‘But apart from that, when would I start?’
So this morning, Monday, Annie began work, having provided letters from two previous employers extolling her honesty and industry. I’d asked her to come early so that I could show her how everything worked before I left for Christie’s.
‘Spend some time familiarising yourself with the clothes,’ I advised her. ‘Evening wear is here. This is lingerie … there’s some menswear here … shoes and bags are on this stand. Knitwear on this table … Let me open the till.’ I fiddled with the electronic key. ‘And if you could do a little mending …’
‘Sure.’ I went into the ‘den’ to pick up a Murray Arbeid skirt that needed a small repair. ‘That’s an Emma Kitts, isn’t it?’ I heard Annie say. I came back into the shop. She was gazing up at the hat. ‘That was so sad. I read about it in the papers.’ She turned to me. ‘But whydo you have it here, given that it’s not vintage and it says it’s not for sale?’
For a split second I fantasised about confessing to Annie that looking at the hat every day was a form of penance.
‘I knew her,’ I explained as I put the skirt on the counter with the sewing box. ‘We were friends.’
‘That’s hard,’ said Annie softly. ‘You must miss her.’
‘Yes …’ I coughed to cover the sob that I could feel rising in my throat. ‘Anyway … this seam here – there’s a little split.’ I breathed deeply. ‘I’d better get going.’
Annie took the lid off the sewing box and selected a reel of thread. ‘What time does the auction start?’
‘At ten. I went to the preview last night.’ I picked up the catalogue. ‘The lots I’m interested in won’t come up until after eleven, but I want to get there in good time so that I can see what’s selling well.’
‘What are you going to bid for?’
‘A Balenciaga evening gown.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 110.
Annie peered at it. ‘How elegant.’
The long sleeveless indigo silk dress was cut very simply, its scooped neckline and gently raised hem encrusted in a wide band of fringed silver glass beading.
‘I want to buy it for a private client,’ I explained. ‘She’s a Beverly Hills stylist. I know exactly what her customers want, so I’m sure she’ll take it. Then there’s this dress by Madame Grès that I’m dying to get for my own collection.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 112, a Neo-classical sheath of cream silk jersey falling in dozens of fine pleats from an empire-line bust with crossover straps and a chiffon train floating from each shoulder. I emitted a wistful sigh.
‘It’s magnificent,’ Annie murmured. ‘It would make a fabulous wedding dress,’ she added teasingly.
I smiled. ‘That’s not why I want it. I simply love the incomparable draping of Madame Grès’ gowns.’ I picked up my bag. ‘Now I really must go – oh, one other thing –’ and I was just about to tell Annie what to do if anyone brought clothes in to sell when the phone rang.
I picked up. ‘Village Vintage …’ The novelty of saying it still gave me a thrill.
‘Good morning,’ said a female voice. ‘My name is Mrs Bell.’ The woman was clearly elderly and her accent was French, though almost imperceptibly so. ‘I saw from the local newspaper that you have just opened your shop.’
‘That’s right.’ So Dan’s article was still having an effect. I felt a rush of good will towards him.
‘Well … I have a selection of clothes I no longer want – some quite lovely things that I am never going to wear again. There are also some bags and shoes. But I am elderly. I cannot bring them …’
‘No, of course not,’ I interjected. ‘I’d be happy to come over to you, if you’d like to give me your address.’ I reached for my diary. ‘The Paragon?’ I repeated. ‘That’s very near. I could walk up. When shall I come?’
‘Is there any chance that you could come today? I am in the mood to dispose of my things sooner
So this morning, Monday, Annie began work, having provided letters from two previous employers extolling her honesty and industry. I’d asked her to come early so that I could show her how everything worked before I left for Christie’s.
‘Spend some time familiarising yourself with the clothes,’ I advised her. ‘Evening wear is here. This is lingerie … there’s some menswear here … shoes and bags are on this stand. Knitwear on this table … Let me open the till.’ I fiddled with the electronic key. ‘And if you could do a little mending …’
‘Sure.’ I went into the ‘den’ to pick up a Murray Arbeid skirt that needed a small repair. ‘That’s an Emma Kitts, isn’t it?’ I heard Annie say. I came back into the shop. She was gazing up at the hat. ‘That was so sad. I read about it in the papers.’ She turned to me. ‘But whydo you have it here, given that it’s not vintage and it says it’s not for sale?’
For a split second I fantasised about confessing to Annie that looking at the hat every day was a form of penance.
‘I knew her,’ I explained as I put the skirt on the counter with the sewing box. ‘We were friends.’
‘That’s hard,’ said Annie softly. ‘You must miss her.’
‘Yes …’ I coughed to cover the sob that I could feel rising in my throat. ‘Anyway … this seam here – there’s a little split.’ I breathed deeply. ‘I’d better get going.’
Annie took the lid off the sewing box and selected a reel of thread. ‘What time does the auction start?’
‘At ten. I went to the preview last night.’ I picked up the catalogue. ‘The lots I’m interested in won’t come up until after eleven, but I want to get there in good time so that I can see what’s selling well.’
‘What are you going to bid for?’
‘A Balenciaga evening gown.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 110.
Annie peered at it. ‘How elegant.’
The long sleeveless indigo silk dress was cut very simply, its scooped neckline and gently raised hem encrusted in a wide band of fringed silver glass beading.
‘I want to buy it for a private client,’ I explained. ‘She’s a Beverly Hills stylist. I know exactly what her customers want, so I’m sure she’ll take it. Then there’s this dress by Madame Grès that I’m dying to get for my own collection.’ I turned to the photo of Lot 112, a Neo-classical sheath of cream silk jersey falling in dozens of fine pleats from an empire-line bust with crossover straps and a chiffon train floating from each shoulder. I emitted a wistful sigh.
‘It’s magnificent,’ Annie murmured. ‘It would make a fabulous wedding dress,’ she added teasingly.
I smiled. ‘That’s not why I want it. I simply love the incomparable draping of Madame Grès’ gowns.’ I picked up my bag. ‘Now I really must go – oh, one other thing –’ and I was just about to tell Annie what to do if anyone brought clothes in to sell when the phone rang.
I picked up. ‘Village Vintage …’ The novelty of saying it still gave me a thrill.
‘Good morning,’ said a female voice. ‘My name is Mrs Bell.’ The woman was clearly elderly and her accent was French, though almost imperceptibly so. ‘I saw from the local newspaper that you have just opened your shop.’
‘That’s right.’ So Dan’s article was still having an effect. I felt a rush of good will towards him.
‘Well … I have a selection of clothes I no longer want – some quite lovely things that I am never going to wear again. There are also some bags and shoes. But I am elderly. I cannot bring them …’
‘No, of course not,’ I interjected. ‘I’d be happy to come over to you, if you’d like to give me your address.’ I reached for my diary. ‘The Paragon?’ I repeated. ‘That’s very near. I could walk up. When shall I come?’
‘Is there any chance that you could come today? I am in the mood to dispose of my things sooner
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