I glance around the place again, trying to see how it could be with a bit (a lot) of money thrown at it. There’s the huge window front, which is a plus. The wooden floors are scuffed, but they could easily be polished. The large rug is faded but it could be replaced. Maybe a couple of mint green bucket chairs and a little glass-topped table for coffee – or prosecco. It just needed a little TLC. New drapes on the dressing area would make a big difference and maybe if he propped another mirror against the wall – it’s all about the look, right? The trouble is, it costs money and by the looks of it, Moss hasn’t got any, either. ‘What do you usually charge?’

‘Who can say? It depends on the amount of work. Someone’s paying a hundred pounds then a little more on top of that is easy to find. Bring your damaged frocks in, I’ll tell you what I can do.’

And there it is again – the spark of ambition fizzing in my head; something different that I’d have to offer, that’ll make my business stand out from the rest. ‘That sounds fair enough.’

We shake hands and I glance surreptitiously at the fur coat on the rail.

I hesitate by the door. I change my mind about asking him how many alterations he does in a week because I suspect the answer is going to embarrass us both.

KIM

There’s a picture of Fern Banks in the Camden Journal. She’s surrounded by billowing smoke and hugging her saved frocks to her heart, and she has that look in her eyes that I recognise from the couple of times I’ve met her; the look that says she knows me better than I know myself.

Staring at Fern in the paper, I’m trying to avoid seeing the hearse through the window.

The undertakers have come to take Enid. She went quietly in the night with no fuss and no last words. But when she didn’t say good morning to me, I knew.

They’re moving about upstairs. There’s no point in me getting in the way. That’s that, then. I am eighty-five and a widower.

I’m frightened of being alone. I’m a widower and I’ve lost my wife. What I need to do is, I need to get a new one. I know a lot of widows. All of Enid’s friends are widows. I don’t mind which one it is. I’m not looking for love or looks or even conversation, I just want someone in the house, moving about, someone to put the kettle on for. I do my own laundry. I don’t need looking after.

What the bloody hell is all that bumping?

Aye, the stairs are narrow, I should have told them about that. Didn’t think to. They can see it for themselves.

‘Kim?’