“And don’t forget,” she said, sipping the hot coffee, “you’ve got the sale at Corsham tomorrow. We need to get as much done to the new room today as possible. If I’m manning the shop and finishing that escritoire in the workshop I’ll have my hands full.”
“Still can’t believe you’re letting me go and do the buying at a sale like that on my own. Stately home clearances are your favorite.”
“I can’t be in two places at once. And besides,” Flora beamed, “we had a good Christmas, and now is the perfect time to invest in stock. A sale like that could yield all sorts of treasures. You know what you’re doing, most of the time.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“But if something sings to you…”
“I know, don’t go mad.”
“Of course you will have to get whatever it is. Just don’t blow the whole budget, is all I ask. We have made so much progress with the shop.”
“Proved the doubters wrong, eh?”
Flora nodded. “Your father among them. Not that I care, of course.”
She chose not to pick up on the reference to the man she now thought of simply as her mother’s ex-husband. Instead she stayed on safer ground. “Like I did with the chatelaine, you mean? We did get a good price for it in the end, you know.”
Flora smiled. They both knew that when something sang to Xanthe, when it triggered her gift of psychometry, she wouldn’t be able to resist it, whatever the cost. The ability to detect information about an object—its past, its origins, its story—was a rare thing and unheard of by many, but to the Westlake family it was simply a part of their daughter. Nothing would change that. “We need saleable items, love. Preferably small things. A little more jewelry wouldn’t go amiss. Seems popular. And if you see a little dresser for me to paint, or a pair of decent bedroom chairs…”
“I will keep my eye out. Don’t worry. Business head firmly screwed on, Mum.”
“Why don’t you see if Liam is free to go with you?”
“You think he’s a sensible influence?”
“I just thought it would be nice.”
“Mum … he has his own business to run.”
“He likes helping you. Spending time with you.”
“I’ll see him soon at band practice. We spend plenty of time together already.” She shook her head at her mother’s shameless attempts to encourage her relationship with Liam. It was nice that Flora liked him, of course, but she refused to be rushed. Since the medieval weekend—since that kiss—they had agreed to take things slowly. In truth, Xanthe had insisted upon it and given him little choice. She valued their friendship too much to risk it. She knew she was still on the rebound from Samuel. And now that she was a full-time member of Tin Lid, her closeness to Liam had several aspects to it, all of which were woven into her new life. She didn’t want to jeopardize a possible future they might have together. As friends. As band members. As lovers. She gulped down her coffee. “Come on, Mum, eat up. I need to unlock and let Gerri in. We’ve work to do.”
The room that the previous owner, Mr. Morris, had used to house his collection of mirrors was behind the main shop, and had only a small window. Xanthe had thought it rather dark and cramped, but since they had removed what turned out to be over fifty mirrors, the space had grown. They had ripped up the old carpet, sanded and polished the floorboards, applied pale gold paint to the walls and white gloss to the woodwork. The window had been left without curtains to make the most of the natural light, and three vintage standard lamps had been carefully placed to give the room a warm glow. Some of the mirrors had been a useful part of the transformation. A full-length rectangular one had been given a makeover by Flora, its pine frame painted and decoupaged with roses in soft greens and pinks. Two smaller mirrors, one elaborate French gilt, the other a smooth white plaster, had been hung to reflect the daylight and allow customers to view themselves from several angles when trying on the vintage clothing. The tasks that remained included setting up new rails and a hatstand, positioning and filling the glass-fronted display case, and unpacking the stock they had amassed over the preceding few months.
“Right,” said Xanthe, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s start with these boxes.”
Gerri, who had arrived on the dot of nine o’clock and was dressed as a land army girl in dungarees, hair expertly twisted under a gingham scarf, lipstick perfectly applied, started to pull garments from the nearest crate, handing them out for inspection. “What have we here? A houndstooth-check winter coat—good and roomy. A suede jacket with tassels…”
Flora gasped. “Oh dear … does anyone actually wear tassels anymore?”
“Mum,” she took it from Gerri and gently smoothed the fringed sleeves, “don’t be so quick to judge. It’s all about putting a look together. You’d be surprised what some people would do with that.”
“Xanthe’s right.” Gerri held up a Laura Ashley dress. “It’s a matter of seeing the potential in things.”
“Well, I’m very glad I’ve got you two to do that,” Flora said. “To me it all looks like jumble. All thrown out for good reason.”
Xanthe shook the folds out of a maxi skirt. “Some of it’s a bit down-market, I grant you, but fans of vintage stuff know what works. We just need to make sure we have some high-end items too.”
“Yes, designer pieces!” Gerri’s eyes lit up at the thought. “I bought an original Biba blouse the other day. It wasn’t cheap, but it’ll hold its value.”
Flora tried on a dusty bowler hat, peering at herself in the gilt-framed mirror. “Hmmm, I think it’s a bad idea to wear vintage if you yourself are vintage,” she decided, making the others laugh.
“The trick is,” Gerri said, minutely adjusting Flora’s hat to a more flattering angle, “to always choose clothes that suit your own shape and coloring. That’s the secret to avoiding giving the impression you’re in fancy dress.” She thought for a moment, removed the bowler hat, and replaced it with a beret, artfully positioned.
Flora grinned at the result. “As long as you agree to be my personal dresser, Gerri, I’ll give it a go.”
Xanthe started slipping blouses onto hangers. “The challenge is going to be locating the fine, expensive items. We want to get known for quality as well as range.”
“Can’t we find things on the internet?” asked Flora.
“If only,” said Gerri, frowning at a lurid green skirt before dropping it into the rejections box for recycling. “People are much more clued up about the value of things nowadays. Good pieces are in demand. You can end up paying over the odds.”
“I’m going to the dispersal sale tomorrow,” Xanthe told her. “Corsham Hall, out toward Bath. Do you know it?”
“Oh, that was the house of the Wilcox family. They were fabulously rich, once upon a time.”
“Let’s hope the late owner secretly hoarded all her ancestors’ clothes.”
“There might be flapper dresses in the attic!”
“Well, if there are, I’ll snaffle them. That’s exactly what we need to elevate this little lot.”