Lucy tells them breathlessly how I dashed into the burning building to save my frocks and in return, appalled by my own recklessness, I tell them how grateful I am that Lucy came to alert me. Then we pose against the backdrop of the fire engine and then against the railings. The photographer vapes so as to get the full smoke effect in the shot and then they reluctantly drive away again in a hurry as a traffic warden approaches.

The paramedics leave and after a while the fire officers take Lucy to one side to talk to her. I can’t hear the conversation, but the end result is that Lucy and I can go back into our flats, so I head back down the steps, breathing in the damp and smoky air.

Lucy comes after me and taps my shoulder. ‘Fern, it’s all my fault, you know,’ she says in a small voice.

I look up at her over my armful of clothes. ‘Is it? What do you mean?’

She says miserably, ‘You know I’ve got this cold?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘I was just trying to ease my nasal congestion,’ she says as if that explains everything.

I mull it over. ‘And?’

‘And – the thing is, when I poured eucalyptus oil on the coals of the sauna it ignited in a ball of flame. Apparently, that’s what happens.’ She shrugs in amazement. ‘Who knew?’

‘Who knew?’ I stare up at her in disbelief. ‘Oil’s a fuel, isn’t it?’ I fleetingly marvel at the fact she has a sauna in her flat.

Back inside, my lounge is ruined, dark with soot, the floor is wet, and it smells of damp and wood smoke.

I rush my rescued clothes through to my bedroom, because that room is still mercifully fresh, then I go back into the lounge, open the windows. With my heart breaking, I inspect the clothing rails for damage. It’s not good.

Tears fill my eyes.

The gorgeous clothes that I’ve so carefully collected are ruined.

The gelatine sequins on my 1920s flapper dresses have dissolved. The colours on my tea dresses have run; my silk dresses are watermarked. Hundreds of pounds worth of stock, ruined. Even worse, I haven’t got around to renewing the contents insurance. I come to the sickening realisation that my parents are right. I can’t be trusted.

Ironically, my rejects on the rails under the pavement are untouched by smoke and water; these are the clothes with perspiration stains under the arms, torn hems, missing beadwork. The wear and tear that makes the difference between vintage and jumble.

I go back into the lounge and stare around me, devastated.

Wood smoke is a smell you can’t get enough of in the autumn. It’s the smell of freedom. It’s so romantic that you feel you should bottle it.