Twenties Girl
Page 56
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“You’re right, it wasn’t easy,” she says crisply. “Your wardrobe is very deficient.”
“I didn’t mean clothes! I meant feelings.” I give her an understanding look. “You’ve been through a lot, it must have affected you…”
Sadie doesn’t even hear me. Or, if she does, she pretends not to. “I’ve found you a frock,” she announces. “Come and see! Hurry up!”
If she doesn’t want to talk, she doesn’t want to talk. I can’t make her.
“Great. So what did you choose?” I get up and start heading toward my bedroom.
“Not there.” Sadie darts in front of me. “We have to go out! It’s in a shop!”
“A shop?” I stop and stare at her. “What do you mean, in a shop?”
“I was forced to go out.” She lifts her chin defiantly. “There was nothing in your wardrobe. I’ve never seen such bedraggled clothes!”
“They’re not bedraggled!”
“So I went out, and I found an angel of a dress! You simply have to buy it!”
“Where?” I’m trying to think where she could have gone. “Which shop? Did you go into central London?”
“I’ll show you! Come on! Get your purse!”
I can’t help feeling touched at the thought of Sadie wafting around H &M or wherever, trying to find an outfit for me.
“Well, OK,” I say at last. “As long as it doesn’t cost a zillion pounds.” I reach for my bag and check I’ve got my keys. “Come on, then. Show me.”
I’m expecting Sadie to lead me to the tube station and drag me to Oxford Circus or somewhere. But instead she veers around the corner and into a grid of backstreets I’ve never explored.
“Are you sure it’s this way?” I hesitate, puzzled.
“Yes!” She tries to drag me forward. “Come on!”
We pass rows of houses and a little park and a college. There’s nothing here that looks like a shop. I’m about to tell Sadie that she must have got her bearings wrong, when she turns a corner and makes a triumphant flourish.
“There!”
We’re in front of a tiny parade of shops. There’s a newsagent and a dry cleaner and, right at the end, a tiny shop with a wood-painted sign reading Vintage Fashion Emporium . There’s a mannequin in the window wearing a long satin dress, gloves up to the elbow, a hat with a veil, and lots of brooches everywhere. Next to her is a pile of old hatboxes and a dressing table holding a large selection of enamel hairbrushes.
“This is by far the best shop you have in your area,” says Sadie emphatically. “I’ve found everything we need. Come on!”
Before I can say anything, she’s disappeared into the shop. I have no choice but to follow her. The door gives a little ting as I enter, and a middle-aged woman smiles at me from behind a tiny counter. She has straggly dyed hair in a vivid shade of yellow and is wearing what looks like an original seventies caftan in a wild green circular print, together with several amber necklaces strung around her neck.
“Hello!” She smiles pleasantly. “Welcome to the shop. I’m Norah. Have you shopped here before?” “Hi.” I nod back. “This is my first time.” “Were you interested in a particular garment or era?” “I’ll… just have a browse.” I smile at her. “Thanks.” I can’t see Sadie, so I start wandering around. I’ve never been into vintage clothes, but even I can tell there’s some pretty amazing stuff here. A pink psychedelic sixties dress is displayed next to a beehive wig. There’s a whole rack of original-looking boned corsets and petticoats. On a dressmaker’s mannequin is a cream lace wedding dress with a veil and a tiny dried-flower bouquet. A glass case holds some white leather skating boots, all creased and weathered with use. There are collections of fans, handbags, old lipstick cases-
“Where are you?” Sadie’s impatient voice pierces my eardrum. “Come here!”
She’s beckoning from a rack toward the back. Feeling sudden misgivings, I head toward her.
“Sadie,” I say in a low voice. “I agree this stuff is cool and everything. But I’m only going for a casual drink. You can’t possibly think-”
“Look!” She gestures in triumph. “Perfect.” I’m never letting a ghost give me fashion advice again. Sadie is pointing at a 1920s flapper’s dress. A bronze silk flapper dress with a dropped waist, little beaded capped sleeves, and a matching cape. The store tag reads: Original 1920s dress, made in Paris .
