“That particular piece was featured in Elle Decoration last month,” says the man mournfully, and produces a cutout page. And at his words, I freeze. Elle Decoration? Is he joking?

He’s not joking. There on the page, in full color, is a picture of a room, completely empty except for a suede beanbag, a low table, and a wooden bowl. I stare at it incredulously.

“Was it this exact one?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited. “This exact bowl?” As he nods, my grasp tightens round the bowl. I can’t believe it. I’m holding a piece of Elle Decoration. How cool is that? Now I feel incredibly stylish and trendy—and wish I were wearing white linen trousers and had my hair slicked back like Yasmin Le Bon to match.

It just shows I’ve got good taste. Didn’t I pick out this bowl—sorry, this piece—all by myself? Didn’t I spot its quality? Already I can see our sitting room redesigned entirely around it, all pale and minimalist. Eighty quid. That’s nothing for a timeless piece of style like this.

“I’ll have it,” I say determinedly, and reach inside my bag for my checkbook. The thing is, I remind myself, buying cheap is actually a false economy. It’s much better to spend a little more and make a serious purchase that’ll last for a lifetime. And this bowl is quite clearly a classic. Suze is going to be so impressed.

When we get back home, Mum goes straight inside, but I stay in the driveway, carefully transferring my purchases from her car to mine.

“Becky! What a surprise!”

Oh God. It’s Martin Webster from next door, leaning over the fence with a rake in his hand and a huge friendly smile on his face. Martin has this way of always making me feel guilty, I don’t know why.

Actually I do know why. It’s because I know he was always hoping I would grow up and marry Tom, his son. And I haven’t. The history of my relationship with Tom is: he asked me out once when we were both about sixteen and I said no, I was going out with Adam Moore. That was the end of it and thank God for that. To be perfectly honest, I would rather marry Martin himself than marry Tom.

“Hi!” I say overenthusiastically. “How are you?”

“Oh, we’re all doing well,” says Martin. “You heard Tom’s bought a house?”

“Yes,” I say. “In Reigate. Fantastic!”

“It’s got two bedrooms, shower room, reception room, and open-plan kitchen,” he recites. “Limed oak units in the kitchen.”

“Gosh,” I say. “How fab.”

“Tom’s thrilled with it,” says Martin. “Janice!” he adds in a yell. “Come and see who’s here!”

A moment later, Janice appears on the front doorstep, wearing her floral apron.

“Becky!” she says. “What a stranger you’ve become! How long is it?”

Now I feel guilty for not visiting my parents more often.

“Well,” I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. “You know. I’m quite busy with my job and everything.”