‘Yes.’ Anna nodded. ‘Specialising in formalwear, particularly designer pieces: vintage Dior, Balenciaga, Hermès, Pucci, Ossie Clark …’
Rachel sighed, clutching at her chest as though her heart might burst with excitement. ‘How did you find this place?’
‘Well, it’s fairly new,’ Anna said. ‘And honestly, I just happened to walk past it one afternoon last week. It hadn’t occurred to me to try looking for a vintage dress to get married in, but …’
‘It’s agreatidea,’ Rachel said. ‘I have a very good feeling about this.’
‘Me too.’ Anna smiled, and rang the doorbell.
They were let in by a woman with deep amber skin and shoulder-length Afro hair. Some of her curls were highlighted shades of caramel, honey and gold, and her big, wide eyes were dark brown. Rachel guessed she was no older than twenty-five.
‘You must be Anna,’ she said, grinning. ‘I’m Zahra. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Yes!’ Anna said, shaking Zahra’s hand. ‘And this is Rachel. She’ll be my maid of honour.’
‘Just the two of you, is it?’ Zahra asked. ‘We don’t need to wait for anyone else?’
Anna shook her head. Rachel cringed. They’d had this conversation in every wedding dress shop they’d visited – though at least Zahra had the sense not to ask, point blank, ‘Isn’t your mum coming?’
Anna’s mother lived in Spain, and they didn’t speak. They’d had barely any contact since Anna was about thirteen – the age at which she’d realised it hurt more to try to have a relationship with her mum than to pretend she didn’t exist.
Nicola Taylor had given birth to her daughter at twenty and rapidly decided that motherhood was too tough a road to walk alone. She moved back into her parents’ house in Dagenham, then out again not twelve months later, leaving her baby girl behind.
Anna always said her gran and grandpa were the only parents she’d ever known, and – as far as Rachel was concerned – they’d been outstanding ones. Their granddaughter was the best, most brilliant person she’d ever met.
When they passed away, they’d left Anna everything they had – including the ex-council house she’d grown up in, which Anna had sold so she could buy the Stroud Green flat. Even six years on, it still made Rachel feel sick to think that Anna’s mother hadn’t bothered to help plan her own parents’ funerals – nor even attended her father’s. What shehaddone was mount a legal challenge to the will that left their worldly goods to her daughter. Thankfully, it had ended in failure.
‘Yep – just us,’ Anna said brightly, smiling at Zahra and clutching Rachel’s arm. Rachel found her hand and held it for a moment.
Zahra nodded and Rachel caught a glimpse of her left ear, which was adorned with an array of tiny, twinkling piercings. The woman was stunning – and probably wearing her own stock, Rachel thought. She had on an ochre maxi dress with a psychedelic leaf print in shades of orange, black and lime green, likely a find from the seventies. It looked perfect, like it had been made for her.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Zahra asked, and Rachel realised she must have been staring.
‘It’s awesome.’
‘It was like a sack when I found it.’ Zahra smiled. ‘I do alterations and reimagining of vintage stuff, as well as just trading in the pieces I source – so if we find something you love but it isn’t a great fit, that’s no problem.’
She turned to Anna. ‘Based on our chat and what you told me about your style and size, I’ve put aside a few things I think you might like. Why don’t I go and get the rack, then pop the kettle on while you take a look?’
Anna grinned when Zahra reappeared, wheeling a clothing rail along with her. It was hung with garments in varying shades of white, blush, cream and oyster. All of them were different, and none looked like anything Anna had tried on during previous attempts at wedding gown shopping.
She and Rachel riffled through a selection of dresses while Zahra made tea. One was flapper-style and entirely made of chiffon. Another, probably from the 1930s, was made of vanilla-coloured silk; it had a high-necked sunburst front, a low, scooped back and subtle gold trim.
Anna looked beautiful in everything, though some of the dresses were several inches too long for her. Zahra, however, claimed she’d saved the best for last. ‘Now I’ve met you,’ she said, ‘I’m evenmoreconvinced this one’s going to look amazing.’
Anna took the dress she was handed into the changing area, then emerged a few minutes later with a blazing, jubilant look on her face. She was a vision, and she knew it. Rachel felt her eyes well up and Zahra clapped.
Anna was wearing a 1960s cocktail dress that fell to her knee. It was made of thick cream satin and covered in tiny clear-glass beads that shimmered as she moved. The bodice, cut square above Anna’s bust, sat separately from the skirt; elevated above the waist, it was embroidered with small peach flowers. Beaded tassels hung from its glittering hem.
‘This is the one,’ Anna sighed.
‘Itsois,’ Rachel agreed. Anna, with her pixie cut, petite figure and doll-like face, was wearing the hell out of this dress –itwasn’t wearing her.
‘And here’s the best bit,’ Zahra said, triumphant. She pulled a box off the shelf next to her, opened it and freed an elegant bolero jacket from several folds of tissue paper. She handed it to Anna.
‘I made this to match the dress so it could be worn during the daytime, always hoping the right bride would come along.’
‘It’sperfect,’ Anna said, and slipped it on. It sat snug on her shoulders and had slender three-quarter-length sleeves with pale peach edging. She looked iconic – like a model. Like a shorter, more grown-up Twiggy.
