Page 22 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop (Vintage Dress Shop Romance #3)
‘Borrow me for what?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Have you found another soul-crushing menial task for me to do?’
‘We’ve got a bride in for her first appointment and she’s having an identity crisis,’ Sophy said calmly but her face was red and then she gnawed her bottom lip anxiously. Phoebe hoped, for Sophy’s sake, that she never tried to play poker.
‘I’m not allowed to be customer-facing under pain of death,’ Phoebe reminded her.
Sophy smiled weakly. ‘I thought it could be our little secret. Freddy need never know.’
Not her circus. Very much not her monkeys. If Sophy had now stepped up as manager then she could get on with it.
But then again. A bride in need?
The success of her most special day hanging in the balance?
Phoebe was already sliding off the stool she was perched on and it took every last ounce of self-control that she possessed not to run up the two flights of stairs to the atelier.
Instead she walked slowly and sedately up the basement stairs, through the shop that was heaving, hopefully heaving enough that they might break even this month, and up the spiral staircase to find a despondent-looking woman standing on the dais in an oyster silk bias-cut 1930s wedding gown, which did absolutely nothing for her.
‘I’m sorry but that’s doing absolutely nothing for you,’ Phoebe said. Sometimes you needed to be brutal and crush the dreams of a woman who’d been visualising herself in the wrong wedding dress for years.
Phoebe wasn’t just being cruel for the sake of it, although Sophy and Cress both winced. Only then would the prospective bride be open to the possibility of having a new dream.
This woman was in her late thirties, with the pasty complexion of many a naturally pale woman during the winter months.
Long brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, which again did nothing for her but Phoebe would address that later.
Blue eyes. Tiny waist, delicate wrists, but she’d chosen a dress that didn’t make the most of any of those features but instead highlighted every lump and bump and washed out her complexion.
Phoebe thought for a moment and then approached the dress rail that went from champagne to pink and pulled out a blush pink 1950s dress . . .
‘Oh no! I was thinking off-white, floor-length and definitely not a meringue.’
‘It’s not a meringue. It’s a ballerina skirt,’ Phoebe said, holding it up. ‘It will be ankle-length. You have gorgeous wrists so I’m sure you also have gorgeous ankles. Why would you want to hide them?’
It was clear that the woman had never really considered her ankles because she lifted the hem of the bias-cut dress and stared down at her feet in wonder before rotating one elegant ankle.
‘It’s just not the dress I was picturing.’ She raised her head. ‘Do you want to see my Pinterest wedding dress inspo board?’
Judging by the woman’s absolute inability to know what colours and styles suited her, Phoebe would rather stick pins in her eyes. She didn’t say that though, because she wasn’t a monster. Honestly, she really wasn’t.
Instead she rustled the blush ballerina dress in what she hoped was a tempting manner. ‘Humour me. Let’s just try this on and see how you feel in a different silhouette.’
Cress accompanied the woman, Joanna, to the changing room and when she emerged ten minutes later, even the fact that she was still wearing ankle socks and completely the wrong size bra couldn’t disguise the fact that the dress was perfect for her.
Joanna didn’t seem convinced as she walked to the dais, plucking at the frothy tulle that made up the skirt. Then, as soon as she was on the raised platform and looking at herself in the mirrors, her fretful expression softened then disappeared altogether.
She was rapt. Transfixed. Turning this way and that.
‘I never thought I could look like this,’ she said at last. ‘I never want to take this dress off. Can I take some photos? My mum, my family, are in Dublin. It’s why I’m here on my own.’
Usually brides weren’t allowed to take photos unless they’d committed to the dress and paid a hefty deposit. There had been occasions when women had taken lots of photos, then hadn’t bought the dress but had had a replica dress made using inferior materials and craftmanship.
Joanna didn’t seem like she had the audacity to pull that kind of trick and also, Phoebe could be flexible. Sometimes. ‘You can take a couple of photos,’ she said as Joanna handed her phone to Cress.
‘It needs taking out at the waist,’ Cress said once the photos were done. ‘And maybe I’ll raise the hem by just a couple of centimetres.’
‘Is it a winter wedding?’ Phoebe asked.
