‘What was your journey like?’ I ask. ‘Do you have far to come?’ I mean, this woman pretty much has a thought bubble suspended above her head that reads ‘I live in Fulham, if anything is ever going to make me late, it’s the constant pressure to stop for Pilates and brunch.’

‘Oh, not too bad, I’m in Parsons Green,’ Knew it! ‘So it’s just dealing with the District Line, bit of a nut mar.’

‘A what? Oh, nightmare. Right, right.’

‘How about you?’ Oh, lord. If I tell Louise about where I live, she’ll be horrified. She might start some sort of fundraising rescue campaign on my behalf. For just three pounds a month, girls like Imogen can be moved to safe housing, where they are no more than ten minutes’ walk from a cafe that does organic almond cortados.

‘It’s a place called Mitcham, it’s south of London really, kind of between Wimbledon and Croydon.’

Louise smiles. ‘Oh, that sounds lovely. Is it very green? It’s so nice to get out of London!’

Louise has definitely never been to Mitcham. I make vague noises of assent, and we start chatting about our favourite bits of London—Louise has a surprisingly extensive knowledge of cake shops—before we hear voices. Harri is here, in her trademark camel coat.

I have many questions about this coat. Panache, without a trace of irony, regularly runs features on ‘this season’s Forever coat’. I now realise that ‘Forever’ does not mean that you wear it for ever, just that it costs upwards of a thousand pounds. Yet, this is the coat Harri was pulling close to her body when we walked to Pret, just before Christmas—and the coat I’ve seen draped on the back of her chair, or over her shoulders when she’s stuck her head into the cupboard to ask me if I’d mind doing a coffee run. It’s lustrous; the depth of the colour and the thickness of the wool give it a golden glow, it seems to come with its own secret lighting system. It’s plain, but it’s perfect, and it might have been made for Harri. A visibility cloak, I guess.