She unfolds herself from the lotus position and sits forward. ‘Fern Banks! I do believe you fancy someone else!’

‘It’s nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘Honestly, it’s just a crush.’

‘Come on, who is he?’

‘David Westwood.’ I even like his name. ‘He’s got the stall next to mine. He’s already in a relationship, so don’t look at me like that.’

‘But is it serious, though?’

‘Yes. Absolutely. She encouraged him to follow his dream.’

Lucy ponders on this for a moment. ‘Got to be straight with you, Fern, it doesn’t sound like he’s the one, either. If you mainly like him for his shoes, I think you’re on safe ground, though. There are plenty of brown shoe-wearers in London.’

I’m thinking about these words of wisdom when I get to the market early the next day and my look is dishevelled bohemia; a comforting floral maxidress that covers me up from my neck to my feet. The weather’s getting warmer and I’m hoping it’ll be busy, to distract me from my heartache. As the sun warms up the canvas, the smell reminds me of festivals, which in its turn reminds me of Mick.

David comes just before nine with his trolley stacked with boxes.

‘Good holiday?’ he asks with a smile.

‘Not really, no,’ I say, folding a cashmere sweater. I glance at him quickly, curling my hair around my ear. ‘My boyfriend, Mick, broke up with me.’

‘Oh.’ He looks dismayed. He reaches out and pats my arm slightly awkwardly as if it’s something he’s not used to doing. ‘Sorry to hear it.’

He smells of limes and spearmint and I feel strangely consoled by the gesture.

As he sets up his stall, a woman coming along the alley grabs my attention. She’s petite, wearing a red tunic, purple tights, a yellow baseball cap and a scarf in neon colours. It’s a bold look, because nothing goes with anything, but what strikes me is that she’s not wearing her clothes proudly; there’s something self-consciously apologetic about her hunched shoulders that intrigues me.

She starts looking through the rack, pulling out black dresses. She sees me watching her and when I smile, she seems to come to a decision. ‘Can I just ask you for a bit of advice?’ she says, draping the black dresses over her arm.

‘Sure,’ I reply.

‘The thing is, I’m colour-blind.’

‘Ah, that explains it!’ I realise it’s not the most tactful comment and I’m about to apologise, when she laughs.

‘Crikey, do I look as bad as that? Okay, well, I’ve got a new job and I need a work wardrobe because I can’t tell if the clothes I’ve already got match, you know? I find it hard to work out colours. Can you tell me, what’s this tunic I’m wearing, grey or red?’

‘Red.’