‘But you know what …’ He held the dress against me in a way that took me aback. ‘It would suit you.’ He looked at me appraisingly. ‘You have that sort of film noir languor.’

      ‘Do I?’ Again, he’d taken me aback. ‘Actually … this dress was mine.’

      ‘Really? Don’t you want it?’ Dan asked almost indignantly. ‘It’s rather beautiful.’

      ‘It is, but … I just … went off it.’ I returned it to the rail. I didn’t have to tell him the truth. That Guy had given it to me just under a year ago. We’d been seeing each other for a month and he’d taken me to Bath one weekend. I’d spotted the dress in a shop window and had gone in to look at it, mostly out of professional interest as it was £500. But later, while I’d been reading in the hotel room, Guy had slipped out and returned with the dress, gift-wrapped in pink tissue. Now I’d decided to sell it because it belonged to a part of my life that I was desperate to forget. I’d give the money to charity.

      ‘And what, for you, is the main appeal of vintage clothing?’ I heard Dan ask as I rearranged the shoes inside the illuminated glass cubes that lined the left-hand wall. ‘Is it that the things are such good quality compared to clothes made today?’

      ‘That’s a big part of it,’ I replied as I placed one 1960s green suede pump at an elegant angle to its partner. ‘Wearing vintage is a kick against mass production. But the thing I love most about vintage clothes …’ I looked at him. ‘Don’t laugh, will you.’

      ‘Of course not …’

      I stroked the gossamer chiffon of a 1950s peignoir. ‘What I really love about them … is the fact that they contain someone’s personal history.’ I ran the marabou trim across the back of my hand. ‘I find myself wondering about the women who wore them.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘I find myself wondering about their lives. I can never look at a garment – like this suit …’ I went over to the daywear rail and pulled out a 1940s fitted jacket and skirt in a dark blue tweed ‘… without thinking about the woman who owned it. How old was she? Did she work? Was she married? Was she happy?’ Dan shrugged. ‘The suit has a British label from the early forties,’ I went on, ‘so I wonder what happened to this woman during the war. Did her husband survive? Did she survive?’

      I went over to the shoe display and took out a pair of 1930s silk brocade slippers, embroidered with yellow roses. ‘I look at these exquisite shoes, and I imagine the woman who owned them rising out of them and walking along, or dancing in them, or kissing someone.’ I went over to a pink velvet pillbox hat on its stand. ‘I look at a little hat like this,’ I lifted up the veil, ‘and I try to imagine the face beneath it. Because when you buy a piece of vintage clothing you’re not just buying fabric and thread – you’re buying a piece of someone’s past.’

      Dan nodded. ‘Which you’re bringing into the present.’

      ‘Exactly – I’m giving these clothes a new lease of life. And I love the fact that I’m able to restore them,’ I went on. ‘Where there are so many things in life that can’t be restored.’ I felt the sudden, familiar pit in my stomach.

      ‘I’d never have thought of vintage clothes like that,’ said Dan after a moment. ‘I love your passion for what you do.’ He peered at his notepad. ‘You’ve given me some great quotes.’

      ‘Good,’ I replied quietly. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’ After a hopeless start, I was tempted to add.

      Dan smiled. ‘Well … I’d better let you get on – and I ought to go and write this up, but …’ His voice trailed away as his eyes strayed to the corner shelf. ‘What an amazing hat. What period’s that from?’

      ‘It’s contemporary. It was made three years ago.’

      ‘It’s very original.’

      ‘Yes – it’s one of a kind.’

      ‘How much is it?’

      ‘It’s not for sale. It was given to me by the designer – a close friend of mine. I just wanted to have it here because …’ I felt a constriction in my throat.

      ‘Because it’s beautiful?’ Dan suggested. I nodded. He flipped shut his notebook. ‘And will she be coming to the launch?’

      I shook my head. ‘No.’

      ‘One last thing,’ he said, taking a camera out of his bag. ‘My editor asked me to get a photo of you to go with the piece.’

      I glanced at my watch. ‘As long as it won’t take long. I’ve still got to tie balloons to the front, I have to change – and I haven’t poured the champagne: that’s going to take time and people will be arriving in twenty minutes.’

      ‘Let me do that,’ I heard Dan say. ‘To make up for being late.’ He tucked his pencil behind his ear. ‘Where are the glasses?’

      ‘Oh. There are three boxes of them behind the counter, and there are twelve bottles of champagne in the fridge in the little kitchen there. Thanks,’ I added, anxiously wondering if Dan would manage to spill it everywhere; but he deftly filled the flutes with the Veuve Clicquot – vintage, of course, because it had to be – while I washed and changed into my outfit, a thirties dove grey satin cocktail dress with silver Ferragamo sling-backs; then I put on a little make-up and ran a brush through my hair. Finally I untied the cluster of pale gold helium balloons which floated from the back of a chair and attached them in twos and threes to the front of the shop where they jerked and bobbed in the stiffening breeze. Then as the church clock struck six I stood in the doorway, with a glass in my hand, while Dan took his photos.

      After a minute he lowered the camera and looked at me, clearly puzzled.

      ‘Sorry, Phoebe – could you manage a smile?’

      * * *

      My mother arrived just as Dan was leaving.

      ‘Who was that?’ she asked as she headed straight for the fitting room.

      ‘A journalist called Dan,’ I replied. ‘He’s just interviewed me for a local paper. He’s a bit chaotic.’

      ‘He looked rather nice,’ she said as she stood in front of the mirror scrutinising her appearance. ‘He was hideously dressed, but I like curly hair on a man. It’s unusual.’ Her reflected face looked at me with anxious disappointment. ‘I wish you could find someone again, Phoebe – I hate you being on your own. Being on your own is no fun. As I can testify,’ she added bitterly.

      ‘I rather enjoy it. I intend to be on my own for a long time, quite possibly forever.’

      Mum snapped open her bag. ‘That’s very likely to be my fate, darling, but I don’t want it to be yours.’ She took out one of her expensive new lipsticks. It resembled a gold bullet. ‘I know you’ve had a hard year, darling.’

      ‘Yes,’ I murmured.

      ‘And I know’ – she glanced at Emma’s hat – ‘that you’ve been … suffering.’ My mother could have no idea quite how much. ‘But,’ she said as she twisted up the colour, ‘I still don’t understand’ – I knew what was coming – ‘why you had to end things with Guy. I know I only met him three times, but I thought he was charming, handsome and nice.’

      ‘He was all those things,’ I agreed. ‘He was lovely. In fact, he was perfect.’

      In the mirror Mum’s eyes met mine. ‘Then what happened between you?’

      ‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘My feelings just … changed. I told you that.’

      ‘Yes. But you’ve never said why.’ Mum drew the colour – a slightly garish coral – across her upper lip. ