I make as much noise as possible as I open the front door. Then I stamp vigorously on our new Home, Sweet Home doormat until I practically wear the tread off my shoes.

‘Darling!’ my mother cries effusively, coming into the hall. ‘You do have the nicest friends!’

Do I?

And sitting next to each other on the red sofa, Bloody Marys in hand, is Cato Hamilton in his tweeds and Kim Aston who’s wearing my mother’s white ostrich-feather bolero.

It turns out that they haven’t come to see my mother at all, they’ve come to see me, but my mother, sorry, Annabel, has invited them to wait. They must have been waiting ages, because Cato and Kim look pink and rosy, and my mother looks extremely merry in a beige cashmere dress slit to the knee. She’s chewing on a stringy celery stick.

‘They’ve come about the fashion show,’ my mother tells me.

Seriously, how long have I been out of the house? ‘What fashion show?’

‘Fashion show and auction,’ Cato says, undoing the top button of his tweed waistcoat, thereby recklessly breaking with sartorial tradition.

‘Yes, fashion show and auction,’ Kim agrees.

I honestly have no idea what they’re talking about. ‘What are you auctioning?’

‘Dinah’s fake Chanels and special frocks your clients have bought from you that have made a difference to them,’ Kim says. ‘Proceeds to a charity of your choice.’

‘Really?’ I ask, deeply touched, fingering the neckline of my nude dress. I can feel my throat tighten.

‘Yes, everyone wants to get involved – it’s the best way we could think of to thank you.’

I’m stunned, overcome with gratitude.

‘Oh,’ he adds, fishing for something on the sofa, ‘that reminds me – here you are, Fern, here’s your client book back.’

I’m astounded. ‘I wondered where that had gone!’ I take the book from him and flick through the names that bring warmth to my heart and I look at Kim again, my eyes blurring. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘I’m going to teach the models the catwalk strut,’ my mother says, hanging on to her glass and wobbling to her feet to demonstrate. ‘Look at me! I’ve still got it!’ she declares triumphantly, holding onto the wall for support.

Kim raises his glass to her.

‘You know what your business USP is, Fern?’ Cato asks me. ‘Customer service. The personal touch. Everyone talks about it. That’s why your clients keep coming back.’

‘Do you really have to go back into a department store?’ Kim asks kindly, extracting a stray feather from his mouth.

‘No,’ I admit, glancing at Annabel.

‘I should think not, Fern. Why on earth would you? You’re making such a success of things,’ my mother says in such a brazen turnabout that I’m once again lost for words.

LOT 29