Page 32 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop (Vintage Dress Shop Romance #3)

‘Are you sure?’ Bea asked. ‘I mean, are you sure you know how to?’

Anita sniggered but quickly turned it into a cough when Phoebe gave her a flinty-eyed look.

‘Of course I know what to do,’ she said. ‘You were very good at explaining things. And as we’re so busy, I think we’d better engage our emergency protocols.’

The emergency protocols were Bea on the door to only let people in, once she’d let people out. Anita policing the changing rooms and only allowing customers to try on three dresses or fewer and Sophy on till.

When Phoebe wasn’t one of the most hated women on the internet and hadn’t been cancelled for a second time, she’d supervise the operation, but that wasn’t currently a viable option.

‘I’ll be in the back office if you need me,’ she said, although she did have to venture onto the shop floor a couple of times to look for dresses that had been ordered online.

The second time, as Phoebe pulled a navy blue knit dress from the rail, the two young girls standing next to her nudged each other. ‘It’s her,’ she heard one of them hiss with glee. ‘That absolutely mental woman from TikTok.’

Keeping calm and carrying on was not in Phoebe’s nature.

How she longed to turn round, tell the pair of them off and then ban them from the shop for life.

She didn’t though, but once she’d finished doing the website orders, only four of them, which took no time at all, Phoebe was glad to have an excuse to pop out and go to the post office.

She still had no intention of apologising but she did offer to fetch lunch for them and Cress, who’d been called downstairs to help out.

They refused Phoebe’s request with varying degrees of politeness and although The Vintage Dress Shop was meant to be her safe place, she couldn’t wait for Bea to unlock the door and let her escape.

There wasn’t even a long queue in the post office to delay her, nor in the little café where she liked to go to get her lunchtime salad. Coco Chanel wasn’t in the mood for a long walk either and kept tugging on her lead in the direction of the shop.

All too soon, Phoebe had to return to a shop that wasn’t quite so crowded but the atmosphere still had teeth and claws.

‘I’ll be in the office if you need me,’ she said brightly and someone, either Anita or Sophy, Phoebe couldn’t be sure which, muttered, ‘Like I need a hole in the head,’ in response.

Turning the other cheek was almost as hard as keeping calm and carrying on. As it was, Phoebe had no appetite for her chicken salad. For a moment, she wished she was the sort of person who ate carbs because her inner turmoil really needed something bready to squash it down. Possibly a doughnut.

Instead she found herself mindlessly scrolling through her phone. Or rather mindlessly scrolling through Birdy’s Instagram feed and her colour-drenched, quirky pictures, which told a story just as well as the slightly breathless and gushy words that accompanied each post.

Phoebe was very careful with her fingers.

She didn’t want to accidentally like a picture from two years ago and have Birdy think that she was some crazed stalker.

She’d rather that Birdy didn’t think about her at all.

Although Phoebe couldn’t find fault with the two pieces of #sponcon for The Vintage Dress Shop that she’d posted already.

One was a reel of Birdy running her hand over the rental rail and a commentary about how to rent dresses and the other was a series of pictures of Birdy frolicking on one of the pink sofas in the silver lamé minidress, which Phoebe had pulled for her.

They both had hundreds of likes and lots of comments, although a couple advised Birdy that they were unfollowing her because I can’t believe you’d do ads for a shop that employs BULLIES.

Phoebe was saved from having to read any more uncomplimentary comments by the ping of her WhatsApp. Her heart lifted just a little to see a message from Johnno.

It was a photo of a fawn-coloured French bulldog frolicking on a beach, with the caption: Coco is cuter.

Phoebe was very much the sort of woman who kept her own counsel. But she never had to do that with Johnno.

Are you around for a bit. Fancy a FaceTime? she wrote back and her message had barely been in the ether and landed on the other side of the world before her phone rang.

She accepted the call, propped up her phone against the fancy tin that had once stored tea bags but now held a motley collection of pens, pencils and a manky pair of scissors, and smiled as Johnno’s weatherbeaten face, sporting a huge grin, appeared on the screen.

‘Love the hair,’ Phoebe said, a smile on her face for the first time in days. ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll scare the sheep?’

Johnno’s close-cropped hair was currently neon green, which clashed with his ruddy cheeks. ‘Had to leave the sheep for a week or so to come to Sydney to see a man about a dog,’ he said with a grin. ‘Talking of which, how is Madame Coco?’

At the sound of her name, Coco who’d been lying at Phoebe’s feet in the hope of some chicken, raised her head. Phoebe scooped her up and sat her on her lap. ‘There’s your uncle Johnno,’ she said and Coco’s ears twitched as if she understood.

Then once Coco was back on the floor with a small piece of chicken for her trouble, Johnno launched into a long story involving a man he’d met in a pub, a darts match and how Johnno had ‘won the fella’s ute, fair and square, then he reported it stolen to the police.

