Bethan’s excitement shows all over her face. ‘I’d never think to wear this for a wedding,’ she says. ‘Dare I?’ She raises her arms and the sun glows through the floaty red sleeves.

‘Oh, my dahlink – heh – I’d give anything, truly, to see your ex-husband’s face when he sees you.’

‘And a hat …’

‘Tell you what, Dinah’ll go hat shopping with you. Won’t you, Dinah?’ I say, volunteering her.

‘Who, me? Well, maybe I could. Why not?’

Bethan smiles, closes the curtain. As she takes the dress off she says, slightly muffled, ‘I didn’t ask you the price.’

‘It’s two hundred and fifty pounds,’ Dinah says.

What? I glare at Dinah, annoyed on two counts: first, because it’s not her decision to make, and secondly, because I can’t drop the price now.

Bethan comes back out holding the dress. To my surprise, she gets her credit card out and seems okay with the price, but still, it should have been my decision. I wrap the dress up in tissue and she and Dinah make arrangements to meet in Fenwick in Bond Street the following day.

Once she’s gone, Dinah sits on my stool, admiring her legs and looking very pleased with herself.

Me, I’m not so pleased. In fact, I’m annoyed. ‘You know we’ve overcharged her.’

Dinah glowers at me and turns away.

After a few more minutes of silence I relent and say, ‘I know you’re looking at it from a business point of view, but—’

‘Business?’ Dinah explodes. ‘Of course, business! But, more importantly, she loves that dress. You saw her. How’s she going to feel about it if she doesn’t pay much for it? Who feels good in a cheap dress? At her daughter’s wedding? With the mother-in-law and the second wife there? She wants to splash out the cash – don’t you know anything about women?’ She gets to her feet and stalks off.

She doesn’t go far. Coming back, she says patiently, ‘Huh. It’s not your fault. You’re no businesswoman, that’s the problem. Lucky for you, you’ve got me around.’

LOT 14

Yellow Chloé dress with fitted lace overlaid bodice, cutaway sleeves and silk chiffon handkerchief hem, 1970s.

‘Who better to look after my stall for the weekend of the party than Dinah Moss? She’s a bloody good saleswoman,’ I tell Lucy. ‘I’ll probably be able to retire by Monday.’

It’s getting dark and we’re sitting outside in my garden under the ragged banana trees, drinking cider. The lights are going on in the windows around us. Above us, the navy sky is studded sparsely with stars that are outshone by the city’s glow. ‘See that there? That’s Leo. Possibly,’ I add, because they look very faint. ‘I recognise it from David Westwood’s light boxes.’