Joanna nodded. Her face fell. ‘Yeah. Bit of a rush job which is why I’m here on my own. My gran’s not very well so we’ve had to bring everything forward.’
Cress and Sophy made sympathetic noises but Phoebe felt she could be of more practical help. ‘I love a winter wedding. A white faux-fur bolero or even a white velvet cape would be heavenly. I’ll give you the details of a couple of vintage shops who are sure to have something suitable.’
‘That would be great. Thank you.’ Joanna held up her ponytail. ‘Then I was thinking my hair loose with maybe a tiara.’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘Definitely not. You’ve got a great neck and collarbones, so I’d go for a relaxed chignon with some strands of hair framing your face. Jewellery, minimal. Maybe a delicate silver chain.’
It had only been a week since she’d last imparted her expert knowledge to a grateful bride-to-be but Phoebe had missed it more than she knew.
‘Also, there’s no polite way to say this, but you’re wearing the wrong size bra,’ she said enthusiastically as Sophy groaned in the background. ‘Go to John Lewis and get properly measured before you come back for your next fitting.’
Joanna peered down at her bust. ‘I’ve been a 32 C since I was twelve.’
‘Then you’ve been wearing the wrong size bra since then,’ Phoebe said, her eyes narrowed. ‘I think you need to go down a band size and up a cup size.’
Before she could really warm to her theme, she was distracted by a hand on her arm.
‘A woman downstairs said I should come up here and you’d help me.’ It was a pretty young woman dressed from head to toe in designer gear. Phoebe pored over Vogue every month and even though she’d never wear it, she could recognise new-season Gucci when she saw it.
Even so, there was a system in place. You didn’t just let anyone gain admittance to the atelier. Not without Phoebe’s express permission.
Then again, if she could afford new-season Gucci then she had to be a big spender and they needed all the big spenders they could get.
‘What are you looking for?’ Phoebe asked because again, she could be flexible even when her system was being totally disrespected.
‘I’ve got a Halloween party next weekend,’ the woman said with a heavy sigh. ‘Very fancy. Very black tie. I need something with Morticia Addams vibes but not something that looks like a costume. A gown . . . I mean, a black gown is a wardrobe staple, right?’
‘Absolutely.’ Phoebe gave her a quick once-over. ‘I’ve got just the thing.’
Half an hour later, she was sent on her way with a sleek black dress with a fishtail hem that could have been made to her exact measurements and the details of a little shop in Mayfair, which did the best wigs.
Phoebe was on a roll. She was back doing what she’d been put on this earth to do.
She looked round the atelier for the next woman who needed her expertise but there was just Sophy wearing her fixed smile. ‘OK, I think I can take it from here.’
‘Are you sure?’ Phoebe asked because she couldn’t bear to be sent back down to the salt mines. Or the basement as it was known.
‘It’s nearly closing time on a Friday. Freddy could easily pop in on his way to The Hat and Fan and then it would become a whole thing.’ Sophy sighed as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. ‘He’s been in such a crabby mood this week. Not like Freddy at all.’
Even though she was hurt and angry with Freddy, Phoebe wasn’t going to comment. Especially now that she’d spoken to Johnno and could understand that maybe Freddy had worries about the future of the shop.
Then again, they were worries he could have shared with her. But he hadn’t. In much the same way that he hadn’t had Phoebe’s back.
So, if anyone should be angry, it was Phoebe.
But when she walked into The Hat and Fan an hour later, behind the rest of the staff, and she realised that Freddy wasn’t sitting with Charles and Miles because he was a no-show, she didn’t feel angry.
She just felt sad.
They all agreed that as it was Charles and Sophy’s Halloween party the next evening, that it would be a quiet Friday.
‘I’m not even going into town afterwards,’ Anita said virtuously as she clutched a large glass of Pinot Grigio. ‘In fact, I might only have one of these.’
Without Freddy, Phoebe certainly wasn’t motivated to stay for longer than the time it took her to drink her usual gin with slimline tonic, from a bottle and not the mixer tap, and lime, not lemon.
As she and Coco were walking back to The Sheila , Phoebe’s heart beat a little faster in anticipation every time she heard a noise behind them. But it was never him. It was never Freddy.