We’re just passing London Zoo and Mercia says she can see a giraffe. I like listening to Betty and Mercia talking. We talk a lot when we’re together. Like me, they live alone, taking full responsibility for themselves, which is no mean feat as I’ve discovered. It takes a surprising amount of discipline to live decently and eat regularly, and do the dishes, and make the bed just for oneself.

‘This salad is wonderful. I love beetroot, don’t you? I’d have liked one of the light boxes but I’m decluttering.’

‘So am I. I’m having Cato back,’ Betty says decisively. ‘I’m going to see if he’ll take the Turkish kilims that we bought from the rug shop in Kentish Town. They’re curling at the edges and I forget and trip up. It’s age, I suppose. They’re a potential deathtrap and I don’t want to be remembered as the Pensioner Killed by her Kilim. He’s a nice boy, isn’t he, Cato? And ambitious. He wants to be an auctioneer. Didn’t you find him pleasant?’ She’s directing the question at me.

‘Oh yes, very pleasant,’ I reply.

She tilts her head curiously. ‘You’re still thinking about Fern Banks, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am. I’d like to do something nice for her.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘She has some beautiful things. When we came out of the dressing room, you said we looked like models,’ Mercia remembers coyly.

I laugh. ‘It’s true! You did! You had the look!’ Then I look under her table. Her frock is tucked under her chair in the bag.

‘What are you doing down there? Top him up, Mercia,’ Betty says, ‘he’s fun when he’s tipsy.’

‘Tipsy! I’m outraged!’ I roar. She’s right, though, I am, rather.

‘We should have a demonstration outside her shop, looking our best selves, to convince her to stay,’ Mercia says.

‘With placards,’ Betty says. ‘Save Fern Banks!’

‘Exactly. Mercia, please could you pass me your carrier bag from under your chair?’

Mercia laughs. ‘Kim, you’re serious, aren’t you? Here you are!’ She passes it to me under the table. ‘Whyever do you want it?’

‘I’ve done something rather underhand,’ I admit, reaching into the bag. ‘I’m afraid I’ve gone and borrowed Fern’s client book. I want to see who’s interested in joining me in some kind of tribute to her. Where shall we start?’

LOT 24

Brown fitted jacket, viscose, with belt, narrow lapels, silk-lined, small.

When I get home from the hospital that night, my mother’s in a bad frame of mind. She’s sitting at the table with her head in her hands, her fair hair spilling dramatically over her eyes.

We quickly reach a stalemate, both waiting for the other to make the first approach.