I look quickly away; it’s like looking into the sun. But being unable to meet his eyes is not a good move – it’s very shifty. ‘I was just wondering, that’s all. What are you going to do about your stall?’

‘Close it down for the weekend. I booked the house way before I left my job so obviously at the time I didn’t know it was going to be a problem.’

I make most of my money at the weekend. And I’ve just bought those dresses at the auction, which I’m keen to sell on. I’m distracted from my musings by a customer; another smiling face from the past.

‘Er, Fern? Hi! It’s Bethan,’ she adds, to jog my memory.

‘Hi!’ Bethan hasn’t changed much since I last saw her – she’s still got short, highlighted hair, and she’s wearing cropped jeans and a blue-and-white check shirt. She’s somewhere in her fifties and there’s a sadness about her, despite her smile.

‘Do you remember me? I came to see you a few years back when my ex married again.’

‘Of course I remember you.’

She chuckles. ‘You threatened to burn my fleece.’

I remember that fleece; the least flattering garment a woman could wear.

‘Did I?’ I steer her away from David, who’s just made some kind of noise, a cross between a snort and a laugh. Honestly, it’s surprising I wasn’t fired a lot sooner than I was. ‘This is my stall here.’

‘Small, isn’t it? I saw you in the Camden New Journal. Not being funny, but you haven’t exactly risen from the ashes yet then – this is a bit different from personal shopping. No champagne, I don’t suppose?’

I laugh merrily. ‘Sadly, no.’

‘It’s crisis time again. My daughter, Zoe, is getting married and of course he wants his new wife to be there. If I had my way she wouldn’t go; what’s it got to do with her? She’s not her daughter,’ Bethan says heatedly. ‘It’s sickening. He’s making such a big deal of the whole thing because he’s paying for it. He and I got married quietly in Tuscany. It was a small wedding with a handful of good friends and it was, you know, lovely. That’s the kind of wedding Zoe wants.’ For a moment, she turns her head, blinking away the tears. ‘But no, he wants her to do it “properly”,’ she says, drawing imaginary speech marks around the word, ‘as if ours was some kind of second-rate way to tie the knot. And his mother loves his new wife because, apparently, she’s so approachable, and his mother is sure if I make an effort that we’ll get on perfectly well. See?’ She shrugs miserably. ‘Everything’s perfect, apart from me.’