bit conceited – quite the opposite, actually. She was full of self-doubt.’
I suddenly realised that my tea, being black and sugarless, didn’t need stirring. I laid my spoon in the saucer.
‘And she was your best friend?’
I nodded. ‘She was. But I wasn’t really a “best” friend to her or even a good friend, come to that.’ The cup had blurred. ‘In fact, when the chips were down, I was a terrible friend.’ I was aware of the steady sound of the gas fire, like an unending exhalation. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. I put down my cup. ‘I came here to look at your clothes. I think I’ll get on with that now, if you don’t mind. But thank you for the tea – it was just the ticket.’
Mrs Bell hesitated for a moment, then she stood up and I followed her across the corridor into the bedroom. Like the rest of the flat it seemed not to have been touched for years. It was decorated in yellow and white, with a glossy yellow eiderdown on the small double bed, and yellow Provençal curtains and matching panels set into the doors of the white built-in cupboards that lined the far wall. There was a cream alabaster lamp on the bedside table and next to it a black-and-white photo of a handsome, dark-haired man in his mid forties. On the dressing table was a studio portrait of Mrs Bell as a young woman. She had been striking rather than beautiful, with her high forehead, Roman nose and wide mouth.
Ranged against the nearest wall were four cardboard boxes, all spilling over with gloves, bags and scarves. While Mrs Bell sat on the bed, I knelt on the floor and quickly went through them.
‘These are all lovely,’ I said. ‘Especially these silk squares here – I adore this Liberty one with the fuchsia pattern. This is smart …’ I pulled out a boxy little Gucci handbag with bamboo handles. ‘And I like these two hats. What a pretty hatbox,’ I added, looking at the hexagonal box the hats were stored in, with its pattern of spring flowers on a black background. ‘What I’ll do today,’ I went on as Mrs Bell walked, with visible effort, towards the wardrobe, ‘is to offer you a price for those clothes I’d like to buy. If you’re happy with it, I’ll write you a cheque now, but I won’t take anything until it’s cleared. Does that sound all right?’
‘It sounds fine,’ Mrs Bell replied. ‘So …’ She opened the wardrobe and I caught the scent of Ma Griffe. ‘Please go ahead. The clothes for consideration are in the left-hand section here, but please don’t touch anything beyond this yellow evening dress.’
I nodded then began to pull out the clothes on their pretty satin hangers, laying them in ‘yes’ and ‘no’ piles on the bed. For the most part, the things were in very good condition. There were nipped-in suits from the fifties, geometric coats and shifts from the sixties – including a Thea Porter orange velvet tunic and a wonderful candy pink raw silk Guy Laroche ‘cocoon’ coat with elbow-length sleeves. There were romantic smocked dresses from the seventies and a number of shoulder-padded suits from the 1980s. There were some labels – Norman Hartnell, Jean Muir, Pierre Cardin, Missoni and Hardy Amies ‘Boutique’.
‘You have some lovely evening wear,’ I remarked as I looked at a Chanel sapphire blue silk faille evening coat from the mid sixties. ‘This is wonderful.’
‘I wore that to the premiere of You Only Live Twice,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘Alastair’s agency had done some of the advertising for the film.’
‘Did you meet Sean Connery?’
Mrs Bell’s face lit up. ‘Not only did I meet him – I danced with him at the after-film party.’
‘Wow … And this is gorgeous.’ I pulled out an Ossie Clark chiffon maxi dress with a pattern of cream-and-pink florets.
‘I adore that dress,’ Mrs Bell said dreamily. ‘I have many happy memories of it.’
I felt in the left-hand seam. ‘And here’s the tiny trademark pocket that Ossie Clark put in each one. Just big enough for a five-pound note –’
‘– and a key,’ Mrs Bell concluded. ‘A charming idea.’
There was also quite a bit of Jaeger, which I told her I wouldn’t be taking.
‘I’ve hardly worn it.’
‘It’s not that – it’s because it’s not old enough to qualify as vintage. I don’t have anything in the shop that’s later than the early eighties.’
Mrs Bell fingered the sleeve of an aquamarine wool suit. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with it, then.’
‘They’re lovely things – surely you could still wear them?’
She gave a little shrug. ‘I rather doubt it.’
I looked at the labels – size 14 – and realised that Mrs Bell was at least two sizes smaller than when she’d bought these clothes, but then people often shrink in old age.
‘If you’d like any of them altered, I could take them to my seamstress for you,’ I suggested. ‘She’s very good, and her charges are fair. In fact, I have to go there tomorrow, so –’
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Bell interjected, shaking her head, ‘but I have enough to wear. I no longer need very much. They can go to the charity shop.’
Now I pulled out a chocolate brown crepe de Chine evening dress with shoe-string straps, edged in copper sequins. ‘This is by Ted Lapidus, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. My husband bought it for me in Paris.’
I looked at her. ‘Is that where you’re from?’
She shook her head. ‘I grew up in Avignon.’ So that explained the lavender field painting and the Provençal curtains. ‘It said in that newspaper interview that you go to Avignon sometimes.’
‘I do. I buy things from the weekend markets in the area.’
‘I think that’s why I decided to phone you,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘I was somehow drawn to that connection. What sort of things do you buy?’
‘Old French linen, cotton dresses and nighties, broderie anglaise vests – they’re popular with young women here. I love going to Avignon – in fact, I’ll need to go again soon.’ I pulled out a black-and-gold silk moiré evening gown by Janice Wainwright. ‘And how long have you lived in London?’
‘Almost sixty-one years.’
I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘You must have been so young when you came here.’
She nodded wistfully.’ I was nineteen. And now I am seventy-nine. How did that happen …?’ She looked at me as though she genuinely thought I might know, then shook her head and sighed.
‘And what brought you to the UK?’ I asked as I began looking through a box of Mrs Bell’s shoes. She had neat little feet, and the shoes, mostly by Rayne and Gina Fratini, were in excellent condition.
‘What brought me to the UK?’ Mrs Bell smiled wistfully. ‘A man – or more precisely an Englishman.’
‘And how did you meet him?’
‘In Avignon – not quite “sur le pont”, but close by. I had just left school
