‘It’s from the charity shop, where Mummy volunteers,’ I say of the woolly-grey coat that’s two sizes too large for me, brassy-buttoned and pilling all over. My mother bought it for me eons ago, second-hand, when I passed through a chunky – but not that chunky – phase. I’ve never had the heart to throw it away or the desire to wear it. I chucked it on in my rush to leave the flat this morning. I couldn’t find my regular black coat, which I have a horrible feeling I left inside the cab last night.

‘Take it off,’ Faith says. I take off the coat. ‘Is your shirt also from the charity shop?’

I check the cream brocade shirt – tea-stained since my meeting with Liz – worn over a stretchy black skirt, both of which also shouldn’t be seen outside of the house. ‘Faith, no. It’s just old. I spilled my smoothie. I’m unwell. Go easy.’

‘Understood. And underneath all of that?’

‘Underneath all of this is my underwear,’ I reply, buttoning myself back into my coat like a grey, woolly mammoth, relieved to know I am, unequivocally, wearing knickers.

‘Good to know,’ Faith says. ‘Come on, let’s sort out the rest of it.’

Faith leads me up the stairwell and into a small washroom, wherein she locks the door and forces me out of my shirt and into a little black top she’s just purchased for herself from Massimo Dutti. The material is stretchy, like my skirt, but the top is too tight on me: my breasts are squeezed in and pushed up, my nipples perilously close to a popping-out incident. I have what is best referred to as ‘a bosom’. The sort of chest ladies past a certain age attempt to tuck into their reinforced, one-piece swimming costumes before performing breaststroke in such places as Hampstead Heath ponds. I squeal in protest and Faith removes the silver scarf she’s wearing around her neck and manoeuvres it to hang in loose folds over my cleavage.

‘That’s better,’ she says.

I check myself in the mirror. ‘I look ridiculous!’ I look like The Mummy Returns. Mind you, I could do with a nap in a lovely old sarcophagus. ‘Faith, please don’t make me wear this.’

I’m painfully aware how the top would hang loosely on her long, lithe torso.

‘It works,’ Faith replies, ripping off the tags. ‘In fact, it’s quite sexy on you. You can keep them both to wear with your new shoes. Now, come on. We’re already late – you hate that. Let’s go.’