A Vintage Affair by Isabel Wolff Read Free Book Online Page A

was prepared to concede that. ‘Anyway,’ I sighed, ‘I was a little distracted when we were talking yesterday – who did you say gets this paper?’
    ‘It’s handed out at all the stations in this area on Tuesday and Friday mornings. It also goes through thedoors of selected businesses and homes, so potentially it reaches a wide local audience.’
    ‘That’s wonderful.’ I smiled at Dan, genuinely appreciative now. ‘And have you worked for the paper long?’
    He seemed to hesitate. ‘Two months.’
    ‘From the start then?’
    ‘More or less.’
    ‘And are you from round here?’
    ‘Just down the road in Hither Green.’ There was an odd little pause, and I was just waiting for him to say that he ought to be on his way when he said, ‘You must come Hither.’
    I looked at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
    He smiled. ‘All I mean is you must come round sometime.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘For a drink. I’d love you to see my …’ What? I wondered. Etchings?
    ‘Shed.’
    ‘Your shed?’
    ‘Yes. I’ve got a fantastic shed,’ he said evenly.
    ‘Really?’ I imagined a jumble of rusty gardening tools, cobwebbed bicycles and broken flowerpots.
    ‘Or it will be when I’ve finished.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
    ‘Well …’ Dan tucked the pencil behind his ear. ‘I guess I’d better find my sharpener.’
    ‘Good luck.’ I smiled. ‘See you around.’ He left the shop, then gave me a little wave through the window. I waved back. ‘What an oddball,’ I said under my breath.
    Within ten minutes of Dan’s departure a trickle of people began to arrive, at least two of them holdingcopies of the Black & Green . I tried not to annoy them with offers of help or to watch them too obviously. The Hermès bags and the more expensive jewellery were in lockable glass cases, but I hadn’t put electronic tags on the clothes for fear of damaging the fabric.
    By twelve, I’d had about ten people through the door and had made my first sale – a 1950s seersucker sundress with a pattern of violets. I felt like framing the receipt.
    At a quarter past one a petite red-haired girl in her early twenties came in with a well-dressed man in his mid to late thirties. While she looked through the clothes he sat on the sofa, one silk-socked ankle resting on his knee, thumbing his BlackBerry. The girl went through the evening-wear rail, finding nothing; then her eye was drawn to the cupcake dresses hanging on the wall. She pointed to the lime green one – the smallest of the four.
    ‘How much is that?’ she asked me.
    ‘It’s £ 275.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s silk,’ I explained, ‘with hand-sewn crystals. Would you like to try it on? It’s a size eight.’
    ‘Well …’ She glanced anxiously at her boyfriend. ‘What do you think, Keith?’ He looked up from his BlackBerry and the girl nodded to the dress, which I was now taking off the wall.
    ‘That won’t do,’ he said bluntly.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Too colourful.’
    ‘I like bright colours,’ the girl protested meekly.
    He turned back to his BlackBerry. ‘It’s not appropriate for the occasion.’
    ‘But it’s a dance.’
    ‘It’s too colourful,’ he insisted. ‘Plus it’s not smart enough.’ My dislike of the man turned to detestation.
    ‘Let me try it.’ She smiled pleadingly. ‘Go on.’
    He looked at her. ‘Ok- ay .’ He sighed extravagantly. ‘ If you must …’
    I showed the girl into the changing room and drew the curtain round the rail. A minute later she emerged. The dress fitted her perfectly and showed off her small waist, lovely shoulders and slim arms. The vibrant lime complimented her red-blonde hair and creamy skin, while the corseting flattered her bust. The green tulle petticoats floated in layers around her, the crystals winking in the sunlight.
    ‘It’s … gorgeous,’ I murmured. I couldn’t imagine any woman looking more beautiful in it. ‘Would you like to try a pair of shoes on with it?’