She gives me the phone back and while she continues to look at the dresses, I take a closer look at Gigi, who actually, now that Lucy has pointed it out, doesn’t look happy at all. ‘She’s pouting. Everyone pouts in photographs.’

‘Yes, they pout, but they don’t pout. She looks more moody than sultry.’

I don’t argue with her. There might be hope for me yet.

LOT 16

Blush pink dress, 1920s, heavy, French guipure lace, with dropped waist, and silk-lined underskirt.

Moving day!

The sky is dark and heavy. Cato parks his van outside and he helps me to transfer my rails and clothes from my flat to Stables Market in the rain. When we get to Camden Lock, he stays in the van so he won’t get a ticket and I’m dragging my big, rickety case along the pavement for the last time, hopefully.

Moss meets me at the entrance to Stables Market and he’s holding a large black umbrella over his black overcoat. His black trilby makes him look like a gangster from a Twenties film.

I’m wearing my belted black PVC raincoat that squeaks as I walk. Moss gallantly takes my arm and holds the umbrella over me. The rain has slicked the cobbles to a high gloss.

David’s unit is in the central yard. He’s fixing units together with an electric screwdriver, surrounded by boxes. He’s wearing white overalls – the only man I’ve ever seen looking good in them – and he’s focused and self-possessed. I feel a sudden nervous thrill at seeing him. In the same way that I can’t act naturally around my parents, I can’t act natural with a good-looking man and now I’m sharing a pitch with him. It would help if he was missing some teeth or covered in boils and deeply flawed or something. Any of those and I’d be fine.

‘Hi!’

He looks up. ‘Hello, Fern!’ he says and flashes me a smile.

I give an involuntary whimper of longing.

Looking concerned, he asks, ‘Is your case heavy?’

‘Er, no, not really. The wheel’s coming off. This is Moss.’

Moss flaps the raindrops off his black umbrella and props it up against the wall. He shakes David’s hand sombrely. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Gigi,’ he says.

‘All good, I hope.’

‘Not so much.’ Moss shrugs. ‘I’ll have a look around, if I may?’

‘Go for it,’ David says, putting his weight on the storage unit to test it.

I follow him, my mac squeaking and rustling, to the back of the shop. The place is pretty big and there’s plenty of room.

‘If I put some hanging rails in here,’ Moss says, ‘that’ll give me space for my table.’