A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author. Isabel Wolff

      Within ten minutes of Dan’s departure a trickle of people began to arrive, at least two of them holding copies of the Black & Green. I tried not to annoy them with offers of help or to watch them too obviously. The Hermès bags and the more expensive jewellery were in lockable glass cases, but I hadn’t put electronic tags on the clothes for fear of damaging the fabric.

      By twelve, I’d had about ten people through the door and had made my first sale – a 1950s seersucker sundress with a pattern of violets. I felt like framing the receipt.

      At a quarter past one a petite red-haired girl in her early twenties came in with a well-dressed man in his mid to late thirties. While she looked through the clothes he sat on the sofa, one silk-socked ankle resting on his knee, thumbing his BlackBerry. The girl went through the evening-wear rail, finding nothing; then her eye was drawn to the cupcake dresses hanging on the wall. She pointed to the lime green one – the smallest of the four.

      ‘How much is that?’ she asked me.

      ‘It’s £275.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s silk,’ I explained, ‘with hand-sewn crystals. Would you like to try it on? It’s a size eight.’

      ‘Well …’ She glanced anxiously at her boyfriend. ‘What do you think, Keith?’ He looked up from his BlackBerry and the girl nodded to the dress, which I was now taking off the wall.

      ‘That won’t do,’ he said bluntly.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Too colourful.’

      ‘I like bright colours,’ the girl protested meekly.

      He turned back to his BlackBerry. ‘It’s not appropriate for the occasion.’

      ‘But it’s a dance.’

      ‘It’s too colourful,’ he insisted. ‘Plus it’s not smart enough.’ My dislike of the man turned to detestation.

      ‘Let me try it.’ She smiled pleadingly. ‘Go on.’

      He looked at her. ‘Ok-ay.’ He sighed extravagantly. ‘If you must …’

      I showed the girl into the changing room and drew the curtain round the rail. A minute later she emerged. The dress fitted her perfectly and showed off her small waist, lovely shoulders and slim arms. The vibrant lime complimented her red-blonde hair and creamy skin, while the corseting flattered her bust. The green tulle petticoats floated in layers around her, the crystals winking in the sunlight.

      ‘It’s … gorgeous,’ I murmured. I couldn’t imagine any woman looking more beautiful in it. ‘Would you like to try a pair of shoes on with it?’ I added. ‘Just to see how it would look with heels?’

      ‘Oh, I won’t need to,’ she said as she stared at herself, on tiptoe, in a side mirror. She shook her head. ‘It’s … fantastic.’ She seemed overwhelmed, as though she’d just discovered some wonderful secret about herself.

      Behind her another customer had come in – a slim, dark-haired woman of about thirty in a leopard-print shirtdress with a gold chain belt worn low on the hips and gladiator sandals. She stopped in her tracks, gazing at the girl. ‘You look glorious,’ she exclaimed. ‘Like a young Julianne Moore.’

      The girl smiled delightedly. ‘Thanks.’ She stared at herself in the mirror again. ‘This dress makes me feel … as though I’m in …’ She hesitated. ‘A fairytale.’ She glanced nervously at her boyfriend. ‘What do you think, Keith?’

      He looked at her, shook his head then returned to his BlackBerry. ‘Like I say – much too bright. Plus it makes you look like you’re going to hop about in the ballet, not go to a sophisticated dinner dance at the Dorchester. Here –’ He stood up, went over to the evening rail and pulled out a Norman Hartnell black crepe cocktail dress and held it up to her. ‘Try this.’

      The girl’s face fell, but she retreated into the fitting room, emerging in the dress a minute later. The style was far too old for her and the colour drained her complexion. She looked as though she was going to a funeral. I saw the woman in the leopard-print dress glance at her then discreetly shake her head before turning back to the rails.

      ‘That’s more like it,’ Keith said. He made a circulating gesture with his index finger and with a sigh the girl slowly spun round, her eyes upturned. At that I saw the other customer purse her lips. ‘Perfect,’ said Keith. He thrust his hand into his jacket. ‘How much?’ I glanced at the girl. Her mouth was quivering. ‘How much?’ he repeated as he opened his wallet.

      ‘But it’s the green one I like,’ she murmured.

      ‘How much?’ he repeated.

      ‘It’s £150.’ I felt my face flush.

      ‘I don’t want it,’ the girl pleaded. ‘I like the green one, Keith. It makes me feel … happy.’

      ‘Then you’ll just have to buy it yourself. If you can afford it,’ he added pleasantly. He looked at me again. ‘So that’s £150?’ He tapped the newspaper. ‘And it says here that there’s a five per cent discount, which makes it £142.50, by my reckoning.’

      ‘That’s right,’ I said, impressed by the speed of his calculation and wishing that I could charge him twice the amount and give the girl the cupcake dress.

      ‘Keith. Please,’ she moaned. Her eyes were shining with tears.

      ‘C’mon, Kelly,’ he groaned. ‘Give me a break. That little black number’s just the ticket and I’ve got some top people coming so I don’t want you looking like bloody Tinker Bell do I?’ He glanced at his expensive-looking watch. ‘We’ve got to get back – I’ve got that conference call about the Kilburn site at two thirty, remember. Now – am I buying the black dress or not? Because if I’m not, then you won’t be coming to the Dorchester on Saturday, I can tell you.’

      She looked out of the window then nodded mutely.

      As I tore the receipt off the terminal the man held his hand out for the bag then slotted his card back in his wallet. ‘Thanks,’ he said briskly. Then, with the girl trailing disconsolately behind him, he left.

      As the door clicked shut the woman in the leopard-print dress caught my eye.

      ‘I wish she’d had the fairytale dress,’ she said. ‘With a “prince” like that, she needs it.’ Not sure that I should be seen to be knocking my customers, I smiled a rueful smile of agreement then put the green cupcake dress back on the wall. ‘She isn’t just his girlfriend – she works for him,’ the woman went on as she inspected a Thierry Mugler hot pink leather jacket from the mid eighties.

      I looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

      ‘Because he’s so much older than her, because of his power over her and her fear of offending him… her knowledge of his diary. I like people-watching,’ she added.

      ‘Are you a writer?’

      ‘No. I love writing, but I’m an actor.’

      ‘Are you in anything at the moment?’

      She shook her head. ‘I’m “resting”, as they say – in fact, I’ve had more rest than Sleeping Beauty lately, but’ – she heaved a theatrical sigh – ‘I refuse to give up.’ She looked at the prom dresses again. ‘They really are lovely. I don’t have the curves for them, sadly, even if I had the cash. They’re American, aren’t they?’

      I nodded. ‘Early fifties. They’re a bit too frothy for post-war Britain.’

      ‘Gorgeous fabric,’ the woman said, squinting at them. ‘Dresses like that are usually made of acetate with nylon petticoats, but these ones are all silk.’ So she had knowledge and a good eye.

      ‘Do you buy much vintage?’ I asked