Page 28 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop (Vintage Dress Shop Romance #3)

A nother week went by with Phoebe’s role at the shop still unclear and her relationship with Freddy still a bit scratchy.

It was all quite unsettling but not as unsettling as the determined expression on Sophy’s face at the Monday morning meeting (Sophy was being very inflexible when it came to these new Monday morning meetings) as she announced that it was time to put up Christmas decorations.

‘Halloween is done. The clocks have gone back. It’s now November and Christmas season has officially begun.

Phoebe, why are you pulling a face?’ she demanded because Phoebe might be a well-behaved shadow of her former self but it was very hard to school her features into bland acceptance of things she disapproved of.

‘I told you before that we don’t go in for Christmas decorations. Of course you were in Australia last Christmas so you don’t know how we do things,’ Phoebe reminded her, and reminded herself again that she wished Sophy had stayed there.

‘That’s a bit bah humbug,’ Sophy said, folding her arms and tilting her chin in the stubborn way she did. To think that people thought Phoebe was a bully.

‘We do Christmas accents, rather than Christmas decorations,’ Bea said because she’d been at the shop the last four Christmases.

‘Very tasteful Christmas accents,’ Anita added. ‘A few retro baubles here and there. Kind of boring, I always thought.’

Typical of Anita to be so disloyal. ‘They’re not boring. They’re actually very lovely, very delicate Christmas tree decorations from the 1950s,’ Phoebe pointed out. ‘Imported from Poland.’

‘Oh, so you do have a tree?’ Sophy brightened. ‘Because I was . . .’

‘A Christmas tree? Pine needles all over the floor? Taking up valuable floor space? Are you mad?’ Phoebe asked. ‘The baubles are dotted about discreetly and, this is very important, in places where they won’t get damaged.’

‘I think we could have a small tree.’ Sophy looked around the shop. ‘Perhaps between the blue and green rails. Maybe some tinsel to go with the baubles. Also, hear me out . . .’

Maybe it was best to just let Sophy ramble on then put a spoke in her plans before they could come to fruition.

Phoebe wasn’t Christmas’s biggest fan. Growing up, Christmas was a time when everything she didn’t have hurt more than usual.

If she was a temporary guest in someone else’s home, she always felt her transient status more keenly when presents were being opened, crackers were being pulled and extended family came to stay and talked about her in loud whispers.

‘That’s your new one, is it? Sulky little thing. How much are the council paying you?’

It wasn’t much worse being in a group home for Christmas.

The staff were usually agency workers on overtime but at least they didn’t pretend that they were there because they wanted to be.

There were presents from charitable organisations, maybe a trip to the panto, but it was better than having to try and fit into someone else’s happy family when you knew that you weren’t going to be there for long.

Probably the best Christmas Phoebe ever had was her first Christmas with Mildred.

Mildred also had Christmas decorations that she’d probably bought in the 1950s.

A fake silver tree, but it had come from Harrods, and even though she was long retired, she still got sent a hamper from Fortnum & Mason’s from her former employers: Marvells of Mayfair.

Phoebe still had one of those empty hampers, which she used to store Coco Chanel’s spare leads, collars and harnesses.

It was also the one time of year when Mildred allowed herself to indulge, instead of sticking to her usual calorie-limiting, unable-to-cook diet of cup-a-soups and finger sandwiches.

For Christmas dinner, there was a Marks & Spencer’s turkey dinner ready meal and on Christmas Eve, some of Mildred’s decorative bowls were filled with Quality Street and mixed nuts which stayed out until January 2nd.

Of course, Mildred could make a small box of Quality Street last the whole of the festive period and still have chocolates left, but she made some allowances for Phoebe ‘as you’re a growing girl. Though you don’t want to grow too much, Phoebe. Clothes looks better on slim people.’

That first Christmas with Mildred was when Phoebe received her first ever vintage dress. She hadn’t been too impressed when she unwrapped the paper ( ‘carefully, Phoebe, I’ll want to reuse it’ ) to find a dress. An old dress – it had to be at least sixty years old.

It was the quintessential 1950s dress, sleeveless with a boat neck, a form-fitting bodice and a full skirt.

Big pink roses ran riot on the white cotton.

‘It hasn’t yellowed at all because I know how to take care of my clothes.

I’m afraid my days of wearing dresses like this are long gone but it should do quite nicely for you.

Of course, back in the day I had a twenty-two-inch waist but you’re developing a lovely figure so it should fit.

And it will probably fit you for another forty years as long as you don’t scoff all the Quality Street.

’ (To this day, Phoebe could still hear Mildred’s dire and frequent warnings about ‘little pickers have big knickers’ whenever she was even thinking about eating chocolate.)

The girls that Phoebe knew at school, (and to her utter mortification, Mildred walked her there every morning to make sure that she actually attended) always had the newest of everything.

Phones, make-up, clothes, and Phoebe just had a series of hand-me-downs and things bought with vouchers from the council.

Now it was Christmas once again and Mildred seemed to think she was doing Phoebe a massive favour by giving her a second-hand dress that she no longer wanted.

