‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nyah.’ He shrugs. ‘Mopeds and scooters,’ he says, going back to the subject. ‘They’re popular with young people now. Mostly the criminals. But still. A sale is a sale.’

‘I don’t know if criminals buy their mopeds,’ I say. ‘I think they steal them.’

Moss raises his wild eyebrows. ‘Well. Don’t tell Hamed. He thinks his son’s going to make him rich.’ He turns to look at the dress and runs his hand over it so the fabric catches the light as it ripples under his fingers. ‘Where did you find this frock?’

‘This is from a church sale.’

He pinches the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He straightens the skirt, smooths it tenderly; this time so subtly that I almost miss it. He says with a smile, ‘You know, someone had fun in this in the Seventies. Some girl.’

‘I know!’ I smile too, because I recognise the feeling of past pleasures shared and understood.

Moss pours more coffee and leans back on the counter. He gives his a stir. ‘My bride, Dinah, you open her closets and point to something and she can relive the time like that, like reading a book.’ He clicks his fingers. ‘She’ll tell you where and when I gave it to her and exactly the emotions she felt. Ever heard of that before in your whole life?’

‘No.’

‘Her life story is in those clothes. It’s a great joy for me to see her wearing them like a second skin. My joy is in her joy.’ He looks at me with pride.

‘They’re so wonderful,’ I agree. ‘She let me try on the Grès.’

‘How do you know about the Grès?’

‘My degree is in fashion design. It’s the most beautiful gown; the construction is out of this world, isn’t it?’

His mood changes instantly. Moss taps his spoon sharply on the rim of the cup to get the drips off, silver ringing against china. ‘You wore her clothes? Where was this?’

He’s so angry that I immediately back off, surprised at his sudden change of mood. ‘Just in her dressing room when I went to your house,’ I reply defensively, in case he thinks I’ve been out clubbing in Dinah’s prized dress.

Moss looks at me narrowly as if I were blurred and he’s trying to get me into focus. He’s seeing something in me that he doesn’t much like, breathing heavily through his nose, getting his anger under control.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. ‘I don’t know,’ he says irritably. ‘I can’t see it, you and Dinah. People should stick to friends of their own age. You have friends your own age, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ I say, taken aback.

‘So does she.’