I laugh, despite the awfulness of it all. As if a ready supply of rocket will make everything all right. ‘Penny, I don’t care about that anymore.’

‘But you were so keen,’ she insists. ‘You said—’

‘Yes, before I found out about this woman!’

‘Oh, darling. I’m so sorry this has happened to you.’ As she squeezes my arm I look round at her kind face, pillarbox-red lipstick on as always, ash-blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders in bouncy waves. Despite being almost two decades older – Penny is seventy-one – she’s not remotely maternal with me. If anything, I find our age difference refreshing as, whatever I’m going through, there’s a pretty good chance she’s breezed her way through it and emerged, if not quite unscathed, then laughing throatily with a G&T clamped to her hand. So far, I have managed to keep my own booze consumption to a reasonable level; at least, reasonable for someone who’s been lied to and humiliated.

We first met right here, Penny and I. Back then – five years ago – Izzy and I virtually lived in the park, a five-minute walk from our house, and we’d started to notice the lady who often wore dazzling bright colours when she walked her little black dog. We began to look out for her and, of course, she was delighted when Izzy made a fuss of Bobby, her schnauzer-poodle cross (‘He’s a schnoodle,’ she explained, to Izzy’s delight). After a few weeks of chatting we’d exchanged numbers so we could meet up. I started to look forward to seeing her.

With her prim accent and crackly laugh, Penny seemed both earthy and grandiose. I soon learned that she’d been a fashion model in London in her teens, featuring on magazine covers and dancing in the Top of the Pops audience in a home-made crocheted dress. A mother at twenty-two, she had taught herself to pattern cut as a means of making a living once the modelling work had dried up. Whilst working in a typing pool by day, she started making clothes at night to sell at Portobello Road market – ‘My ponchos are collectors’ items now!’ she told me proudly – and eventually opened a tiny boutique back in her home city of Glasgow. Her talent and charm had attracted investors, and more shops opened. Throughout the latter half of the Seventies she presided over a popular, hugely influential chain of boutiques, called Girl Friday – the Topshop of its day.

She’s turned serious now. ‘What are you going to do, d’you think?’

‘I honestly don’t know.’ I glance down at my scuffed boots poking out from my jeans. Penny is wearing a quilted red jacket with a fur-edged hood, a calf-length blue shimmery skirt and tan brogues.

‘So he’s promised he’ll never contact her again?’

I nod. ‘Yeah, that’s what he says.’

‘D’you believe him?’