‘It’s not . . . I don’t . . . Why would you . . .’

‘When someone graciously gives you a present, you must always thank them, even if you don’t like it,’ Mildred said in her unperturbed way.

She was always unperturbed in the face of all of Phoebe’s rudeness and rule breaking.

As if Phoebe didn’t know any better because she’d never had anyone who cared enough to make any effort with her.

There were times that Phoebe wished that Mildred cared a little less.

That first Christmas there’d been another present too. Which Phoebe had unwrapped carefully this time, without being reminded, to discover a tiny bottle of Chanel No 19.

Even she’d heard of Chanel. The girls at school had fake Chanel bags adorned with the iconic double C logo but this bottle of perfume was the real thing.

‘Oh my God, Mildred, this is amazing. I’ve never . . . This is like the best present ever,’ Phoebe said, ripping off the cellophane not at all carefully.

‘Well, you’re nearly sixteen. About time you had your first proper scent.

Much nicer than those awful body sprays you smother yourself in.

’ Mildred had allowed herself a tiny smile.

‘I did think about getting you Chanel No 5 but it’s not a young lady’s perfume.

Chanel No 19 is more youthful and springlike. ’

Even though it was some sixteen years later, a Monday morning in the shop and Sophy was now banging on about playing Christmas music (dear God, no) in her head, Phoebe was back in Mildred’s tiny, tidy but cluttered living room.

Mildred was sitting in her favourite armchair with the spotless white antimacassars, wearing a periwinkle blue wool dress with a pussy cat bow, which made her blue eyes sparkle.

Because it was Christmas, she was wearing her pearls and a lipstick that was a brighter pink than usual.

It was so rare that Phoebe had ever done anything to make someone else smile, so she remembered Mildred’s smile on that long-ago Christmas Day as much as she remembered putting on the dress and spraying a little bit of perfume on her neck and wrists.

(‘Don’t rub your wrists together. That’s a common mistake women make but it actually breaks down the chemicals in the fragrance. ’)

When Phoebe had looked at herself in the mirror, even with her scraped-back ponytail and doubtful expression, wearing something that wasn’t tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie, she saw the faintest hint of the woman she might become.

She was no longer youthful and she’d never been particularly springlike, but to this day, she still wore Chanel No 19 as her signature scent. Phoebe sniffed her wrist because smell was such a powerful time machine but also to remind herself that she wasn’t that girl anymore.

Mind you, she still hated Christmas even though Sophy promised as Phoebe headed towards the atelier that, ‘Yes! For the fiftieth time, I’m going to organise some tasteful Christmas decorations. I’m perfectly capable of being tasteful, Phoebe, thank you very much.’

‘How do you fancy mending a dropped hem?’ Cress asked, ever the peacemaker.

Phoebe would rather mend a hundred dropped hems than have to listen to Sophy for a second longer.

It was another quiet Monday without anyone booked in for an appointment in the atelier.

It was just Phoebe and Cress – things still awkward between them – so they were both pleased not to talk but to listen to a podcast about Peggy Guggenheim because Phoebe was keen to learn more about the fabulously dressed heiress.

She turned out to be such an icon that, as Cress said, ‘I’m surprised that Taylor Swift has never written a song about her. ’

Phoebe didn’t have any need to go back downstairs until later that afternoon. In an uncharacteristic display of kindness, Anita had offered to give Coco her lunchtime walk and fetch Phoebe a salad.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that Phoebe had to answer the call of nature but found her way barred by Bea who stood on the bottom step of the spiral staircase.

‘Did you need anything?’ she asked, her voice quite shrill and her face quite red. ‘Why don’t you go back upstairs and I’ll fetch it for you?’

‘I need to powder my nose,’ Phoebe said delicately but forcefully. One of Mildred’s most stringent rules was that ladies (and gentlemen for that matter) didn’t discuss their bodily functions in public.

‘Oh! Your nose looks fine.’ Bea peered at Phoebe’s face. ‘Do you want your make-up bag? I’ll get it for you and take it up to the atelier.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sakes,’ Phoebe exclaimed, continuing down the stairs so Bea had no choice but to give way or be mown down. ‘I need a wee, not that it’s any business of yours.’

‘Well, let’s get you to the bathroom,’ Bea said holding out her arms to usher Phoebe’s progress, though she was quite capable of visiting the tiny little bathroom tucked into an alcove by herself.

‘What are you doing?’ Phoebe asked suspiciously and although she was careful not to manhandle, she did push Bea out of the way so she could do a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn to see what was happening in the shop.

Then really wished she hadn’t.

She went hot.

She went cold.

She could feel rage and her blood pressure rising in that way that always mottled her hands and throat. Phoebe began to count to ten in an effort to calm down before she blew her top.

She managed to get as far as seven.

‘What the hell have you done?’ she demanded of Sophy, who had tried to obscure a rail of dresses by standing in front of it with her arms outstretched, but judging from the cringing look on her face, she now realised that it was futile. ‘What the hell have you done to my shop?’