‘He worked for Chanel before the war and then for Norman Hartnell when he came here. Norman Hartnell made the Queen’s wedding dress. Before she was actually Queen, of course.’ I shouldn’t have said that; it might remind him of his failed wedding plans. But David doesn’t seem to notice.

He stretches his legs. ‘It must be a bit of a comedown for him, working here under a railway arch.’

I watch a family of holidaymakers ambling past in the sunshine, eating Magnum ice creams. I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking about it. ‘You could say the same about us.’

He laughs. ‘That’s true. You’re happy though, aren’t you?’

I think about it and realise that I am. I look at his light boxes. ‘All I need now is a compatible constellation to fit next to mine.’ I’m not sure why I say it. Looking for a response, I suppose. Anyway, he doesn’t take me up on it, so I wish I hadn’t bothered.

On Monday, while Moss has gone to the sports centre for a morning swim, I get the all clear from Dinah and make my way to her house.

Dinah takes me straight up to her dressing-room heaven and we stand in the golden light while she opens the wardrobe doors as she did before.

I swear I can hear angelic music.

She checks the Polaroids on each garment bag before she unzips them and takes a deep satisfied breath. ‘These are Moss’s birthday presents to me.’ She flashes me an ironic smile. ‘At my age I can afford to lose a few.’ She pulls a bag from the rail and hands it to me. ‘This green one can go. Comes with this camisole. I’m not so keen on green; it doesn’t suit my complexion. It’s 1950s; you can tell by the length of the skirt. Hold it, please.

‘This black-and-gold one, too, and the gold blouse; I wore it a lot – good for day and through to evening, you see? Also Fifties. Look at the contrasting lining! Beautiful. This one with the higher hemline, this is Eighties, you can see, when Karl Lagerfeld moved to Chanel he took the hemlines up – dahlink, let me tell you, Coco would have turned in her grave! She hated women to show their knees. Maybe she was right; the skirt is a little short for me now. Also this white suit with the black braid. It’s not practical anymore; London is so filthy.’

Struggling with the suits, I sit down on the ottoman.

‘How much would you say so far?’ she demands.

‘If the last sale is anything to go by, these should make about five hundred each, but as I said—’