ Mimi promised. ‘Ooh – is that real Fortuny I can see over there …?’

      I’ll have to advertise for an assistant, I thought now as I dried myself and combed my wet hair. I could place an ad in a local paper – perhaps the one Dan worked for, whatever it was called.

      As I dressed – in wide linen trousers and a short-sleeved fitted shirt with a Peter Pan collar – I realised that Dan had correctly identified my style. I do like the bias-cut dresses and wide-leg trousers of the late thirties and early forties; I like my hair shoulder length and falling over one eye. I like swing coats, clutch bags, peep toes and seamed stockings. I like fabric that drapes like oil.

      I heard the clatter of the letter box and went downstairs where there were three letters on the mat. Recognising Guy’s handwriting on the first I tore it in half and dropped the pieces in the bin. I knew from his others what this one would say.

      In the next envelope was a card from Dad. Good luck with your new venture, he’d written. I’ll be thinking of you, Phoebe. But please come and see me soon. It’s been too long.

      That was true. I’d been so preoccupied that I hadn’t seen him since early February. We’d met at a café in Notting Hill for a conciliatory lunch. I hadn’t been prepared for him bringing the baby. The sight of my sixty-two-year-old father with a two-month-old clamped to his chest was, to put it mildly, a shock.

      ‘This is … Louis,’ he’d said awkwardly as he fumbled with the baby-sling. ‘How do you undo this thing?’ he muttered. ‘These damn clips … I can never … ah, got it.’ He sighed with relief then lifted the baby out and cradled him with a tender but somehow puzzled expression. ‘Ruth’s away filming so I had to bring him. Oh …’ Dad peered at Louis anxiously. ‘Do you think he’s hungry?’

      I looked at Dad, appalled. ‘How on earth should I know?’

      As Dad rummaged in the changing bag for a bottle I stared at Louis, his chin shining with dribble, not knowing what to think, let alone say. He was my baby brother. How could I not love him? At the same time, how could I love him, I wondered, when his conception was the cause of my mother’s distress?

      Meanwhile Louis, unfazed by the complexities of the situation, had grasped my finger in his tiny hand and was smiling at me gummily.

      ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I’d said …

      The third envelope was from Emma’s mother. I recognised her writing. My thumb trembled as I ran it under the flap.

      I just wanted to wish you every success with your new venture, she’d written. Emma would have been so thrilled. I hope you’re all right, she’d gone on. Derek and I are still taking things one day at a time. For us the hardest part remains the fact that we were away when it happened – you can’t imagine our regret. ‘Oh yes, I can,’ I murmured. We still haven’t gone through Emma’s things… I felt my insides coil. Emma had kept a diary. But when we do, we’d like to give you some small thing of hers as a keepsake. I also wanted to let you know that there’ll be a little ceremony for Emma on the first anniversary – February 15th. I needed no reminder – the СКАЧАТЬ