Page 39 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop (Vintage Dress Shop Romance #3)

‘Go on then. Don’t keep me in suspense.’ Phoebe leaned back against the table and waited for Freddy to deliver the bad news. It was definitely bad. He wasn’t giving good news energy.

‘I had an email from Stefan, the guy who organises the vintage balls at the Bloomsbury Ballroom.’ Freddy raised his eyebrows as Phoebe opened her mouth. ‘No, it’s not being cancelled. Yes, we booked tickets ages ago. It’s not that.’

Phoebe was intrigued but still had a feeling of foreboding given Freddy’s unexpected visit and his grave manner. ‘What is it then?’

He looked down at Coco Chanel who was now happily asleep in his arms and snoring like a chainsaw. ‘Promise you won’t get mad,’ he muttered, refusing to meet Phoebe’s eyes, which had widened in alarm. ‘Oh God, you’re going to get mad.’

‘I’m going to get mad if you don’t just come out with it for goodness’ sake,’ Phoebe snapped because her last nerve had been well and truly worked.

‘It’s Coco. Stefan says that she’s banned from attending the Christmas ball,’ Freddy said quickly as Phoebe gasped in shock, outrage and a bitter sense of betrayal.

‘He said what?’ Her ears had to be deceiving her.

‘Coco always attends the vintage balls. She’s like the guest of honour.

’ She sat down heavily on the stool she’d only just vacated as she was reeling too much to stay upright.

‘Stefan said that? But he adores Coco. Is this a change in venue policy? Who’s the manager? I’m going to speak to the manager!’

Considering that Phoebe kicking off was the reason why she and Freddy were no longer she and Freddy, and even though this was prime kicking off, he wasn’t getting that flinty look in his eyes and tightening his lips. Instead he came to sit on the stool next to hers.

‘There was an incident at the last ball,’ he revealed somewhat unwillingly. ‘Consensus of opinion is that the culprit was this young lady.’ He shut his eyes, probably so he wouldn’t have to see Phoebe’s face scrunched up in fury. ‘After the summer ball, they found a . . .’

‘What could they have possibly found and blamed my precious Coco for?’ Phoebe demanded.

‘They found a turd . . .’

‘A what?’

‘You heard me the first time,’ Freddy muttered, his head hanging low. ‘Under a table and Stefan said that it could only have been Coco.’

‘Coco would never! ’ Phoebe all but exploded. Freddy put a hand on her arm as if that might calm her down, and it took all she had not to angrily shake him off. ‘Were there actual witnesses?’

‘Well, no . . .’

‘So, I don’t know how he can accuse Coco of such a thing. She’s here all day, even in the atelier with its thick carpet and expensive dresses, and she’s never disgraced herself like that. Not once in all these years.’

‘I know but what other explanation could there be?’ Freddy asked because it turned out he wasn’t on Coco’s side either.

‘People have too much to drink and then they turn into animals,’ Phoebe said immediately because that was a far more likely explanation instead of blaming it on an actual animal who was beautifully house-trained. ‘Fine! If Coco isn’t going, then I’m not going either.’

‘Pheebs, you love the vintage balls,’ Freddy reminded her. ‘All the staff will be going so I think you need to go too. For shop morale.’

It was true that Phoebe enjoyed the biannual vintage balls, one just before summer and one just before Christmas.

It was an excuse to get properly dressed up in the kind of looks you could only really bust out for a formal occasion.

Unless you were Marianne’s friend Gretel who would happily wear a ball gown to her office job in an insurance broker’s.

Still, Phoebe did have a lot of occasion dresses and not that many occasions to wear them to.

Plus, Freddy always agreed to pay for a glam squad for the staff, Phoebe’s friends Vivienne and Roy, who specialised in retro make-up and hair looks.

It was always the best night out. They’d do predrinks and an after party then finally end up getting a kebab and chips at an all-night place on Southampton Row.