Thought they were going to bang me to rights but turns out the bloke has form for this kind of thing. ’

Phoebe nodded and smiled and once Johnno had come to the end of his tale of woe, it was her turn to speak. Though every time she tried to think of a suitable opening statement, her words failed her.

‘Everything’s terrible,’ she heard herself suddenly blurt out.

‘There’s a horrible atmosphere in the shop.

Sophy and I argued, though she overstepped and took liberties with the dresses and people keep taking videos of me and posting them on the internet so that other people who don’t even know me call me vile names and .

. . and . . . and Freddy and me. There is no Freddy and me anymore. ’

Johnno didn’t say anything for a while. Phoebe always liked that about him. When it really mattered, Johnno listened and considered what he’d been listening to before he commented.

Now, much like Coco Chanel, he tilted his neon green head and processed everything that Phoebe had to say.

‘It sounds like you’re having a rough week,’ he summed up.

‘The absolute roughest,’ Phoebe agreed.

‘Did any dresses get damaged or destroyed?’ Johnno asked.

‘Well, no but . . .’

‘If the dresses are all right, then everything else will come out in the wash,’ Johnno said because he was the only person who understood how Phoebe felt about the dresses.

He never made her feel bad about it either: that she could care for clothes, stuff , so much but when it came to people, she could take or leave them. Mostly leave them.

‘Sophy’s a good kid. You’re a good kid. One day, you’ll both find a way to co-exist and who cares what a bunch of people on the internet are saying?’ He tilted his head again.

‘I don’t care,’ Phoebe insisted because everyone from Mildred to Birdy knew that it was silly to worry about what people said about you, or to have any control over it.

But if Phoebe hadn’t said or done the things she’d said and done when people were surreptitiously recording her, then none of these recent unpleasant events would have happened.

‘They don’t know anything about you or your life.

What makes you tick. What your story is, so sod ’em, pardon my French,’ Johnno said.

He knew more about Phoebe’s life than anyone else.

Because he’d known her since she was sixteen, almost half her lifetime, and even though she hadn’t told him the details of how she’d ended up so surly, so displaced and living with Mildred at sixteen, Johnno wasn’t stupid.

He pretended that he was just a simple guy, but he was so good at reading between the lines.

He’d always understood Phoebe without her saying a word.

And, he’d never judged her for it. ‘And as for Freddy . . .’

‘Freddy will be fine,’ Phoebe said sadly.

Because it was true. She’d always acted as if she was doing Freddy a huge favour, right from the beginning of their awkward, protracted courtship, but in reality he could do a lot better than Phoebe.

Or, at least, find someone who was much less hard work.

He’d be much happier for it too. ‘But you’re not to let him sack me. ’

‘Nobody’s sacking anyone,’ Johnno said, which should have been a relief but wasn’t. ‘But it sounds like things can’t carry on the way they are.’

‘So, how do I make them better?’

‘I think you already know the answer to that,’ Johnno said, because the other thing about him, which was as infuriating as it was understandable, was that he never took sides.

Even when it was quite obvious who was in the wrong.

Even when that person wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.

‘It will all come good in the end, Pheebs. Always does.’

‘Does it?’ Phoebe rolled her eyes.

‘I reckon.’ Johnno looked past Phoebe just as she heard a noise behind her. ‘Hey, kiddo, how are you? I know I owe you a phone call.’

With her heart sinking all the way to the soles of her feet, Phoebe turned her head to see Sophy standing there. A Sophy who mustered up a thin smile.

‘You do,’ she said shortly, then her face softened. ‘What are you doing up so late anyway? The sheep causing you sleepless nights?’

‘I’m in Sydney. Had to see a man about a dog,’ Johnno repeated.

Sophy nodded. ‘Of course you did. Are Bob and Jean good?’

‘They’re grand. I’m heading back to the station tomorrow. We’re just heading into lambing season.’

Sophy and Johnno exchanged a few more incomprehensible words as they talked about lambing season on his parents’ (Sophy’s grandparents’) sheep farm or station or whatever it was, as Phoebe tried to assume a neutral face.

It was hard when it was her phone propped up and Sophy was leaning down and across her to see Johnno on the screen. So close that Phoebe could smell her perfume.

‘Anyway, you go and see that man about that completely fictitious dog and maybe we’ll catch up when I call Bob and Jean on the weekend,’ Sophy said, straightening up as Johnno touched the side of his head in a salute.

Then Sophy moved away to fill up the kettle and it was Phoebe’s turn to say goodbye.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Johnno assured her. ‘This too will pass and all that.’

‘Yeah, I suppose,’ Phoebe said without much conviction. ‘Let’s speak soon. Oh and Sheila ’s doing great, by the way.’

‘I knew I could count on you to look after the old girl,’ Johnno said. ‘Right, I’ll be off then. Be good!’

Johnno was never one to prolong a goodbye. The screen went black as he disconnected the call. Phoebe picked up her phone and risked looking over at Sophy, who wasn’t watching the kettle but was staring at Phoebe with her hands on her hips.

‘Since when do you speak to my dad?’ she demanded.