A Random Act of Kindness. Sophie Jenkins

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ smiling, more to herself than to me. ‘This is my collection,’ she says shyly.

      ‘Wow.’

      It’s like falling into my favourite dream. Her clothes are hanging in muslin garment bags that shroud the dresses inside them. Each garment bag has a vinyl pocket with a Polaroid of the garment tucked into it. I’m seriously excited by these wrapped-up delights, impressed by the care she’s taken to look after them, and I’m filled with a rush of anticipation.

      She laughs gleefully at my expression. ‘It’s taken you by surprise, hasn’t it?’

      ‘Yes!’ I’m looking at the Polaroids and through the muslin bags I can see the vague but enticing outline of her clothes.

      She sweeps her hand along them carelessly but possessively, like a lover, and looks at me coquettishly over her shoulder. ‘I have a question for you. How would you catalogue a lifetime’s collection of couture like this?’ she asks.

      Is this something she wants me to do? My heart is beating fast with anticipation. Oh please, yes, I’d do it in a heartbeat. ‘I guess I’d do it by designer and by era,’ I say, wondering if this is the actual interview.

      ‘That’s exactly what I do,’ she says approvingly. ‘I keep them all in chronological order, in the order I was given them by my dahlink husband.’

      I’d like a husband like that. ‘Really? Going back to when?’

      Again, she turns her head to look at me, her hands on her hips, raising her eyebrows briefly, enjoying my surprise.

      ‘Let’s see how clever you are, shall we? Tell me, what was the style in post-war nineteen forties?’

      I laugh. ‘Come on, that’s too easy. I’m wearing it. Utilitarian, flannel, no more than five buttons due to clothes rationing, two pockets—’

      She wags her finger at me. ‘Shame on you, Fern Banks! I’m talking about couture! Here! Look!’ She pulls out a bag, unzips it and takes out the garment to show me.

      I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s a wasp-waisted jacket over a corseted black silk dress with a midi-length full pleated skirt, so boned and perfectly structured that even on the hanger it holds the shape of the wearer – it could probably stand up by itself.

      Christian Dior. I’m stunned, lost for words. My skin prickles with adrenaline. I’ve only ever seen this ensemble in books and, unexpectedly, here it is, a museum piece hanging in a wardrobe.

      Dinah thrusts it into my arms and chuckles. ‘Go on! Take it! Feel!’ she says. ‘Don’t we always have to feel?’

      Seeing my hesitation, her smile fades and suddenly her mood changes. She says sharply, ‘The cat got your tongue? Tell me about this!’

      She’s testing me. I might, after all, be a fake. ‘Well, it’s obviously …’ I hardly dare to say it. ‘It looks like – it’s in the style of Christian Dior’s New Look collection. Spring nineteen-forty-seven, right? La Ligne Corolle. After the war he wanted to move on from the relaxed, practical frocks that women were used to and he chose the corseted, exaggerated cinch-waist styles.’ I’m looking under the skirt at the seams, at the finish of it. I glance uncertainly at her, trying to read her expression, wondering what this is all about, what exactly my role is.

      She relaxes again. ‘Of course, you’re quite correct,’ she says languidly, swatting away my words with her hand as if they’re not important anyway. ‘It also has a hat with it. I have it in a box.’

      Fascinated, I hold the Dior at arm’s-length. It’s like looking at something incredible, like a sunset, and trying to put a price on it. I’ve got an idea how much this outfit is worth. Probably six figures. Does she?

      My speechless admiration amuses her. She laughs and takes it from me – she has other things to show me and she shares in my delight. I get a glimpse of the most beautiful fabrics: chiffon, crêpe romaine, crêpe marocaine, crêpe de chine, gossamer, moiré, organzine, shantung, brocade, velvets in jewel colours – emerald, amethyst, turquoise, lapis lazuli, ruby, sapphire, ivory; dresses so beautiful that I groan in pleasure.

      ‘They’re all here,’ she says with great pride, spreading her arms wide. ‘The best of the best. Dior, Givenchy, Balenciaga, Laroche, Schiaparelli.’

      The names are poetry to me.

      Dinah pauses and glances at me conspiratorially. ‘And Chanel.’ She raises her hand. ‘No, don’t say it! I know you’re wondering, Chanel? How could she? Well, I forgave her in the Fifties.’

      ‘You did? For what?’

      Dinah frowns and her expression hardens. ‘What do you think? For cosying up to the Germans during the occupation, of course. Everyone knows she had an affair with that diplomat, the Baron.’ She shrugs. ‘But she was cleared of being a collaborator, so what can you do? Maybe, after all, it was just sex. I chose to forgive,’ she says haughtily, sliding the hangers along the rails. ‘Look! Here’s a Grès that might interest you.’

      ‘Madame Alix Grès,’ I say, showing off my knowledge, and Dinah pats my cheek sharply but approvingly.

      ‘Of course, dahlink. Madame Alix,’ she says fondly. ‘Who else but us remembers her anymore?’

      She pulls out the gown, in Grecian draped and pleated ivory. It’s breathtaking, a miracle of construction, the pinnacle of elegance. As she holds up the hanger, her arm trembles with the weight; it’s heavy, lavish with fabric. I want to hold it. Hell, I’d kill to wear it.

      ‘You like it, huh?’ Dinah shakes the hanger so that the dress shimmies gracefully. ‘See how it hangs? Magnificent, isn’t it?’

      It takes my breath away. ‘I’ve seen one in the Victoria and Albert Museum. I never thought I’d get to hold one.’

      Dinah smiles. ‘How about you try it on? Would you like to?’

      ‘Really? Yes, please!’

      ‘Don’t worry, I won’t look,’ she says, turning her back to me, but as soon as I step out of my dress she turns around and issues a series of stern orders.

      ‘Here, slip that arm out of your bra strap, see, it’s one-shouldered. Undo the side zip – no, not there, it’s on the right. Don’t step into it, pull it over your head. Okay, wait. There.’ Dinah’s tugging it into place, her cold fingers rough against my skin.

      The gown slides down my body as cool and silky as a waterfall.

      ‘This hooks onto this – stand still, will you!’ She jerks me almost off my feet. ‘That shoulder isn’t straight – pull it up. There. Okay. Look at me.’

      I turn to face her.

      Her face softens and she clasps her knuckles to her mouth, her chin crumpling, tears shimmering in her eyes. ‘So beautiful,’ she says softly. She shuts a wardrobe door with the toe of her shoe. ‘Look at yourself in it.’

      I stand tall, shoulders back. My reflection shows me as my very best self – the person I dream of being. The gown is a masterpiece of design, the definition of elegance. The СКАЧАТЬ