Those words make everything different between him and me. He relaxes because he sees it’s the truth, the truth that I live by. And I’ve seen something, too. I’d thought I’d lost my job over something small and frivolous, when in fact I’d been making his pain easier to bear. I feel vindicated and suddenly cheerful.

‘It saddens me to think I’ve wasted my life,’ he says, looking at the dresses longingly.

Just then, I see Dinah coming back with our lunch. ‘I bought ham croissants,’ she announces imperiously and she’s suddenly distracted by the sight of Kim.

He’s staring at her open-mouthed. For a moment she stands and stares back at him in silence, shielding her eyes from the sun with one elegant hand.

She has much the same effect on Kim as she had on me, because he seems to be seeing some other-worldly revelation. ‘I want to look like you,’ he tells her passionately.

Once again, Dinah surprises me. She laughs, batting away the compliment. ‘Dahlink, of course you do.’ She looks him up and down. ‘Well, you’re slim, it’s not impossible. And take it from me, a turban is utterly divine to wear. Have you ever tried a turban?’

Speechless, he shakes his head.

She looks into her paper bag. ‘I only bought two, so we have to share.’ She tears the croissant in half. ‘You choose. Give me your phone number and I’ll find you a turban. Schiaparelli, dahlink,’ she mouths and shares her croissant with him.

LOT 12

Mixed lot of three day dresses, circa 1940s, including a pink-and-orange dress with button detail and matching coat; red silk blouse with fan neckline detail; Prince of Wales check suit; bottle-green wool suit with peplum.

It’s Wednesday. The morning light is yellow and melancholy, and the clouds are dusted with cinnamon. It’s going to be a hot day and I’m wearing the orange A-line minidress. By the time I’ve arranged my stall, my flicked-up hair is already going limp.

David Westwood is focused on sanding down an irregularly shaped block of wood. His eyes are lowered and he’s got the thickest, darkest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man. I wonder if they’re the reason his eyes are such a striking blue.

Somewhere in the yard behind us a busker is playing melancholy Donovan songs on an acoustic guitar. David’s sanding to the rhythm of the music.

A gabble of voices: a group of excitable students in bottle-green sweatshirts come down the alley led by a tour guide holding up a Union Jack flag. They file past us as if they’re keeping to a schedule.

‘Whatcha doin’?’ I ask David curiously, watching the fine dust dull the cobbles around our feet. Looks like a departure from the light boxes.