A Vintage Christmas (3 page)

We both look at each other and smile warily; an unspoken acknowledgement that our relationship has strains that most other young couples don’t have to deal with.

‘Sorry about Sophie,’ Sam says again.

‘Don’t be,’ I say, wondering if he really thinks I mind. Surely he knows me better than that. ‘Honestly, you know I understand. I just hope Sophie does too. She’s the one we have to worry about.’

He nods and then claps his hands and grins. ‘Let’s forget about everything. This is our weekend. We deserve it. We need it.’ He pauses. ‘
I
need it,’ he murmurs sexily and kisses me. I want Sam but I can’t stop thinking about the little town of Tetbury and all the treasures it may hold and the fact that the afternoon is running away with us and most of the shops will probably be shut tomorrow. I slow his urgent kiss down smiling up at Sam as I pull away and wind my arms around his waist.

‘
Please
can we just quickly go and explore the town before the shops shut? Please, please, please can we? I promise I’ll make it up to you later...’ I lean forward and kiss him again, pressing my body against the length of his and grazing his bottom lip with my teeth. It’s a particular weak spot of his.

‘Argh! Ok, ok,’ Sam groans. ‘I give in! But no more than an hour ok? I can think of a million different grown-up things I want to do with you this weekend other than shop...’

‘A million?’ I raise my eyebrow and prod his chest teasingly and he grasps my hand with one of his, holding my gaze until I feel like I can’t breathe.

‘Ok, make that just one,’ he says huskily. And suddenly I’m not so sure if I want to shop either.

Chapter 2

‘Oh Sam, come here! Look at this!’ I call as I run down the street towards him and physically drag him away from the ice cream bike that is parked down one of the cobbled streets. He’s just about to reach the front of the queue. ‘You just have to come and look at this antique clock shop!’

‘But...’ he points back at the ice cream bike and licks his lips desperately.

I roll my eyes and laugh. ‘I promise I’ll buy you a 99 if you come and look at this first.’ We stop outside a white painted shop that is full of all sorts of clocks; wall, mantel and long case clocks, timepieces made from maple and beech and mahogany. Gilt carriage clocks, antique dial clocks and beautiful engraved silver and gold pocket watches. I point to a beautiful old maritime clock set into what looks like a ship’s wheel ‘Oh Sam! I can just imagine a display of these somewhere – like something from the Royal observatory in Greenwich! The Naval look is really in this season’, I say more to myself than to Sam and then squeal as another thought occurs to me. ‘I could talk to Guy about creating a display in Menswear and then extend the merchandise to include the military coats he saw on the catwalk at London Fashion Week.’ I snap my fingers. ‘And hats! I’m sure we have some old 1940s naval hats in the stockroom! I’ve never found a use for them before. Maybe Felix still has his uniform from his days in the Navy that we could put on display!’ Felix has often told me about his short time in the Royal Navy. It is his proudest achievement – after marrying Maisie. ‘Or maybe we could do a big window display, of clocks from different eras – it could be about the importance of time on the evolution of style...’ I continue muttering as I point out various clocks on display, pulling out my trusty notepad to jot down ideas and draw out display ideas.

I lift my head after a few minutes to find Sam gazing longingly at the ice cream bike. ‘I’m just going to pop in and have a word with the owner and see if I can do a deal. Maybe he makes his own clocks too – we could stock them! Wouldn’t that be a great coup for Hardy’s?’ Sam doesn’t answer and I prod him lightly on the arm.

‘Hmm?’ he says.

‘Will you be alright for a minute?’ I ask.

He nods and summons a smile. ‘I guess I’ll just go back and get that ice cream I’ve been gagging for...’

We both glance over at the bike and see that the queue is now winding its way down the road.

‘O r maybe not,’ he says, pushing his hands deep into his pockets so his shoulders are raised up by his ears. It makes me want to ruffle his hair, hand him some money and tell him to run along and get himself some sweets, but I sense that this would not go down too well. I opt for simple grovelling instead.

‘I’m sorry Sam,’ I say, grasping his hands and looking at him with the most pleading expression I can muster. ‘You understand, don’t you? I’m just finding this place really inspiring! Rupert will be so pleased with some of the ideas I’ve had so far. ‘It’s turned into a really successful trip!’

‘Successful, hmmm...’ Sam says glibly. ‘Depends
what
you define as successful. I was hoping the weekend would be a bit more, you know,
sex
cessful.’

