A woman, mid-thirties, pale, wearing a trilby on the back of her head like a halo, military green jacket, jeans.

‘Who is that one, Fern?’

‘Not sure,’ I whisper in the hope that she’ll whisper, too.

‘Well I don’t know about the jeans,’ Dinah tutted. ‘Strictly for cowboys. But perhaps I like the effect. Oh, that dog! We should move.’ She looks around at the windows first and then at the ceiling. ‘Fans.’

‘Are you warm?’

‘For the smell.’ She sniffs the air delicately. ‘He’s done it again. These people and their dogs.’

‘Shh,’ I tell her, demonstrating with the universal sign of pressing my index finger against my lips.

‘Don’t worry about it, dahlink,’ she says, patting my knee. ‘Everyone else is thinking it, too.’

My heart’s pounding with anticipation. I now realise it’s a bit of a responsibility, bringing her here. The fun of being in Dinah’s company is offset by her loud comments and our two different sets of needs. For me, it’s business and I hope to get some lots at a good price. At auction, fashion finds its own level, but sometimes items that don’t reach the lower estimate can be bought just under the reserve at Tallulah’s discretion, and that’s where I get lucky. Other lots might attract no interest in the beginning and I think I’ve got a chance, but once bidding starts it can lead to auction fever; a frenzy of waving paddles that means the garments far exceed the top estimate. There’s no way of knowing in advance how it’s going to go and the uncertainty is part of the excitement, but I hope I won’t leave empty-handed.

For Dinah, it’s a fun day out. How long will she want to stay? I wonder.

Having checked online and now in the sales room the first lot I want to bid on is number sixty-eight, which means there’s some waiting around. The auction begins. There are maybe twenty of us in the room and some phone lines set up. The screen lights up. Lot number one.

Dinah takes a gold pen out of her handbag, crosses her legs, balances her catalogue on her knee and watches the auctioneer.

Although I’ve spent a lot of time online picking out the dresses and ensembles that I’m interested in, as the clothes appear on the screen, everything now seems new again and desirable.

As each lot sells or doesn’t sell, Dinah writes the price in the margin. The well-known names go for above the asking price, but there are also some surprises. There are no bids for a little gold tweed Yves Saint Laurent suit. The lower estimate is only eighty pounds.

‘I wonder what’s wrong with it? I’m tempted to buy it just for the buttons,’ I whisper to Dinah.