Marina touches the hat she has been examining with one gloved hand. She would like to pick it up, but doesn’t dare. Anyway, she doubts it would fit properly over her thick hair.

The young woman calls out, ‘I’m off now.’

The man is standing, arms folded, contemplating the hat he has just set down. Looking up, he asks, ‘Where?’

‘To meet some friends,’ she says vaguely.

‘What time are you back?’

Marina listens while taking an interest in a beautiful crimson beret.

The door shuts and the man appears beside her. ‘I think that would suit you,’ he says.

She checks for signs that he is flirting with her, but his face is serious. He wants to sell her a hat.

‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Try it,’ he says, gesturing to the mirror. He picks up the beret and passes it to her. She takes it and crosses the room. Placing the beret on her head, she gazes at her reflection and adjusts the fit. In the glass, she can see the man staring at her, yet she doesn’t find it intrusive.

Quickly, she removes the beret and turns. ‘I’m not sure,’ she says again.

‘It suits you,’ he replies.

She glances at the price tag. It’s too expensive.

‘We have a sale.’

‘Do you?’ She looks around for evidence, signs offering discount, but there is nothing.

He offers her thirty per cent off. When she raises her eyebrows, he says, ‘Come on, you’ll be doing me a favour. I haven’t made a sale today.’

She regards him suspiciously. It seems like special treatment, but the hat is lovely. She peels off one glove and touches the soft wool. ‘All right. Thank you.’

At the desk, he wraps the beret in tissue paper. His fingers are long and deft and he takes great care. While he works, he asks her casually if she is from the area. She hesitates before telling him she lives in Streatham.

He stops what he is doing. Is it her imagination or is his face paler than it was before? ‘I used to live in Streatham,’ he says.

She swallows. So, this is Harry. No doubt about it.

They complete their transaction. It is quiet in the shop with only the faint buzz of traffic from the street. Marina doesn’t move.

‘Is there something else?’ he asks.

She breathes out, long and slow. ‘Yes, actually.’

He raises his eyebrows. They are thick, she notices, and he has laughter lines and soft, brown eyes.

‘I’m writing an article about a local story. I mean a story local to Streatham.’

‘Are you a journalist?’ His voice is suspicious now.

‘No,’ she replies hastily, ‘I work in publishing. But I’m interested in local history and specifically about an event that happened in the 1960s.’

He frowns. His manner is changing. ‘What event exactly?’