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his annoyingly clichéd carnal needs. Lily’s right, she says no matter how sensitive your boyfriend may be, they always prioritise sex over everything else. I remember the rest of the conversation that she, Iris, Jane from Lingerie and I had after closing, when I was helping them tidy up in Hardy’s tea shop.

‘No matter how much time passes and how men continue to evolve,’ Lily had said, swiping a mop across the floor like she was about to launch into a waltz with it. ‘No matter how ‘new’ men claim to be, it astounds me that they still don’t understand that in order to get the best out of us in the bedroom they should make a woman climax before they even get there.’ Jane and I had laughed. ‘And there’s no better place to do that than in a department store!’ Lily had said, flipping open a gold compact to check her lipstick, before continuing with her chores.

‘As long as it’s not in one of my changing rooms!’ Jane had piped up, with a mouthful full of Earl Grey cupcake. ‘Although plenty have tried, I can tell you! That display of Bridal trousseaus with the baby doll nighties and bustiers have been driving my customers’ fiancés wild!’

‘No darling,’ Lily had laughed. ‘I mean that
shopping
is the best foreplay there is! In my experience, a woman will perform remarkably in bed once her shopping libido has been well and truly satisfied. There’s a reason that clever Mr Selfridge said he wanted to put the sex in shopping, you know.’

We’d all laughed, but her words are ringing true now – as they always do.

‘Oh don’t be like that Sam, you know how stressed out about work I am! This is the most inspired I’ve been for ages.’ I say, pulling Sam back towards the clock shop. ‘And you know, the pressure really is on me to ensure we keep evolving the business before it’s too late!’

‘I know, I know Evie,’ Sam says wearily. ‘But I thought this weekend was just going to be about us? We talked about it, you know, after... last time.’

I know immediately that Sam is referring to the last disagreement we had about me working late on a Saturday. It was a couple of weeks ago and he, Sophie and I were meant to be going to the theatre to see
The Lion King
. I’d promised I’d be there in time for a pre-theatre dinner but in the end I only just made it to the show. The overture had begun to play and I’d seen Sophie’s head turn anxiously looking for me. She waved joyously when she spotted me and had to be told to sit back in her seat by the people behind her. I mouthed countless apologies as I ducked and squeezed past people to get to them. But Sam and I still had a whispered “discussion” about my lateness whilst Sophie was queuing for an ice cream in the interval. I’d known I’d nearly messed up, but the important thing was that I didn’t. That was my defence anyway. Luckily, Sam and I kissed and made up, and all was forgotten by the time Sophie came back, or so I thought. I didn’t realise he’d been keeping score. I decide not to rise to the bait. After all, he does have a point.

‘I promise this is the last one. Just let me go in here and talk to the owner,
please
? Then perhaps we can go back to the hotel and open a bottle of champagne and...’ I wind my hand around his neck and into the soft, downy tendrils of hair at the nape of his neck.

‘I like the sound of the “and”’, Sam smiles and he cheekily squeezes my bum just as I open the door to the shop, making me squeal unprofessionally. I bat him away as the owner raises his dark, craggy eyebrows and smiles in polite welcome. As I’m introducing myself I hear the bell on the door go and I know Sam has left the shop.

‘Well that was really successful!’ I exclaim as I exit the shop forty-five minutes later to find him leaning up against the shop front, studying his phone. ‘He’s agreed to loan me some vintage clocks for a window display!’

‘Great!’ he says, without looking up.

I slide my hand through his arm and start walking down the cobbled street talking excitedly. ‘And he’s got these gorgeous time pieces he makes from old, reconditioned boat timber that I’m going to suggest to Rupert that we make an order on. Look!’ I show Sam the picture I took on my phone.

‘Nice,’ he says shortly and then looks away. I’m just working out what has pissed him off so much when a second later he slips his hand into mine and says contritely. ‘Sorry for being grumpy. There’s a reason you’re so good at your job, Evie. You have an innate instinct for it. I love that about you.’

I feel a glow of pleasure and pride at Sam’s compliment. Having felt so unfulfilled in my job for so many years, it’s still a novelty to feel like I’ve found my fit. It’s the job that I was born to do, and it doesn’t even feel like a job – in that sense Sam is right. After years of waitressing and then mindlessly unpacking boxes in a stockroom, to do something I truly love and that makes people go ‘ooh’ instead of ‘oh’ has given me an addictively heady high that I have yet to come down from. It’s probably why I’ve turned into such a workaholic. I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.

