‘Let’s have a look.’ Gigi flicks through it, and I have a flashback to school when she snatched my sketchbook from me once and held it out of reach before tossing it back to me, safe, I suppose, in the knowledge that there was nothing in it that would interest her.

‘Dave.’

Dayve.

He doesn’t look at her, he looks at me with understanding in his eyes.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘We’ve got to take her in hand.’

Oh, the humiliation of it. ‘I don’t need taking in hand,’ I protest.

‘Trust me, you do, doesn’t she, Dave? My friends are always buying vintage. They make special shopping trips to some old flea market in Paris – you could put their names in your book, for starters. I know! Tell you what! You should come to my birthday! Dave, shouldn’t she come to my birthday?’

‘I don’t think—’

‘Dave, tell her she should come. It’ll be fun! Bring your boyfriend!’

‘Shut up, Gigi,’ David says.

She gives him such a death stare that now I feel obliged to explain.

‘My boyfriend and I have just broken up,’ I tell her.

She looks as dismayed as if she knew him personally. ‘Aw, Fern! Why?’

‘Incompatibility,’ I mumble, praying that she’ll drop it and leave me alone.

‘Well, that’s it. You’re coming to my party,’ she tells me in an ‘I’m not taking no for an answer’ tone of voice. ‘We’ve got the place for the weekend and it’s got a lake and swans and’ – she waves her hand vaguely – ‘sunsets.’

Gigi, all abrim with self-confidence, is unlikely to understand that I’m not that crazy about partying at the moment, especially with strangers. While I’m thinking up another way to refuse, she says, ‘And I need to find something gorgeous to wear. Is this new stock?’

Gigi looks through the clothes on my rail and at the ones hanging up – I hope she’ll like the Jaeger pleated skirts, because they’ve lost their appeal for me. She shows no interest in them but she likes a Seventies Ossie Clark dress that I bought on eBay. It’s a combination of yellow green and red, A-line, with a fitted black bodice, form-fitting and sexy. I’m really keen to sell it quickly.

I pin up the curtain while she tries it on.

When she comes out it’s too big on the bust and she looks down her cleavage as if she’s lost something. ‘Too loose,’ she says.

Moss! ‘I could get it altered for you,’ I tell her smoothly, thinking about her friends, the vintage buyers. Hah! Who says I’m not much of a businesswoman! ‘Is that something you’d be interested in?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe, yeah. Depends. How long would it take?’

‘A couple of days,’ I say, chancing it. After all, he’s not that busy.