to wear, because Pucci, like Ossie Clark, Biba and Jean Muir, is very collectable.’
‘Marilyn Monroe loved Pucci,’ Dan said. ‘She was buried in her favourite green silk Pucci dress.’ I nodded, not liking to admit that I hadn’t known that. ‘Those are fun.’ Dan was nodding at the wall behind me hanging on which, like paintings, were four strapless, ballerina-length evening dresses – one lemon yellow, one candy pink, one turquoise and one lime – each with a satin bodice beneath which foamed a mass of net petticoats, sparkling with crystals.
‘I’ve hung those there because I love them,’ I explained. ‘They’re fifties prom dresses, but I call them “cupcake” dresses because they’re so glamorous and frothy. Just looking at them makes me feel happy.’ Or as happy as I can be now, I thought bleakly.
Dan stood up. ‘And what’s that you’re putting out there?’
‘This is a Vivienne Westwood bustle skirt.’ I held it up for him. ‘And this –’ I pulled out a terracotta silk kaftan, ‘is by Thea Porter, and this little suede shift is by Mary Quant.’
‘What about this?’ Dan had pulled out an oyster pink satin evening dress with a cowl neckline, fine pleating at the sides, and a sweeping fishtail hem. ‘It’s wonderful – it’s like something Katharine Hepburn would have worn, or Greta Garbo – or Veronica Lake,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘in The Glass Key.’
‘Oh. I don’t know that film.’
‘It’s very underrated – it was written by Dashiell Hammett in 1942. Howard Hawks borrowed from it for The Big Sleep.’
‘Did he?’
‘But you know what …’ He held the dress against me in a way that took me aback. ‘It would suit you.’ He looked at me appraisingly. ‘You have that sort of film noir languor.’
‘Do I?’ Again, he’d taken me aback. ‘Actually … this dress was mine.’
‘Really? Don’t you want it?’ Dan asked almost indignantly. ‘It’s rather beautiful.’
‘It is, but … I just … went off it.’ I returned it to the rail. I didn’t have to tell him the truth. That Guy had given it to me just under a year ago. We’d been seeing each other for a month and he’d taken me to Bath one weekend. I’d spotted the dress in a shop window and had gone in to look at it, mostly out of professional interest as it was £500. But later, while I’d been reading in the hotel room, Guy had slipped out and returned with the dress, gift-wrapped in pink tissue. Now I’d decided to sell it because it belonged to a part of my life that I was desperate to forget. I’d give the money to charity.
‘And what, for you, is the main appeal of vintage clothing?’ I heard Dan ask as I rearranged the shoes inside the illuminated glass cubes that lined the left-hand wall. ‘Is it that the things are such good quality compared to clothes made today?’
‘That’s a big part of it,’ I replied as I placed one 1960s green suede pump at an elegant angle to its partner. ‘Wearing vintage is a kick against mass production. But the thing I love most about vintage clothes …’ I looked at him. ‘Don’t laugh, will you.’
‘Of course not …’
I stroked the gossamer chiffon of a 1950s peignoir. ‘What I really love about them … is the fact that they contain someone’s personal history.’ I ran the marabou trim across the back of my hand. ‘I find myself wondering about the women who wore them.’
‘Really?’
‘I find myself wondering about their lives. I can never look at a garment – like this suit …’ I went over to the daywear rail and pulled out a 1940s fitted jacket and skirt in a dark blue tweed ‘… without thinking about the woman who owned it. How old was she? Did she work? Was she married? Was she happy?’ Dan shrugged. ‘The suit has a British label from the early forties,’ I went on, ‘so I wonder what happened to this woman during the war. Did her husband survive? Did she survive?’
I went over to the shoe display and took out a pair of 1930s silk brocade slippers, embroidered with yellow roses. ‘I look at these exquisite shoes, and I imagine the woman who owned them rising out of them and walking along, or dancing in them, or kissing someone.’ I went over to a pink velvet pillbox hat on its stand. ‘I look at a little hat like this,’ I lifted up the veil, ‘and I try to imagine the face beneath it. Because when you buy a piece of vintage clothing you’re not just buying fabric and thread – you’re buying a piece of someone’s past.’
Dan nodded. ‘Which you’re bringing into the present.’
‘Exactly – I’m giving these clothes a new lease of life. And I love the fact that I’m able to restore them,’ I went on. ‘Where there are so many things in life that can’t be restored.’ I felt the sudden, familiar pit in my stomach.
‘I’d never have thought of vintage clothes like that,’ said Dan after a moment. ‘I love your passion for what you do.’ He peered at his notepad. ‘You’ve given me some great quotes.’
‘Good,’ I replied quietly. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’ After a hopeless start, I was tempted to add.
Dan smiled. ‘Well … I’d better let you get on – and I ought to go and write this up, but …’ His voice trailed away as his eyes strayed to the corner shelf. ‘What an amazing hat. What period’s that from?’
‘It’s contemporary. It was made three years ago.’
‘It’s very original.’
‘Yes – it’s one of a kind.’
‘How much is it?’
‘It’s not for sale. It was given to me by the designer – a close friend of mine. I just wanted to have it here because …’ I felt a constriction in my throat.
‘Because it’s beautiful?’ Dan suggested. I nodded. He flipped shut his notebook. ‘And will she be coming to the launch?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘One last thing,’ he said, taking a camera out of his bag. ‘My editor asked me to get a photo of you to go with the piece.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘As long as it won’t take long. I’ve still got to tie balloons to the front, I have to change – and I haven’t poured the champagne: that’s going to take time and people will be arriving in twenty minutes.’
‘Let me do that,’ I heard Dan say. ‘To make up for being late.’ He tucked his pencil behind his ear. ‘Where are the glasses?’
‘Oh. There are three boxes of them behind the counter, and there are twelve bottles of champagne in the fridge in the little kitchen there. Thanks,’ I added, anxiously wondering if Dan would manage to spill it everywhere; but he deftly filled the flutes with the Veuve Clicquot – vintage, of course, because it had to be – while I washed and changed into my outfit, a thirties dove grey satin cocktail dress with silver Ferragamo sling-backs; then I put on a little make-up and ran a brush through my hair. Finally I untied the cluster of pale gold helium balloons which floated from the back of a chair and attached them in twos and threes to the front of the shop where they jerked and bobbed