I feel Sam’s lips fluttering against my neck, his hands cup my waist and he turns me towards him in the middle of a street full of tourists.

I mentally retract my thought. There’s no doubt that Sam is as intoxicating as my career; being with him makes me happier than I’ve ever been. It’s just a shame that they have both peaked at the same time, as it were. Sometimes I wish I’d found my career earlier, before I found Sam, so that I could focus completely on him. Because as much as I love him – and I do really, really love him – sometimes I struggle to keep my mind on us. And I know it’s a big source of frustration for him, but part of me thinks he should understand. After all, Hardy’s is my baby. I wouldn’t change Sam, and I know he wouldn’t be who he is without Sophie – but I’m acutely aware we need to find more of a balance. Because when we’re together, like this, everything is perfect. Sam makes me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever known and I can talk to him about anything. Being with him feels like wearing a gorgeously glamorous vintage dress – and pairing it with my comfiest slippers.

We wander through the town and down the famous Chipping Steps, past pretty houses and abundant flower displays. I have him now and that’s what counts. That’s what this weekend is for, after all, to focus on each other. Sam’s right, no more thinking about work.

And that’s when I see it, tucked down a small, winding cobbled passage at the end of the Steps. So hidden that I have to rub my eyes and look twice to make sure it hasn’t disappeared in a puff of smoke. I step closer and lean out to get a better perspective of the trio of shops that has caught my eye. One in particular, sandwiched in the middle, made of Cotswold stone. There is an apple green awning hanging off its support. It looks like it has been like that for some time; perhaps weighed down by the endless rain that caused the recent floods in the area. That would also account for the piles of sandbags that line the outside of each of the three shops above which, a dark umber water mark climbs up the façades like a bruise.

I drop Sam’s hand and start walking and then break into a run until I reach the shop front. Ornate black poles swing out over the door where a sign must have once hung. Peering up closely I can see that woven into the mottled black lead-work is the shape of a perfect Victorian shoe with a curved heel and high buckled arch. Above the door is a more recent sign; although saying that, it still looks like it was made in the ‘40s or ‘50s. Each letter of the shop’s name ‘
Angelo’s’
is individually made of curling italic ironwork attached to the shop’s façade. But it is the window I’m really drawn to. There’s some old-fashioned white netting, and in the centre of the leaded windows is one single pair of shoes. But they are enough to know.

These shoes are made of the most delicate ivory silk satin that I have ever seen. The intricate scalloped edges of the classic 1950s stiletto pump have been sewn with perfectly tiny lockstitches, so small they could have been made by elves. The shoes also have the elegant stiletto heel made famous in the 1950s. In fact, I’d say this pair of shoes was probably made around 1955, the year after Dior debuted their blade-slim stiletto heel designed by Roger Vivier. It was a continuation of the French fashion house’s celebrated ‘new look’ that saw the sexless utilitarian garments and footwear of the 1940s fall away in favour of luxury, elegance and feminine beauty. I blink as I come back to the present and look at the shoes in front of me.

As well as the perfectly sculpted heels, this beautiful pair have hundreds of tiny opaque beads, smaller than pearls, stitched in concentric circles, perfectly precise swirls that seem to nod to the graphic prints of the era whilst accentuating the shoe’s classic style and shape. I can imagine wearing these shoes with anything; jeans, a 1950s prom dress, a pencil skirt or cropped trousers – even a wedding dress. They are at once somehow incredibly special and yet, completely wearable. Peering closer I can see that the label is a pair of wings that has been sewn on the back of inner heel. Written in beautifully ethereal, curled stitching on the wings is
Angelo’s Shoes
.

I think I’m in love.

I can feel my heart thumping in my chest as my imagination takes hold, thinking of what I could do at Hardy’s with someone who makes shoes as wonderful as these. But my excitement fades as I see that the sign on the door says
Closed
and as I test the handle I find it is locked tight. I look up again in the vain hope it may have magically flipped to open whilst I wasn’t looking, like in the old 1980s cartoon
Mr Benn
. Pressing my nose against the window, I can see the shop is not just empty – I’d go as far as to say derelict. It’s a mess of broken furniture and displays. I feel my hopes plummet. I should probably just give up and go back to the hotel.