Finally, she strolls unhurriedly up to the door and as she comes in I see her looking around, eyebrows raised. To her credit, she makes no comment.

Moss is wearing not just the suit, but a black tie, too, and he’s taciturn but impressive. With Gigi he’s very proper. He introduces himself and asks her, with stiff formality, to kindly put on the frock.

Amused, Gigi flashes me a smile and goes into the dressing room. A couple of minutes later she’s out again, tugging at the front of the dress. ‘See? Way too big.’

Moss smiles secretively. He has a row of glinting gold pins along the lapel of his jacket that he wears like medals. He starts pinching, tucking and pinning the dress with sure fingers, standing back now and then with a critical gaze.

Gigi stands surprisingly still, for her. ‘How long is it going to take to alter?’

‘Give me until tomorrow,’ Moss says.

We both look at him curiously because, like the conductor of an orchestra, he then stands back on the faded red rug to look at Gigi and – this is what brings the idea of the conductor into my mind – he begins to wave a brisk rhythm in the air as he studies the dress. It’s as if he can hear some soaring background music to accompany the image.

I suppose that’s the moment I realise what an unusual man he is.

‘Turn,’ he commands her.

Gigi does a twirl. ‘Mmm.’

Finally, he says, ‘Now you can look.’

Like Dinah, Gigi has style. She’s tall and slim, very pale, and her pink hair is as fine as candyfloss. Even now, barefoot and with her arms dangling loosely, she looks graceful.

The same thought seems to occur to Moss.

‘You remind me a little of my bride,’ he says soberly, kneeling heavily on the carpet as he pins Gigi’s hem.

Gigi looks across at me through her pink frizzy hair and tightens her lips to hold back a laugh. ‘Oh, Moss, I love the way you call her your bride.’

He shrugs modestly. ‘She’s a beautiful woman,’ he says.

‘It must be wonderful to be loved like that. Are you loved like that, Fern?’

‘No.’ It comes out more forcefully than I’d intended, bearing in mind she knows I’m not loved at all, and I flush with embarrassment, even though I know she’s only said it to charm Moss.

‘Me neither,’ she says. ‘Moss, I hope Dinah appreciates you.’

I look at her curiously. Me neither. That can’t be right, can it? I wonder if she’s just saying it to make me feel better, but there’s a crease between her eyebrows that’s almost a frown and I wonder if David Westwood’s not shaping up.