with square shoulders and a narrow belt. I’m posing, too. I’ve rolled back my fringe from my face, very Forties, and with my peach blusher and red lipstick I look as healthy as a land girl. Dinah beckons me in and we bond immediately over a familiar subject.
‘I like your look,’ she says approvingly. ‘Although you gave me a start when I first saw you with that suitcase. There was all that dreadful rattling noise and it unsettled me. I’m a person who’s very susceptible to noise.’
‘Sorry. It’s a cheap case and one of the wheels is coming off.’
‘Oh,’ she says, spreading her hands, ‘and there’s a hole in my handbag; it’s come unstitched!’
There’s something in the way that we’ve just swapped stories of our shoddy goods that makes us both laugh.
‘It’s being repaired now,’ she adds gravely, ‘at the Handbag Clinic.’
‘Good. I’m afraid there’s no hope for my suitcase. I’m going to have it put down.’
She nods seriously. ‘Put out of its misery; yes. I think that’s best – it looked a sorry thing.’ Her mood brightens. ‘First of all, before we have tea I want to show you something that you’ll appreciate as a curator of fashion. Come. Always one must put pleasure before business.’
We climb an oak spiral staircase, which leads up to the first floor.
Dinah takes me into a windowless dressing room with mirrored wardrobes on all three walls. She invites me to sit on a large ivory velvet ottoman. The chandelier throws pools of rainbow light on the polished floor. With a flourish, she touch-opens each of the wardrobe doors in turn. Our reflections disappear and the interiors of the wardrobes glow with lights.
Dinah’s smiling, more to herself than to me. ‘This is my collection,’ she says shyly.
‘Wow.’
It’s like falling into my favourite dream. Her clothes are hanging in muslin garment bags that shroud the dresses inside them. Each garment bag has a vinyl pocket with a Polaroid of the garment tucked into it. I’m seriously excited by these wrapped-up delights, impressed by the care she’s taken to look after them, and I’m filled with a rush of anticipation.
She laughs gleefully at my expression. ‘It’s taken you by surprise, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes!’ I’m looking at the Polaroids and through the muslin bags I can see the vague but enticing outline of her clothes.
She sweeps her hand along them carelessly but possessively, like a lover, and looks at me coquettishly over her shoulder. ‘I have a question for you. How would you catalogue a lifetime’s collection of couture like this?’ she asks.
Is this something she wants me to do? My heart is beating fast with anticipation. Oh please, yes, I’d do it in a heartbeat. ‘I guess I’d do it by designer and by era,’ I say, wondering if this is the actual interview.
‘That’s exactly what I do,’ she says approvingly. ‘I keep them all in chronological order, in the order I was given them by my dahlink husband.’
I’d like a husband like that. ‘Really? Going back to when?’
Again, she turns her head to look at me, her hands on her hips, raising her eyebrows briefly, enjoying my surprise.
‘Let’s see how clever you are, shall we? Tell me, what was the style in post-war nineteen forties?’
I laugh. ‘Come on, that’s too easy. I’m wearing it. Utilitarian, flannel, no more than five buttons due to clothes rationing, two pockets—’
She wags her finger at me. ‘Shame on you, Fern Banks! I’m talking about couture! Here! Look!’ She pulls out a bag, unzips it and takes out the garment to show me.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s a wasp-waisted jacket over a corseted black silk dress with a midi-length full pleated skirt, so boned and perfectly structured that even on the hanger it holds the shape of the wearer – it could probably stand up by itself.
Christian Dior. I’m stunned, lost for words. My skin prickles with adrenaline. I’ve only ever seen this ensemble in books and, unexpectedly, here it is, a museum piece hanging in a wardrobe.
Dinah thrusts it into my arms and chuckles. ‘Go on! Take it! Feel!’ she says. ‘Don’t we always have to feel?’
Seeing my hesitation, her smile fades and suddenly her mood changes. She says sharply, ‘The cat got your tongue? Tell me about this!’
She’s testing me. I might, after all, be a fake. ‘Well, it’s obviously …’ I hardly dare to say it. ‘It looks like – it’s in the style of Christian Dior’s New Look collection. Spring nineteen-forty-seven, right? La Ligne Corolle. After the war he wanted to move on from the relaxed, practical frocks that women were used to and he chose the corseted, exaggerated cinch-waist styles.’ I’m looking under the skirt at the seams, at the finish of it. I glance uncertainly at her, trying to read her expression, wondering what this is all about, what exactly my role is.
She relaxes again. ‘Of course, you’re quite correct,’ she says languidly, swatting away my words with her hand as if they’re not important anyway. ‘It also has a hat with it. I have it in a box.’
Fascinated, I hold the Dior at arm’s-length. It’s like looking at something incredible, like a sunset, and trying to put a price on it. I’ve got an idea how much this outfit is worth. Probably six figures. Does she?
My speechless admiration amuses her. She laughs and takes it from me – she has other things to show me and she shares in my delight. I get a glimpse of the most beautiful fabrics: chiffon, crêpe romaine, crêpe marocaine, crêpe de chine, gossamer, moiré, organzine, shantung, brocade, velvets in jewel colours – emerald, amethyst, turquoise, lapis lazuli, ruby, sapphire, ivory; dresses so beautiful that I groan in pleasure.
‘They’re all here,’ she says with great pride, spreading her arms wide. ‘The best of the best. Dior, Givenchy, Balenciaga, Laroche, Schiaparelli.’
The names are poetry to me.
Dinah pauses and glances at me conspiratorially. ‘And Chanel.’ She raises her hand. ‘No, don’t say it! I know you’re wondering, Chanel? How could she? Well, I forgave her in the Fifties.’
‘You did? For what?’
Dinah frowns and her expression hardens. ‘What do you think? For cosying up to the Germans during the occupation, of course. Everyone knows she had an affair with that diplomat, the Baron.’ She shrugs. ‘But she was cleared of being a collaborator, so what can you do? Maybe, after all, it was just sex. I chose to forgive,’ she says haughtily, sliding the hangers along the rails. ‘Look! Here’s a Grès that might interest you.’
‘Madame Alix Grès,’ I say, showing off my knowledge, and Dinah pats my cheek sharply but approvingly.
‘Of course, dahlink. Madame Alix,’ she says fondly. ‘Who else but us remembers her anymore?’
She pulls out the gown, in Grecian draped and pleated ivory. It’s breathtaking, a miracle of construction, the pinnacle of elegance. As she holds up the hanger, her arm trembles with the weight; it’s heavy, lavish with fabric. I want to hold it. Hell, I’d kill to wear it.
‘You like it, huh?’ Dinah shakes the hanger so that the dress shimmies gracefully. ‘See how it hangs? Magnificent, isn’t it?’
It takes my breath away. ‘I’ve seen one in the Victoria and Albert Museum. I never thought I’d get to hold one.’
Dinah smiles. ‘How about you try it on? Would you like to?’
‘Really? Yes, please!’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t look,’ she says, turning her back to me, but as soon as I step out of my dress she turns around and issues a series of stern orders.