‘Charlie!’ the mother scolded, dragging the kid out into the cold afternoon without an apology or a glance at Petra. It could have been worse. It might have been the Funkos, and although the cabinet was fitted with safety glass, it could have caused an injury. Or it could have been milkshake, or vomit, or piss, all of which she’d cleaned up in the five years they’d been open. She couldn’t blame the kids for getting bored, and she couldn’t blame the parents for wanting a moment’s peace to browse in the shop. It was a blameless situation.

As she gathered up the books, the old couple came downstairs, the man apologetically putting a pack of Cartier-Bresson notecards on the counter as if they ought to buy something after browsing. Petra rang up the sale, made change for the ten-pound note, and the couple left. The shop descended into the stillness of vacancy.

The air circulated differently when there were no customers. Two-thirty now, and the sun had sunk behind the buildings on this side of Regent Street. Without the reflected light from the buildings over the road, it was suddenly dusky inside. Petra resisted turning on the lights. She watched the people passing by the shop window, and for a brief, magical moment she felt transported to fifties Paris, the monochrome silhouettes and shadows composing themselves into stark phrases like those on the old man’s cards.

But the shop was not entirely vacant – from somewhere in the back offices, Petra could hear the low murmur of Suki talking on the phone, the jagged rhythm of half a conversation. More to indicate that she was back from lunch, rather than from thirst, she went through to the kitchen to boil the kettle, and picked up a mug, intending to stand in the office doorway and mime an offer of tea-drinking.

Suki was sitting at her cluttered desk with her chair turned to face the window, the phone pointed at her mouth, not pressed against her ear, as if she didn’t want the other party’s voice in her head. That and her tone, which had become extremely high-bred and formal, meant that it was a family call – most likely Ben, the youngest of her three brothers and the one they delegated to translate the Barlows’ home truths into a language Suki might abide.

When Suki sensed Petra in the doorway, she wrapped up the call. ‘Yah, fine. We’ll talk later.’ The irony never escaped Petra: people like the Barlows said ‘yah’, while she’d soon learned to change the South African ‘ja’ to ‘yeah’ to blend in just a little more. Suki swung around in her chair, setting a pill bottle on the desk in front of her.

‘The meds again?’ Petra asked.

‘Yup.’

‘Couldn’t they just get the prescription filled and deliver the meds to you without you asking every time?’

‘You’d think so. It’s in their power. But they enjoy my mortification, my debasement.’ Suki spoke these words in a deliberately hammy way, and smiled, flicking the pill bottle to the side of the desk.