I can see what she’s thinking. She’s thinking that there has to be a catch. Only somebody whose thoughts veer that way, someone cautious and realistic, would come shopping for a prom dress alone, without a mother or a friend to share the moment and advise. ‘Okay, then.’

‘Would you like to sign up for my mailing list?’ I ask.

‘Okay!’

As she writes in my book – Daisy Redbourne – I take the dress from her. I wrap it in acid-free tissue and put it in a paper carrier bag as she counts out her money. We swap; transaction done.

‘Enjoy your prom,’ I say.

‘Thanks,’ she says. She walks away, swinging the bag.

David’s watching me. He looks gloomy. ‘You just sold my wedding dress.’ He’s holding his book like a shield between us.

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re not really a businesswoman, are you?’ he points out.

Why does everyone keep telling me that? ‘So what?’ I say warily.

‘I would have bought it from you last week for the full price.’ He closes his book and puts it on the table with a thud. He gives me a crooked smile. ‘Of course, if I had, Gigi would have jilted me at the actual ceremony, in front of witnesses, so I should be thanking you, you saved me from that.’

I’m not sure how to reply.

Then he adds, ‘About last night …’

‘Yes?’ I’m hopeful that the rest of the sentence is going to be something on the lines of it being the best kiss he’s ever had.

‘I had to get back to let Duncan out.’

‘Oh. Okay. That’s fine.’

‘I didn’t want you to think I rushed off for any other reason.’

‘No problem. Thanks.’

I really mean it. The thanks is because I’m grateful he at least had the decency to spare my feelings and come up with a decent excuse.

KIM

I’m out with Betty and Mercia in Cafe Rouge in Hampstead and we’re having afternoon tea, my treat, to thank them for their kindness to Enid, and to me. We’ve dressed up for the occasion. They’re wearing flowery dresses and pink lipstick and I’m wearing my maroon paisley cravat.

We’ve got seats by the window, looking out onto Hampstead High Street, and we know what we want: afternoon tea with cakes, scones and croque monsieur.

The charming young waitress is French, with dark hair curling around her face. She tells us that for five pounds extra we can have prosecco.

‘Ooh,’ Betty says.

‘I say,’ adds Mercia.

I throw caution to the wind. ‘Then we’ll have prosecco,’ I announce.

The prosecco arrives toute-de-suite, as they say in France, and we watch the waitress fill the glasses then we raise them in a salute to each other and ourselves.

‘Chin-chin,’ Betty says with a sparkle in her eye.

‘Bottoms up,’ responds Mercia.

‘Cheers,’ I say.