She chews her lip thoughtfully. ‘True. But my girlfriends aren’t much help. They tell me everything looks fine on me, nothing has to match, that nobody cares. But I care, you know?’

I do know. ‘Me, too,’ I tell her. We like people who are like ourselves and she’s definitely like me.

‘I love what you’ve got on. Very Sixties,’ she adds, tongue in cheek. ‘Did you get up this morning and think, what would Twiggy wear?’

‘She’d wear Marks & Spencer,’ I reply, laughing. But I’ve got a plan. ‘Have you ever used a colour recognition app?’ I get out my phone, click on the app and focus it on her tunic. I show her the screen. ‘See? Flame red. You could get some iron-on nametapes and label everything in your wardrobe with the exact description of the colours so that you’ll always know what goes with what and what you’re wearing. Like if it’s pink, you could write down bubblegum pink or baby pink; or blues: indigo, navy, royal, denim, ultramarine, turquoise, topaz, sky, hyacinth, bluebell.’ I’m getting carried away with myself. ‘Well, it’s just an idea, anyway.’

‘But not black, you think?’

‘No, not black.’

‘Yes, okay, that would be amazing,’ she says softly, and she hangs up the dresses she’s holding and asks for my card. ‘Thanks. I’ll give it a go.’ I get her to write her details in my clients’ book – Hannah York – and I’m pleased to notice that I’ve now gone on to a new page.

Once she’s gone, I stretch, feeling absurdly happy that I’ve been useful. But the feeling doesn’t last long. ‘What?’

Gigi’s smirking, arms folded. She’s shaking her head. ‘Fern Banks,’ she says. ‘You’re not much of a businesswoman, are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You just talked yourself out of a sale. She was going to buy those black dresses. Not just one of them, but all of them.’

David blows a puff of sawdust off the wood. ‘Gigi—’

She whirls round. ‘Yeah, Dave, I know. Tell me it’s none of my business.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ he says, but of course, Gigi’s right. I could have sold four dresses and I talked her out of it.

The criticism stings, though. She’s right. What the hell’s wrong with me? I needed that money.

‘She wouldn’t suit black,’ I explain, trying to stick up for myself.

‘Who cares? A sale’s a sale. What did she write in that secret book you’ve got there? “Thanks, you mug”?’ she asks.

‘It’s my client book.’