‘It’ll be okay,’ he says, squeezing my hand. ‘Honestly, I’m sure she’ll be completely bowled over by everything you’ve done.’

Later, 5 p.m.

My mobile rings when I’m in the supermarket’s bakery aisle. ‘Hello, Viv? My name’s Tricia Spalding, from Love Vintage in Grange-over-Sands. You emailed me about a project you’re working on? A Girl Friday fashion show?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I say. After Nick left, and Andy brought Izzy home, she pleaded to cook dinner so we’ve nipped out to buy a few necessary ingredients. Somewhat unwillingly, I’ve left Andy at the house, mowing the grass like the eager-beaver helper he is now. Admittedly, it’s become wild out there, neglected due to my attentions being focused on the project. Even Tim had asked if I’d like him to cut it for me. What is it with all of these men, clamouring to assist me all of a sudden?

‘Thanks for calling,’ I continue. ‘I thought your shop looked great, from your website …’ I’m bluffing here. I have contacted literally dozens of shops, and it’s impossible to keep track, beyond noting who has already sent pieces, or has promised to.

‘Well, we only have one Girl Friday piece at the moment,’ she says, as Izzy takes charge of the trolley, ‘but I’d be happy to loan it to you. It’s pretty special so I’m not keen on posting it. Could you come over to pick it up?’

‘Where did you say you are again?’ I ask, giving Izzy a quick nod as she indicates the crumpets, not that they were on our list. She grabs a packet and drops it in our trolley.

‘Grange-over-Sands. The thing is, I’m closing the shop for a couple of weeks from Monday. I’m off to the States to source more stock for the shop. So, if you could maybe pop by tomorrow?’

Pop by? I’m not sure quite how far it is, but I know it’s hardly ‘poppable’.

‘Would it have to be tomorrow?’ I ask. ‘Could you leave it with someone, and I can arrange to have it picked up?’

‘I’m sorry, I have way too much on at the moment,’ Tricia says, adopting a brisker tone.

‘Could you post it recorded delivery? Or courier it to me? I’d cover the cost, of course.’

‘No, things are always getting lost,’ she says, ‘and I want to make sure it gets to you. You see, this poncho—’

‘A poncho?’ I gasp. ‘You mean, an actual Girl Friday poncho? The Pippa poncho?’

‘Yes,’ she says, as if to say, what else would it be?

‘Is it orange, brown and yellow, with pompoms at the neck?’

‘Yes, that’s it.’

‘And is it in good condition?’ I ask, my heart racing. I am in a state of heightened excitement over an item of knitwear, I realise. What has happened to me?