Page 33 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop (Vintage Dress Shop Romance #3)

‘ S ince always,’ Phoebe said. ‘I’ve known Johnno for years. He’s my boss technically.’

She didn’t explain things with her usual heat because she was mindful of Johnno’s advice, such as it was, and also mindful that Sophy’s relationship with Johnno was . . . complicated.

He was her father but in all the years that Phoebe had worked for Johnno, she’d never met Sophy. He talked about her sometimes but as far as Phoebe could work out, or even cared, Sophy was quite happy with her mum and her stepfather.

Phoebe’s life would have been so much better if Sophy had never come into it. Right from the start, Phoebe was sure that Sophy, who’d worked for BelleGirl, an awful fast-fashion high-street chain that had gone bust, had designs on her shop, her job, but the reality had been even worse than that.

First, she’d set her cap at lovely Charles then she’d broken his heart by emigrating to Australia and her grandparents’ sheep farm. (No matter what anyone said, it was a farm. You didn’t have sheep on a station.)

Phoebe had been delighted for Sophy to go and live on the other side of the world but she’d never dreamed that Johnno would decide to go with her.

Then when Sophy had returned, it had been minus Johnno and with a few months’ experience of working at Clive’s bloody Closet, so she thought she was now a vintage clothing expert.

Phoebe hadn’t wanted her anywhere near the shop but back she came for an ‘indefinite’ period of time and with notions about renting out dresses and still she showed no inclination to leave.

So, she had good reasons for not liking Sophy but Phoebe could understand very well how difficult families could be. Especially families that weren’t a one-size mum, dad, two kids fits all.

‘He’s my father,’ Sophy said in a voice loaded with feelings. Lots of confusing, warring feelings. ‘This is just weird . Are you doing this to get a rise out of me?’

‘No! Johnno is . . . He’s just the person I can always go to when I need advice,’ Phoebe admitted, though it was the very last thing she wanted to tell Sophy.

That there were times that she needed help and Johnno was the only person she trusted enough not to hold her weaknesses against her.

‘He’s your father but in some ways, a lot of ways, he’s always been a father figure to me, you know. ’

Sophy clicked the kettle so it would boil again as she’d now missed the peak hot water window. ‘No, I don’t know. Yes, Johnno’s everyone’s friend, and I’m glad that we have a relationship now, but just because he’s a great guy, it doesn’t mean that he’s a great dad. He’s so unreliable.’

‘I don’t know why that’s such a problem.’ Phoebe shrugged. ‘He doesn’t claim to be reliable. He’s always been really upfront about his absolute flakiness. All that going to see a man about a dog when he’s trying to wriggle out of something.’

‘Thanks for explaining the ways of my own father to me,’ Sophy snapped as the kettle clicked off and she picked it up.

Phoebe tried not to flinch. Sophy had a temper on her – all that red hair – but she hoped that she wouldn’t start flinging scalding-hot water about. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to dadsplain.’

Sophy, thank goodness, put the kettle down. ‘Oh my God, did you actually just apologise?’

‘Only sorry for . . .’

‘And then did you really crack a joke? Jesus. It’s the end of days,’ Sophy exclaimed, picking up the kettle again.

‘I’m not that bad,’ Phoebe said crossly, except she didn’t even sound cross. She was tired mostly. She’d been cross now for what felt like weeks. Maybe months. Years. Her entire life. It was exhausting.

‘But, Pheebs, you really are that bad.’ Sophy sounded exhausted too.

‘This thing with Johnno and his unreliability . . . I get that it’s a very different situation for you but for me, well, I always expect people to let me down so he’s never disappointed me in that way,’ she explained as delicately and as diplomatically as she could, though neither of those adjectives were really in her wheelhouse.

‘I’ve known him for years, Sophy. You think I’m bad but Johnno has seen the absolute worst of me and he’s never judged me for it.

He’s come through for me, time and time again, in so many different ways.

I owe him everything and I’m not saying that to upset you but . . .’

It was impossible to say what she wanted to say.

The tension between the two women, always there, shimmering like a force field that separated them, was almost visible.

It felt to Phoebe as if neither of them even dared to blink. ‘But . . . ?’ Sophy prompted very gently.

‘If Johnno had been my father, not just a father figure, then . . . then I wouldn’t have minded that and when you turned up, out of the blue, Johnno’s actual daughter, oh God, I was so jealous of you I couldn’t even stand it,’ Phoebe said bitterly. ‘And you don’t appreciate him at all.’

‘So, is that why you’ve always hated me?’ Sophy asked flatly. Then she lifted up the kettle again. ‘Do you want coffee?’

‘Yes please and I don’t hate you . . .’

