‘Yes. I was Jewish, and German.’ She puts the blue dress to one side. The corner of her mouth twitches but her eyes are kind. ‘So you see, at least with a turban, you can take it off. Kim, I have to go now. Moss will be home soon.’

She stands up and I stand, too.

I see her out and I go back to sit in her seat, in the sunshine, facing the blue dress, which is lolling against the seat cushion like a seductive lover.

LOT 17

Opulent gold Versace blouse with GV Medusa-head gilt clasps inset with diamante, 1990.

Moss is at the back of the shop on his sewing machine, which is giving off a comforting staccato hum. He’s working through the dresses on his rail. Business has been steady since we moved a couple of weeks ago, partly because we’re easier to find, but also because of the benefits of Moss being right on the spot to measure and pin.

I unfold my chair and come to sit with David in the doorway of the unit. He looks preoccupied. The coloured bunting is slapping gaily against the brick wall of the antique shop. I’m about to ask him whether he’s thought any more about the engagement ring, when his phone chimes.

He looks at the caller’s name and jumps to his feet. ‘Watch my stall for a minute, will you?’ he asks and he hurries out through the exit onto Gilbeys Yard.

I’m confused – what’s the rush?

‘Where is he?’ asks a familiar voice from behind me.

She says it so sharply that I jump. ‘Oh! Hi, Gigi! He’s just popped out for a minute. He won’t be long.’

She’s wearing ripped jeans, turquoise Converse trainers and a bra top with a black lace cover-up. She’s also got the shaggy little dog with her, so I get up and stand behind my chair, fully prepared to use it as a defence if I need to.

‘Really? Just popped out?’ She’s in a horrible mood and she looks at me with contempt, as if I’ve done something awful to her, as if she’d never jumped off the farewell stone in the Cotswolds to hug me before I left. ‘Bloody coward,’ she mutters. ‘Here, hold this, will you,’ she says, handing me the lead.

‘Hold it yourself,’ I say. ‘I hate dogs.’ My heart is thumping with anxiety, and I hold my breath and try not to break out in a sweat, because as dog lovers point out, dogs can smell fear – in my opinion, it’s an insurance policy, so that if their dog attacks then they’ll tell you you’ve only got yourself to blame.

She laughs suddenly and her bad mood dissolves. ‘Fern, you’re so funny! How come you hate dogs?’

‘It’s easy, trust me,’ I say darkly.