Isabel Wolff - A Vintage Affair: A Novel

Shell make you laugh out loud and tug your heartstrings.

Hello!

Feel-good, gritty and full of surprises.

Cosmopolitan

A touching, compulsive read. Love it!

Heat

Charming, funny and unpredictable.

Company

You wont be able to put this romantic comedy down!

Closer

Pure feel-good escapism. Perfect.

Sophie Kinsella

Far more depth and sensitivity than you might anticipate an absolute delight. Warm and wittily perceptive about human foibles.

Kirkus Reviews U.K.

An engaging read and an intriguing page-turner.

Sainsburys Magazine

Its effervescent and heartwarming and somehow the pages just turn themselves.

The Big Issue

ALSO BY ISABEL WOLFF

The Trials of Tiffany Trott

The Making of Minty Malone

Out of the Blue

Rescuing Rose

Behaving Badly

A Question of Love

Forget Me Not

In memory of my father

What a strange power there is in clothing.

ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

seven-teen, eight-teen nine-teen twenty! Com-ing! I yell. Ready or not

I uncover my eyes and begin the search. I start downstairs, half expecting to find Emma huddled behind the sofa in the sitting room or wrapped, like a sweet, in the crimson curtains, or crouched under the baby grand. I already think of her as my best friend, although weve only known each other six weeks. You have a new classmate, Miss Grey had announced on the first day of term. Shed smiled at the girl in the too-stiff blazer standing next to her. Her name is Emma Kitts, and her family have recently moved to London from South Africa. Then Miss Grey had led the newcomer to the desk next to mine. The girl was short for nine, and slightly plump, with large green eyes, a scattering of freckles, and uneven bangs above shiny brown braids. Will you look after Emma, Phoebe? Miss Grey had asked. Id nodded. Emma had flashed me a grateful smile

Now I cross the hall into the dining room and peer under the scratched mahogany table, but Emmas not there; nor is she in the kitchen, with its old-fashioned cabinet stacked with mismatched blue-and-white plates. I would have asked her mother which way shed gone, but Mrs. Kitts has just popped out to play tennis, leaving Emma and me on our own.

I walk into the big, cool pantry and slide open a low cupboard that looks promisingly large but contains only some old Thermos flasks; then I go down the step into the utility room, where the washing machine spasms in its final spin. I even lift the lid of the freezer in case Emma is lying among the frozen peas and ice cream. Now I return to the hall, which is oak-panelled and warm, smelling of dust and beeswax. To one side is a huge, ornately carved chaira throne from Swaziland, Emma saidthe wood so dark that its black. I sit on it for a moment, wondering where precisely Swaziland is, and whether it has anything to do with Switzerland. Then my eyes stray to the hats on the wall oppositea dozen or so, each hanging from a curving brass peg. Theres an African headdress in a pink-and-blue fabric and a Cossack hat that could be made of real fur; theres a Panama, a trilby, a turban, a top hat, a riding hat, a cap, a fez, two battered boaters, and an emerald-green tweed hat with a pheasant feather stuck through it.

I climb the staircase with its wide, shallow treads. At the top is a square landing with four doors leading off it. Emmas bedroom is the first on the left. I turn the handle, then hover in the doorway to see if I can hear stifled giggles or telltale breathing. I hear nothing, but then Emmas good at holding her breathshe can swim a width and a half underwater. I flip back her shiny blue duvet, but shes not in the bedor under it; all I can see there is her secret box in which I know she keeps her lucky Krugerrand and her diary. I open the big white-painted corner cupboard with its safari stencils, but shes not in there either. Perhaps shes in the room next door. As I enter it I realise, with an uncomfortable feeling, that this is her parents room. I look for Emma under the wrought-iron bed and behind the dressing table, the mirror of which is cracked in one corner; then I open the wardrobe and catch a scent of orange peel and cloves, which makes me think of Christmas. As I stare at Mrs. Kittss brightly printed summer dresses, imagining them under the African sun, I suddenly realise that I am not so much seeking as snooping. I retreat, feeling a vague sense of shame. And now I want to stop playing hide-and-seek. I want to play rummy, or just watch TV.

Bet you cant find me, Phoebe! Youll never, ever find me!

Sighing, I cross the landing and step into the bathroom, where I check behind the thick white plastic shower curtain and lift the lid of the hamper, which contains nothing but a faded-looking purple towel. Now I go to the window and part the semi-closed slats of the Venetian blind. As I peer down into the sun-filled garden a tiny jolt runs the length of my spine. Theres Emmabehind the huge plane tree at the end of the lawn. She thinks I cant see her, but I can because shes crouching down and one of her feet is sticking out. I dash down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the utility room, then I fling open the back door.

Found you! I shout as I run toward the tree. Found you, I repeat happily, surprised by my euphoria. Okay, I say, panting, my turn to hide! Emma? I peer at her. Shes not crouching down but lying down, on her left side, perfectly still, eyes closed. Get up, will you, Em? She doesnt reply. And now I notice that one leg is folded beneath her at an awkward angle. With a sudden thud in my rib cage I understand. Emma was hiding not behind the tree but in it. I glance up through its branches, glimpsing shreds of blue through the green. She was hiding in the tree, but then she fell.

Em, I murmur, stooping to touch her shoulder. Im trembling now. I gently shake her, but she doesnt respond, and now I notice that her mouth is slightly agape, a thread of saliva glistening on her lower lip. Emma! I shout. Wake up! But she doesnt. I put my hand to her ribs but cant feel them rise and fall. Say something, I plead, my heart pounding. Please, Emma! I try to lift her up, but I cant. I clap my hands by her ears. Emma! My throat is aching and tears prick my eyes. I glance back at the house, desperate for Emmas mother to come running over the grass, ready to make everything all right; but Mrs. Kitts is still not back from her tennis, which makes me angry because were too young to have been left on our own. Resentment at Mrs. Kitts gives way to terror at the thought of what shes likely to saythat Emmas accident was my fault because it was my suggestion that we play hide-and-seek. From inside my head I hear Miss Grey asking me to look after Emma, then her disappointed tut-tutting.

Wake up, Em, I implore her. Please. But she just lies there looking crumpled, like a flung-down rag doll. I know I have to run and get help. But first I must cover her, as its turning chilly. I pull off my cardigan and lay it across Emmas upper body, quickly smoothing it over her chest and tucking it under her shoulders.