‘That’s not modelling,’ Mercia says, keeping out of the way. ‘That’s just wearing them. We need a catwalk to strut down.’

‘I can’t see the point of modelling the clothes she’s sold you,’ Cato says. ‘You want to model the clothes that she’s got left, the rest of the stock, because she’ll have to get rid of it all when she closes.’

‘They won’t necessarily fit us.’

The kilims, despite being what Enid would describe as a mat rather than a rug, are incredibly heavy. I help Cato to carry them out to the van and we shuffle along with them, dead weights. It’s like carrying a body out of the house.

Back inside, Betty has made the tea and a plate of home-made shortbread biscuits.

‘We could have an auction,’ Cato says. ‘I’d willingly be the auctioneer. It’s an ambition of mine. It could be a charity auction.’

‘And how would that benefit Fern?’ Mercia asks.

‘Publicity,’ Cato says.

‘Why does she need publicity if she’s going to work in a high-street store?’ I point out. We seem to have drifted a long way from the thank-you party that I’d envisaged. ‘But I do like the idea of a catwalk.’ I can see myself on it, in my blue dress, with a spotlight on me.

‘You know her better than we do,’ Mercia says. ‘What would Fern want, do you think?’

‘That’s what it all boils down to,’ I agree. ‘It’s not what we want, it’s what she’d want. That’s what we’ve got to think about.’ But the truth is, I know exactly what she’d like. She’d like to see us being our best selves, as we look through her eyes.

It would be the perfect tribute.

LOT 26

Men’s black cashmere sweater, medium.

‘Let me look at you,’ my mother says as I’m about to leave for my interview in the luscious, fitted brown jacket that I bought from Cato.

I’m half expecting her to spit on a handkerchief and wipe my face with it.

‘You’ll do, I suppose,’ she says. ‘Try to look animated, at least.’

I bare my teeth at her, a fake grin.

‘Better,’ she says. ‘Off you go. Do your best.’

I climb the steps from the flat and outside, the sun shines and the world is waiting for me. I think of David and I’m so excited, my stomach flips.

I tuck my hands in my jacket pockets and close them over the business card belonging to Alexandra Booth, the hypnotherapist.

I take it out and read it again.

Phobias.

Last night, after seeing Moss wake up, David and I didn’t go straight home.