Madame Burova was taking Billie to see where she had been found. She had hoped against hope that Billie wouldn’t ask, but of course she had, and Madame Burova couldn’t reasonably refuse – particularly as it was just next door. It would soon be the shortest day of the year, and it was already almost dark. The coloured lights on the pier, the snatches of music and smell of doughnuts and hotdogs drifting through the air were beacons, calling her home to her booth. But the booth looked a little forlorn now, shut up, and in darkness – missing out on all the fun. She found it difficult to stay away. It was so tempting to open it up for just a couple of hours. To see just a handful of clients. But she was trying hard to make a life for herself away from work – the work that had become her whole life.

‘It was here,’ she said pointing to the doorway.

Billie seemed surprised. ‘But it’s so busy,’ she said. The promenade was filling up with people going home from work, visitors arriving for long weekends, and hens and stags determined to drink their own bodyweight in alcohol to achieve the humungous hangovers that would be testament to the amazing time they had had.

‘It was very early in the morning. There was hardly anyone about. Nobody saw anything.’

Billie tried the door to the booth. ‘Can we go inside?’

‘I don’t have the key with me.’ The key was always in Madame Burova’s bag, but she couldn’t face it today. ‘But next time. When you come again, we’ll go inside.’

Billie tipped her head to one side and once again, Madame Burova was reminded of Charlie Chaplin – or at least a female version of him. ‘But how do you know there’ll be a next time?’

‘Because I’m a fortune teller. Remember?’

Billie laughed. She fished around in her handbag and retrieved her mobile.

‘I suppose I’d better take a selfie in situ.’

‘Would you like me to take it?’

Billie handed the phone to Madame Burova and posed in the doorway grinning broadly, with one hand on her hip and the other on the brim of her hat. After the photo shoot Billie asked if they could go for a drink somewhere.

‘I’ve got a couple of hours before my train, and I’d like to ask you about the photograph if that’s okay.’

Madame Burova led the way to The Lanes. As they climbed the steps from the promenade, they were greeted by a man who was carefully looping coloured elastic bands over the posts of the metal railings.

‘Good afternoon, Madame Burova, Tarot Reader, Palmist and Clairvoyant. How are you?’

‘Good afternoon, Clive. I’m well thank you. How are you?’

‘Busy, always busy,’ he said, pulling more elastic bands from his pocket. ‘Who is your friend?’

‘This is Billie.’