“Cutting into other people’s money from the sound of it,” said Rosie. “Where did you meet him, anyway? Bet it wasn’t giving out soup at a homeless shelter.”

“We met on Upper Street,” said Emma. “He was standing in his shop, and I was walking past. We had quite a nice chat, he seemed nice.”

“Anyone can seem nice,” said Rosie. “If he’s trying to sell you overpriced shoes.”

“If you want to know,” said Emma, “he told me I had nice legs.”

“Course he did,” said Rosie patiently. “He was trying to sell you shoes. I bet his real name’s something like Kenneth, or Trevor.”

Emma, deciding not to reply to that, exercised some material self-restraint in abstaining from wondering what comments NigelManolete might have passed on Rosie’s own legs. She wanted to ask Poppy whether her sister’s boyfriend had ever recovered sufficiently from the financial blow to enjoy the effects of the shoes on Poppy’s sister’s legs, but by the time she had emerged victorious from her battle with her lesser self, Poppy was gone.

* * *

That evening, Emma took off a little early from work and, instead of cycling straight home, went first to Upper Street to check out Lily’s Flowers for the wedding. They would probably be too expensive, she thought, weaving her way through the traffic around the Tube station, but as they were in the neighborhood, they were worth a look anyway. They would doubtless be too expensive, in fact, in this new shop in so fashionable a section of Upper Street, and Emma, having been so careful so far, was not about to blow the wedding budget at this point. But it cost nothing to look, she thought, and with a shop with such pretty flowers so close to where she lived, it would be plain silly not to check them out.

She reached the row where Lily’s was and chained her bicycle to the lamppost that was most convenient to the shop. That it meant walking past Manolete’s to get from it to Lily’s was hardly her responsibility: the lamppost on the other side of Lily’s was considerably farther down the street, and besides, she had noticed as she passed that it had two bicycles chained to it already. She walked towards the flower shop, and, since she always did turn her head to look in Manolete’s window when she walked by, it would have been unnatural for her not to do so now. But when she did, her heart gave just the one dull thud and sank like a stone. The stand where the Josephine had been was now empty.

It was just as well, she told herself then, quickly, firmly, and sensibly. She was not in a position to afford the Josephine, and knew perfectly well that she never would be. The shoe had been nice to look at, nice, even, admittedly, to covet for oh so brief and unrealistic a moment. But there was the budget to consider, the fridge to buy, the house with the garden in a couple of years to save for, not to mention the children’s education further down the line. Besides, she already had the shoes for her wedding, the perfectly nice and perfectly pretty low-heeled satin court shoes, that had been dyed specially to match the dress, and that would, unquestionably, be far more comfortable to wear. The sight of the Josephine with its slender straps and little silk flowers would have served no purpose but to torment her. So, all things considered, it was just as well that it had gone.