In her letter, she told him how much she loved him, that she hoped he loved her too, and that nothing mattered but being together, the three of them. At times, she pictured a happy ending with Johnny in the shop, working alongside her father, but the image never stayed long. Johnny would hate to be confined to four walls. Even the attic, with its view of the sky, had stifled him. Perhaps in Paris he had found a place where he could breathe.

One morning, after a particularly restless night, Connie got up late to find her father slumped in the armchair, face grey, still in his dressing gown.

‘Dad! What’s wrong?’ She ran to him. ‘Has something happened?’

He shook his head, moistened his lips.

‘I’ll get you some water, an aspirin.’

She rushed to the phone box, called the surgery and booked an appointment. Then she gritted her teeth and rang Victor, who was still at his boarding house, and asked him to take them in his car.

By the time she came back, her father looked a little better. She helped him get dressed, and when Victor arrived, they were ready.

At the surgery, Victor and Connie stayed in the waiting room. A few patients sat on the chairs, noses buried in magazines. Connie sat too, picking up a copy of the Reader’s Digest and leafing through. Victor was uncharacteristically quiet, pacing the room, stopping to study a painting – very modern, all bright colours, splashes and sweeps; Johnny would have loved it – with his hands clasped behind his back. She expected Victor to announce the painting was terrible, like a child had done it, but he stayed quiet. He was subdued, not even flirting with the receptionist, as he normally would have done, although she had greeted him by name when they arrived, which seemed odd, now Connie thought about it, since it was she, not Victor, who had made the appointment.

Ten minutes later, her father reappeared, looking brighter. ‘False alarm,’ he said, buttoning his coat.

Later, Connie went to the shop alone because despite her father’s protests, she’d insisted that he rest.

She was sitting at the counter, reading through the letter she’d written to Johnny, when the door opened and Harry walked in. Folding the paper in half, she slipped it into a poetry book.

‘Connie!’ he said, opening his arms and grinning as if it was a surprise to see her there. She smiled back at him, glad that she was hidden behind the counter and had taken her time to apply lipstick and rouge before coming to the shop. Did Harry detect a difference? She didn’t think so. His eyes were fixed on her with the same soft admiration he always had, mixed with a sort of hurt.

‘Did you know that the shop next door is closing down?’ he said. ‘If you want that Remington, you’d better hurry.’