‘Like I said; the security of belonging to a group of like-minded traders who act together for mutual benefit.’

He seemed to have the phrase off pat. But still Erica was unclear about the benefits of belonging. ‘Well, what sort of contribution?’

‘That rather depends on the turnover of the business.’ He turned and looked around the shop, assessing its likely income. ‘In your case I should think we’d be talking in terms of around one hundred pounds a month.’

‘A hundred pounds a month!’

‘Some traders pay more.’

Erica laughed. ‘Well, they might do, but I’m afraid that in my case I don’t have the sort of profits that would let me pay a hundred pounds a month.’

‘I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,’ said the man.

‘I really don’t think…’

‘It is negotiable…’ he offered.

They were interrupted by the pinging of the door bell, and a mother and two small children clattered noisily into the shop. The man stepped back from the counter. ‘I’ll let you think about it. I’ll pop back in a day or two.’

‘No. Really, there’s no need. I don’t think it’s for me, I’m afraid.’

The man edged around the mother and children, as if afraid to touch them, and backed out of the door smiling nervously. He pulled up the hood of his anorak and strode briskly off down the alley.

‘Well,’ said Erica to Brian, ‘what do you make of that?’

Brian shrugged. Some days it seemed that all Brian ever did was shrug. In moments of profound irritation Erica longed to ask him for his opinions on the relative merits of Stendhal and Proust–not that she was sure of them herself–but then he was at that difficult age and she didn’t want to make him more self-conscious than he already was.

‘Brian, can you hold the fort for a minute? I just want to go next door and talk to Isobel.’ Brian acquiesced in the only way that Brian knew how, and Erica went out, turned left and pushed open the door of the Belgian chocolate shop.

Isobel, the jolly, spherical lady who presided over the stacked counters of rose and violet creams, bitter chocolate orange peel sticks and bespoke bonbons was busy, as usual, arranging her handmade sweetmeats in small gold boxes to be tied with scarlet ribbon.

She looked up from the lacy frills of her apron straps and said, ‘Hello Erica. Can we tempt you?’

‘Not today Isobel. Tennis this afternoon. If I ate any of those I’d probably throw up.’