My friends and I loved fashion, it reads, but we had very little money and we couldn’t find clothes we liked. We were paid a pittance in a typing pool in West London. I’d modelled a little, but I wasn’t a big-name model and I didn’t do catwalk or glossy magazines – my look was classed as ‘young and fun’ and I was mainly booked by teenage magazines, or the odd advert for shampoo or lip gloss. And even that was starting to fizzle out.

By then I had a young son and his father’s architectural practice had gone bust. We’d split up anyway, so there was barely any money, and I had the idea of making clothes to sell at affordable prices to my friends, many of whom were in the same boat as me. So I bought fabric cheaply and started to make outfits late at night to wear at the weekend.

I was like my own advertisement, running around London in my home-made clothes. Friends would ask me to make similar pieces for them: little A-line minis, shift dresses and simple tops. All very basic but in fun, bright colours: pinks, oranges, yellows. I’d go to Portobello Market on Friday lunchtimes, as it was close to my office, and I got to know one of the fabric stall owners there, a man called Saul Jackson, who was quite a bit older than me. He started calling me Girl Friday and we became friends.

‘Hey, Girl Friday!’ he’d say. ‘What are you going to make this weekend?’ And I’d laugh and say, ‘Mischief!’

Saul helped me get my own stall on Saturdays, so I could sell my clothes there. Week after week, I kept selling out. I made kids’ clothes too – my son would be with me, helping, and wearing them. But it was still tough, money-wise, surviving in London. My boy and I were living in a disgusting flat, and the landlord was a monster who was constantly harassing me. There were barking Alsatians below us and a brothel upstairs …

I pause as this new information sinks in. I had no idea it had been so tough for her when she’d started out. From what she’s told me – the Angel Delight period, Nick running naked around the library – I’d imagined it had all been rather bohemian, full of capers and fun. She hadn’t seemed to need the mother and baby groups that I’d clung to like life rafts when I first became a mum. When I’d happened to mention Izzy’s school’s PTA, Penny had had no idea what I was talking about.

‘PTA?’ she’d repeated. ‘Is that something to do with time of arrival?’

‘That’s ETA. PTA is the parent-teachers association. It’s a bit of Mafia actually …’

‘God,’ she’d shuddered. ‘Why on earth would anyone want to be involved with that?’