She lowers her eyes modestly. ‘This year it’s our platinum wedding anniversary.’ She laughs at my surprise. ‘I’ve been married to Moss for seventy years. I want to take him on holiday.’

‘But your clothes are part of your history,’ I point out.

She smiles. ‘True. And for you, with clothes, it’s the same, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I can define the big occasions of my life by what I wore when they happened, like the fuchsia broderie anglaise dress with scalloped hem for my first day at school. For my first day at uni I wore a yellow PVC raincoat and silver sandals, and I went on my first date wearing a turquoise-and-white dress, chrome necklace and glittery tights that I borrowed from my mother. I attended my first music festival in second-hand Biba and my first funeral wearing my grandmother’s Rive Gauche, and I lost my virginity in a lilac John Galliano that I got from a church sale. I like to look right. It lifts my heart. The way I see it: what makes the eyes light up – a gift topped by a jaunty bow or a gift in a carrier bag? It’s all in the presentation.’

Dinah laughs. ‘Exactly! And do you still have those clothes?’

‘No. I’ve sold them on. It’s a way of passing on some of my joy.’ After a moment I add truthfully, ‘Also, sometimes I just need the money.’

She looks at me carefully, her head tilted, and she raises an eyebrow. ‘And it doesn’t matter to you that you’re selling your history, does it?’

‘No, because I remember them perfectly well.’

She frowns. ‘Maybe that’s enough for me, too.’

I nod, but I’m full of misgivings about the plan. ‘What would Moss say when he finds you’ve sold the things that he bought for you?’

‘Dahlink, I wouldn’t tell him until afterwards and then it’s too late. You must help me choose what to take,’ she says, tossing the remainder of her green olives to the pigeons. The birds beat their wings and retreat a short distance, keeping their eyes on the prize. ‘Now, remind me what the most expensive lot sold for.’

LOT 13

A 1930s bias-cut black satin figure-hugging midi-length evening dress, with red blouson sleeves, size 14/42.

I’ve reread the invitation from Gigi to her birthday party, with the location and a request to RSVP. It might be fun. I deserve some fun.

‘So,’ I say to David. ‘Gigi’s party. What kind of party will it be?’

David gives me his direct look, his blue eyes meeting mine. He hesitates for a moment and then he says with a smile, ‘The usual kind. Drinks, food. Why?’

His dark blue eyes pierce me to my soul.