Dinah sits forward to have another look at David and says in a stage whisper, ‘He’ll make a good husband for someone. So, what is she like, the partner?’

‘Tall, stylish and really friendly.’

It’s meant to be an honest and flattering description, knowing that David can hear us talking about her, but Dinah tuts and shakes her head.

‘Really friendly? Oh, he has problems, that one. He looks a shy man who keeps his own counsel.’

Luckily, David Westwood’s now talking to a customer. He doesn’t sound at all like a shy man who keeps his own counsel – he sounds, as always, completely relaxed and convincing.

The market is starting to get busy. I wonder if I need to give Dinah a brief lesson in stallholder etiquette – like not to intimidate the customers – but she turns out to be even better than Dolly at attracting attention.

She poses as elegantly as a mannequin on the stool in her lilac-and-black Chanel suit with her legs crossed, her elbows bent at angles, her chin held high, greeting people as they pass.

Far from finding the attention intimidating, people seem to enjoy the personal touch and start to cluster around my stall. She doesn’t intervene while they look; she sits perfectly still, showing nothing more than the occasional alert expression of interest.

As a result, I sell a couple of Seventies midi dresses and a brocade evening coat during lunch, and afterwards, smiling gleefully at each other in the post-lunch lull, Dinah decides to get us some sandwiches.

I’m folding some of the garments, when I suddenly see a man whose face is vaguely familiar coming through the alley. He has white hair – newly washed and fluffed up like a halo – beige trousers, a fine cotton shirt. My stomach tightens with surprise – what do you know! It’s the man who inadvertently got me fired: Kim Aston, who I haven’t seen since Carluccio’s when he bought the blue cocktail dress from me.

He sees me and gives me a smile of recognition. ‘Ah! Fern,’ he says warmly, coming over. ‘I saw in the Camden New Journal that you had a fire trauma. I thought I’d see if I could find your stall and say hello.’

‘Good to see you again!’ I say, optimistically wondering if he’s looking for more clothes for Enid.

‘I tried to get another appointment with you at the store, but they said you’d left.’ He looks up at the dresses hanging around the stand, frowning. ‘And this is what you do now, is it? You sell these clothes here, full-time?’

‘Yes, this is what I do now.’ I look around, too. No more chandeliers, no soft carpeting, no champagne and tea. ‘How’s your wife?’

‘She died,’ he says, his face creasing as though he’s perplexed by the idea.

‘I’m so sorry.’