She does a twirl for us in the shady alley and the dress billows out. She gets warm, admiring looks from passers-by – she’s got that kind of personality.

‘What do you think, David? If you can imagine it fits me perfectly?’

He looks up briefly and his face relaxes. He smiles at her like a man in love. ‘It’s nice.’

‘There you go!’ she says to me, rolling her eyes. ‘Nice.’

I laugh. I’ve met couples like this before, the ones who act as if they never get on when they really do.

‘So, my party. Give David your details and I’ll send you the invitation. Otherwise,’ Gigi says, with a pathos guaranteed to make me weep with self-pity, ‘you’ll be spending next weekend all alone. Fun is absolutely the best cure for a broken heart. Isn’t that right, David?’

Again, he catches my eye in that deeply sincere gaze. ‘Yes. It’s a well-known cure.’

He’s so lovely. ‘Well, actually, I work weekends,’ I say, kicking myself because I’d had the perfect excuse right there and I didn’t use it.

‘It’s just a couple of days – Dave’s taking the time off, aren’t you, Dave?’

‘Yes, dear,’ he says with exaggerated obedience.

I want to explain that as I’ve just had a weekend off I have to catch up, but continuing with the argument makes it look as if either I’m enjoying being persuaded into it, or that I’ve made my mind up and I’m determined not to go whatever happens, and I hate that in a person.

While Gigi changes back into her clothes, I call Moss and between us we arrange a time for the fitting.

‘Kiss kiss, kiss kiss!’ Gigi says with an airy wave and leaves us to take her Pilates class.

Once she’s gone, I’ve noticed that David and I have fallen into some sort of comfortable, thoughtful silence, the same kind as when a boisterous child falls asleep and calm descends.

He looks at me and smiles, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

KIM

My son, George, comes here after work, by himself, to see how I’m holding up. He’s a good lad.

My fifty-year-old lad.

He hugs me. Pats me on the back. ‘How’re you doing, Dad?’ His voice is muffled.

I pat him on the back. I say into his shoulder, ‘Oh, lad.’

He puts the kettle on and while we drink our tea he asks me what needs doing, who I’ve informed.

I’ve informed a lot of people. Him first, and the widows, and the undertakers, and Enid’s sister who lives in Philadelphia. I spent the day she died ringing people up.

‘How about the Pension Service, the insurance company, the Passport Office,’ George asks briskly.

‘No, no. Not yet,’ I add.