Don’t get me wrong; I was scrupulously fair about it. It was only when I’d absolutely exhausted all other in-store possibilities that I’d suggested the under-the-counter deal.

I’d recently bought a satin sky-blue dress with a feather trim and a scalloped hem from a charity shop and it was his wife’s size, a 14. It was a playful dress and as I’d passed the window, the beautiful blue had made me smile. I guessed it was from the Sixties and I wondered if Mr Aston was nostalgic for the days of his youth, and whether the dress was a message, a compliment to his wife, Enid. The dress was to say to her: this is how I see you.

I showed him a photograph of it on my phone.

‘Oh, that’s more like it.’ He brightened immediately. ‘I’d like to see that,’ he said.

‘The thing is, it’s from my personal collection,’ I explained, ‘but we could meet up somewhere for you to have a look at it if you’re interested.’

‘When?’

‘This evening, if you’re free?’

‘Here?’

‘Not here but – where would suit you?’

‘St John’s Wood.’

‘Carluccio’s, then?’

And that’s what we did. We met in Carluccio’s.

He did love the dress, as I knew he would. He loved the frothy abundance of delicate feathers, the innocent blue, the rich gleam of the satin. He thought it was perfect. We did an under-the-counter deal.

He was so pleased that he wrote a lovely letter to the store to commend me on my kindness, thoughtfulness and total dedication to my work. And as a result, I was dismissed for gross misconduct. It was ironic that after that moment of triumph, I lost my job.

Anyway – where that memory came from is the fact the sky, from the sofabed where I’m lying, perfectly matches the colour of that feathery cocktail dress.

I get up reluctantly and put the kettle on, swaddling it with tea cloths to muffle the sound of boiling because the longer my parents sleep in, the better, as far as I’m concerned.

I start thinking about the woman in Chanel and that look in her eye that said, aren’t we wonderful!

I’ve seen her twice, so I think she’s local. It’s possible I’ll see her again. She’s hard to miss.

Consoled by the idea, I quietly make myself a mug of instant coffee, black, and retreat to the sofa.

I can hear whispering and the creak of the bedroom floor, and slippered feet padding to the bathroom. I hear the bathroom door closing. After a few moments, the lavatory flushes.

I stare warily at the slowly opening door.

It’s my father.

‘Morning,’ he says, rubbing the bags under his eyes. ‘Your mother would like to know whether you’ve got Alka-Seltzer.’