But maybe the best part of the best night out was getting to dance with Freddy in a proper ballroom swagged out in red velvet and gold, the lights from the mirror balls shimmering in time to the fifty-piece orchestra.

And wedged in between them, as always, was Coco.

‘If Coco isn’t welcome then I won’t feel welcome either,’ Phoebe said because although she wasn’t officially licensed, in a lot of ways Coco was her emotional support animal.

Just as Phoebe was her emotional support human.

Which was another reason why Phoebe would have to bow out.

‘You know she has separation anxiety, Freddy. I can hardly leave her on her own.’

‘Can’t you leave her with a friend?’ Freddy asked. Even though they were no longer a secret us, Phoebe appreciated that Freddy was trying to find a solution to this problem so maybe he was still a little bit on Coco’s side after all.

‘But all my friends will be going to the ball.’

‘What about your neighbours? The tie-dye hippies or the ones who grow carrots on the roof of The Sheila ?’ Freddy frowned. ‘Are they the same neighbours? I get confused.’

‘Two entirely different sets of neighbours but Coco hates Gunther because he always makes piggy noises when he sees her.’ Which was why Phoebe also low-key hated Gunther. ‘And on the other side, Sean is allergic.’

‘Maybe their partners, the one who doesn’t make piggy noises or the one who isn’t allergic, could look in on Coco a couple of times,’ Freddy suggested. ‘You do leave her on her own occasionally. If you have to go to the big supermarket or the doctor’s or something.’

‘I don’t know.’ Phoebe was genuinely torn.

Despite everything that had happened, maybe even because of it, she wanted to make some good memories with the people she worked with, and she still wanted to dance with Freddy and maybe see that soft, tender look he used to get when they danced together.

‘Maybe. Maybe not, because if I turn up without Coco then it’s like I believe Stefan’s version of events even though in my heart of hearts I know that Coco would never do that. ’

They sat there in a considered silence for a few moments punctured only by Coco’s snoring, the dog blissfully unaware of the baseless accusations that had been flung her way. Then Freddy came to with a little start almost as if he’d drifted off.

‘Anyway I should probably go now.’ He handed Coco over gently to Phoebe as if she were a precious newborn. ‘Thank you for not shooting the messenger.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Phoebe said, standing up so she could put Coco down in her basket. ‘Although I will be having words, quite a lot of words, with Stefan the next time I see him.’

Freddy grinned. ‘Yeah, he mentioned that in the email too. Something about hoping that the stab vest will fit underneath his best bib and tucker.’

‘Stabbing’s too good for him,’ Phoebe muttered darkly, then caught Freddy’s sudden panicked look. ‘That was a joke! Kind of.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Freddy was already halfway up the stairs but then he paused. ‘The way you love Coco, it’s always been one of my favourite things about you.’

Phoebe shrugged. ‘I don’t do love, Freddy.

You know that. But when I adopted Coco, I made a commitment to always be there for her.

To be all in. And yes, I do know that maybe I indulge her and spoil her a little bit too much but it’s nothing less than she deserves.

After everything she’s been through in her life, she deserves to be absolutely spoilt rotten. ’

‘Impossible,’ Freddy muttered, but before Phoebe could ask him what he meant, he was gone, disappearing up the steps so quickly that he stumbled over the top one and swore under his breath, which made Phoebe glad that she’d be giving the weekly trip to The Hat and Fan on Friday a miss.

It was painful not to see Freddy but it was more painful to see him and to obsess over every last thing he’d said, every micro-expression which had flitted across his face.

Maybe given time they could go back to being people who worked together in a friendly fashion but not right now. It was too hard.

Everyone, even Anita, begged Phoebe to come to the pub, but she was happy to head home, change out of her work clothes then cut through the back streets to Kentish Town where Marianne and Claude were having their annual late-night-opening party for friends and valued customers.

If they spent more than a hundred pounds then Claude, whose tattoo parlour was on the first floor, would give them a free tattoo.