“I didn’t mean clothes! I meant feelings.” I give her an understanding look. “You’ve been through a lot, it must have affected you…”
Sadie doesn’t even hear me. Or, if she does, she pretends not to. “I’ve found you a frock,” she announces. “Come and see! Hurry up!”
If she doesn’t want to talk, she doesn’t want to talk. I can’t make her.
“Great. So what did you choose?” I get up and start heading toward my bedroom.
“Not there.” Sadie darts in front of me. “We have to go out! It’s in a shop!”
“A shop?” I stop and stare at her. “What do you mean, in a shop?”
“I was forced to go out.” She lifts her chin defiantly. “There was nothing in your wardrobe. I’ve never seen such bedraggled clothes!”
“They’re not bedraggled!”
“So I went out, and I found an angel of a dress! You simply have to buy it!”
“Where?” I’m trying to think where she could have gone. “Which shop? Did you go into central London?”
“I’ll show you! Come on! Get your purse!”
I can’t help feeling touched at the thought of Sadie wafting around H &M or wherever, trying to find an outfit for me.
“Well, OK,” I say at last. “As long as it doesn’t cost a zillion pounds.” I reach for my bag and check I’ve got my keys. “Come on, then. Show me.”
I’m expecting Sadie to lead me to the tube station and drag me to Oxford Circus or somewhere. But instead she veers around the corner and into a grid of backstreets I’ve never explored.
“Are you sure it’s this way?” I hesitate, puzzled.
“Yes!” She tries to drag me forward. “Come on!”
We pass rows of houses and a little park and a college. There’s nothing here that looks like a shop. I’m about to tell Sadie that she must have got her bearings wrong, when she turns a corner and makes a triumphant flourish.
“There!”
We’re in front of a tiny parade of shops. There’s a newsagent and a dry cleaner and, right at the end, a tiny shop with a wood-painted sign reading Vintage Fashion Emporium . There’s a mannequin in the window wearing a long satin dress, gloves up to the elbow, a hat with a veil, and lots of brooches everywhere. Next to her is a pile of old hatboxes and a dressing table holding a large selection of enamel hairbrushes.
“This is by far the best shop you have in your area,” says Sadie emphatically. “I’ve found everything we need. Come on!”
Before I can say anything, she’s disappeared into the shop. I have no choice but to follow her. The door gives a little ting as I enter, and a middle-aged woman smiles at me from behind a tiny counter. She has straggly dyed hair in a vivid shade of yellow and is wearing what looks like an original seventies caftan in a wild green circular print, together with several amber necklaces strung around her neck.
“Hello!” She smiles pleasantly. “Welcome to the shop. I’m Norah. Have you shopped here before?” “Hi.” I nod back. “This is my first time.” “Were you interested in a particular garment or era?” “I’ll… just have a browse.” I smile at her. “Thanks.” I can’t see Sadie, so I start wandering around. I’ve never been into vintage clothes, but even I can tell there’s some pretty amazing stuff here. A pink psychedelic sixties dress is displayed next to a beehive wig. There’s a whole rack of original-looking boned corsets and petticoats. On a dressmaker’s mannequin is a cream lace wedding dress with a veil and a tiny dried-flower bouquet. A glass case holds some white leather skating boots, all creased and weathered with use. There are collections of fans, handbags, old lipstick cases-
“Where are you?” Sadie’s impatient voice pierces my eardrum. “Come here!”
She’s beckoning from a rack toward the back. Feeling sudden misgivings, I head toward her.
“Sadie,” I say in a low voice. “I agree this stuff is cool and everything. But I’m only going for a casual drink. You can’t possibly think-”
“Look!” She gestures in triumph. “Perfect.” I’m never letting a ghost give me fashion advice again. Sadie is pointing at a 1920s flapper’s dress. A bronze silk flapper dress with a dropped waist, little beaded capped sleeves, and a matching cape. The store tag reads: Original 1920s dress, made in Paris .