‘Dislike me intensely then. Potato potarto.’ Sophy spooned coffee granules into Phoebe’s mug, which Cress had got her for Christmas.

A vintage Wedgwood mug from the late queen’s coronation in 1953.

Almost too nice to be used but Cress had insisted and Phoebe had been touched that Cress had given her such a thoughtful on-brand gift.

Cress was another one of the very small group of people that Phoebe had welcomed into her world. Yet now Cress was someone else who counted Phoebe as one of her least favourite people. But of those people, Sophy was the one who was currently in her eyeline and giving her grief.

Grief that was maybe just a little bit justified.

‘Look, it’s not my fault that we didn’t become instant best friends,’ Phoebe said, which probably counted as explaining but at least she wasn’t complaining.

‘I had no idea you were going to be working here. Even Freddy didn’t know until Johnno sent him a message asking him to collect you from the station.

Then you were very disrespectful about the dresses.

For weeks you kept saying that people had probably died in them. ’

Was that the ghost of a smile on Sophy’s face as she held up the milk carton. ‘Black or a splash of milk?’ She’d remembered that Phoebe took her coffee in two different ways depending on her mood.

‘Just a splash, please.’

‘The odds are that at least one of the dresses that we’ve sold did have someone die in them,’ Sophy muttered.

‘Why would you say that? Are you deliberately trying to wind me up?’ Phoebe demanded as Sophy handed her the mug.

‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Sophy sighed as she leaned back against the sink. ‘It goes both ways. I was so jealous of your relationship with Johnno. It seemed too easy, so effortless. Like he didn’t need to bother staying in touch with me because he had you.’

‘But Johnno adores you!’ Phoebe pointed out because even if there had been a distance between father and daughter, there was still no mistaking the way that Johnno’s face always lit up when he talked about Sophy. More so, when they were actually in the same room together.

‘I don’t know if he does. I hope he does. I am really fond of him. One of the best things about working here has been this new relationship with Johnno . . .’ Her lips twisted wryly.

‘But I’m the worst thing,’ Phoebe guessed.

Sophy shrugged. ‘You said it, not me.’ She sighed again.

‘Look, I don’t want your job. I don’t want to be the manager and have all that responsibility.

I just want to sell pretty dresses to interesting people and have a little piece of something that’s my own, which is the rental dresses.

I have no evil plans to take over your empire. ’

Phoebe digested this information. ‘Freddy would prefer it if you were manager.’

‘No, he wouldn’t. If he wanted anyone else to be manager, it would be Bea because she knows how to make Excel spreadsheets, how the inventory thingy on the computer works and how to order new bags and a hundred other things that I have no interest in because, again, I don’t want to be manager,’ Sophy said.

‘But also, Phoebe, I like working here. I love working with Cress. But no job is worth this much stress and hassle, so if you really want me to go then . . .’

‘No! No! Of course I don’t want you to leave,’ Phoebe said quickly, even though it had been her heart’s true desire ever since Sophy turned up.

But was Sophy really that bad? If she didn’t have designs on the shop and stayed in her lane then .

. . ‘Do you promise never to get another hare-brained idea, like reorganising the dresses, then act on it without getting my approval?’

‘I’m happy to sign something to that effect,’ Sophy said with a grimace. ‘Honestly, I knew I’d screwed things up. When I heard you come down the stairs, I swear my whole life flashed before my eyes.’

‘I’m sure we can find a way to work together,’ Phoebe said, though she knew she was the one who needed to make the most effort.

‘Also, happy Sophy means happy Charles and I really couldn’t afford to lose him.

All those dresses from estate sales that he’d pass on to another shop. That would be unbearable.’

‘Was that another joke?’ Sophy asked. ‘It really is hard to tell.’

‘It started off as a joke but then contemplating the loss of Charles quickly turned into my worst nightmare,’ Phoebe confessed.

She drained the rest of her coffee then stood up.

She felt depleted. This conversation had been challenging and difficult but now it felt like the closing of one chapter, where nothing good had happened, and the start of something new. Hopefully, something much better.

‘Well, this has been a good chat,’ Sophy said with some surprise.

‘It has,’ Phoebe agreed.

‘Should we shake hands or something?’ Sophy grinned mischievously. ‘Or hug it out?’

Phoebe’s shudder wasn’t entirely fake. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ She paused on her way to the door. ‘You know, if you want to decorate the shop for Christmas, then that’s fine with me. Just, please, don’t go mad. Tasteful. Even understated.’

‘Yes to Christmas tunes too?’ Sophy asked hopefully.

‘If I were you, I’d quit while I was ahead.’

Phoebe and Sophy’s new, friendlier relationship was clearly going to be a work in progress.