‘Nothing fancy. Not a replica of the Sistine Chapel on their backs, but their loved ones’ initials in a heart or something,’ he’d said when Phoebe, a little aghast, asked for more details.

Not that Phoebe would qualify for a free tattoo.

‘I’m not buying anything,’ she said to Marianne.

‘Please don’t let me buy anything, but I’m happy to help out if you need it.

’ She looked around at the cheerfully eclectic rails of clothes.

Leather jackets mixed in with leopard-print coats.

Paisley hippy shirts hanging next to mod-inspired dresses.

‘Honestly, Maz, have you never thought about arranging the stock by genre and era? It would make your life and your customers’ lives so much easier. ’

‘And not colour?’ Marianne asked with an arch of one already exquisitely arched eyebrow.

‘The thought of having to arrange all this by colour makes me want to cry,’ Phoebe admitted, sweeping out her hand to encompass the cluttered, cramped little shop.

‘Which is why, although you’re a dear pal, if we worked together, we’d end up murdering each other,’ Marianne said, putting an arm around Phoebe’s shoulder to guide her over to the counter where a makeshift bar had been set up.

‘Gin and tonic? I’m afraid it’s just bog-standard tonic and there’s not even lemons, let alone limes. ’

‘Is there bottled water for Coco?’ Phoebe asked. If there wasn’t, she’d nip to the newsagent a few doors down to get a bottle of Evian and hope it was chilled.

‘Of course! Nothing but the best for Mademoiselle Chanel.’ Marianne looked over Phoebe’s shoulder to where a noisy crowd of people had just come in. ‘Oh, there’s Nina. Grab a drink, then come over and say hello.’

It was good to be surrounded by friends. Of course everyone wanted to know how Phoebe had managed to go viral three times over the last month but when she explained that there had been crimes against dresses, they seemed to understand. Or maybe because they were friends, they understood Phoebe.

Marianne’s shop, Retro-a-go-go, was a much more rough-and-ready affair than The Vintage Dress Shop with that smell of vintage clothing, musty and a little unfresh , which Phoebe had sworn would never be smelt on her premises.

Her clientele were a more rock ’n’ roll crowd too; both men and women rocking quiffs and a lot of tattoos.

Most of the stock focused on the fifties, sixties and seventies.

She even sold some reproduction lines. It was something she and Phoebe had agreed to disagree on.

Inevitably, Phoebe did end up buying a few things.

Marianne had recently made her annual pilgrimage to Palm Springs in California, the vintage capital of America, and had returned with some darling novelty items, including a set of brooches that celebrated the Las Vegas of yesteryear when the Rat Pack had ruled the Strip.

A tiny cocktail glass with a swizzle stick.

A miniature pair of dice. A roulette wheel.

And, of course, the Welcome to Las Vegas sign. Perfect presents for the shop staff.

By then, although she didn’t usually drink that much, Phoebe was on her third gin on an empty stomach so when she found the perfect shirt for Freddy, a 1960s Italian knit polo shirt that was almost the same shade of blue as his eyes, she had to have it.

Which took her over the hundred-pound mark and somehow, the details were a little hazy by then, Phoebe found herself in Claude’s chair about to get tattooed for the first time.

‘Are you sure, Phoebe?’ Claude asked, his tattoo gun poised. ‘This is very unlike you.’

‘Maybe I’m not like people think I am,’ Phoebe said. ‘Maybe I have hidden depths. Like the iceberg that hit the Titanic .’

‘You’re not an iceberg, Pheebs, you just want people to think that you are,’ Marianne said, because Phoebe deciding to get a tattoo warranted her leaving the shop to witness this strange event. ‘Also, how much have you had to drink?’

‘Enough but not enough to have lost my senses,’ Phoebe said, very carefully pressing a tip of one finger to the tip of her nose to prove that she still had perfect hand-to-eye coordination. ‘Come on! Tattoo me.’