‘Look at him! So thin!’ Dinah tells us loudly, pushing me forward. ‘He won’t eat. I’ve tried pressing food against his teeth and he keeps his mouth shut, breaking my heart. Enough.’

Moss isn’t thin. But his head is resting back on the pillows and his jaw has dropped open, so he doesn’t look good, either.

‘He’s giving up,’ Dinah whispers, playing with the neckline of the dress and staring at him intently with fear in her dark eyes. ‘This is something that I’ve seen before. Death doesn’t take you; it invites you home and every day we march towards it, that bit closer, and look behind us to see how far we’ve come. Oh! Not far at all! It’s all there still, everything that we thought we’d left behind.’

David frowns and catches my eye.

Moss grunts in his sleep as if he’s heard her. ‘Dinah, where is the girl?’ he asks suddenly, and we all sit upright and pay attention. His eyes are closed but the words are strong and fluent.

‘Hi, Moss, I’m here,’ I tell him, sitting forward, and his eyes snap open, dark brown eyes edged with a perfect halo of pale grey.

I’ve annoyed him, I recognise that scowl. I’m not the girl he’s looking for. He shakes his head, defeated.

‘Don’t worry. Sleep, dahlink,’ Dinah tells him softly, rubbing his hand. ‘Fern, to think I burned the precious clothes that he made for me with these hands. It makes me ashamed.’ She lays his hand back down on his lap. ‘So. Now, let’s talk business. Have you got your new job yet?’

Thanks a lot, Dinah, for bringing it up. ‘I’ve got an interview tomorrow. I was going to tell you.’

‘What’s this wonderful job you want to leave us for?’ Dinah asks.

‘Stockroom assistant in Topshop.’ The words stick in my throat. ‘The thing is,’ I say, justifying it, ‘they’ve got a vintage line.’

‘Who cares about that? You’ve got your own vintage line, haven’t you?’ Dinah bats her hand at me crossly as if she’s swatting away a fly. ‘Of course, we can’t stop you, can we, David? We wouldn’t want to.’

Good, I think stubbornly. My gaze roves around, from the plastic jug of water on the locker top, to the screen folded back, the felt-tipped name of the consultant on the clipboard, Mr Khan. The clock ticks loudly. The neon of my dress leaves after-images on my retinas. I get the feeling I can’t win. On the yelling front, that’ll do me. I get enough of that at home.

Dinah crosses her legs and her beautiful shoe dangles from her toe. She examines it for a moment before looking up. ‘But Fern, if you could just politely explain to me why?’

‘Because the perfect fit is superficial and trivial.’