‘You seem so different now,’ I tell him fondly, thinking of the anxious man in the personal styling suite who’d decided he didn’t want to stay.

He looks surprised. Then he says, ‘Fern, I am different.’

Kim and Dinah – they look so gorgeous and I hug them impulsively in a rush of gratitude for my great good fortune in having them as my friends. ‘I’ll never forget this, what you’ve done for me,’ I tell them.

‘Pah!’ Dinah says, brushing it off.

I take a look outside the marquee. It’s incredible, the way Cato’s organised it. Crowds have gathered all around Camden Lock. Our banners are strung up around us.

It’s coming up to seven o’ clock and I’m checking my models as they stand in line, waiting to go up. Kim, his white hair spiked and gelled, Dinah winding a camellia print scarf around her neck, Lucy in Donna Karan. And Alexa, Bethan, Hannah, Daisy, Jenna, Betty, Mercia all waiting to go on, their faces illuminated by neon lights that read #perfectfit and #passiton #refugeeaid, and the lights are flashing and the music is blaring.

We cluster nervously near the entrance and the music changes. Kim’s rubbing his hands together nervously, waiting for his cue.

‘Get ready, Kim,’ my mother orders. ‘Head up, shoulders back, and STRUT!’ She winks at me and I grin back at her because we are once again members of the same tribe.

Cato is on the podium with his gavel and the auction catalogue in his hand.

‘Go!’

Kim strides onto the catwalk in his heels with style.

‘Lot one,’ Cato announces through the PA system. ‘Sky-blue Sixties-style dress, unlabelled, with bracelet-length sleeves and feather trim to neck and hem. Who’ll start the bidding at fifty? Fifty bid …?’

Sitting in the front row, Moss and my father jump to their feet and clap as he moves past them. Kim turns, pauses and swivels on his heels like a pro as Dinah moves forward towards the catwalk with her superior, jaunty walk and blows a kiss to the crowd.

‘A Chanel-style black-and-white cotton tweed suit with bracelet-length sleeves, double “C” gilt buttons, chain-weighted hem and matching skirt, together with a black and white camellia print scarf. Who will start me at eighty pounds? Eighty bid. Eighty-five? Ninety …’

I go to the Roving Bridge to join David.

He’s wearing a blue floral shirt. He’s got Duncan on a lead and I can feel the heat of his arm against mine.

We are standing under the giant light box of the night sky. The floodlights are bouncing colours off the smooth skin of his face; blue, white and red and David turns to face me. He traces his finger down my forehead, down to my lips.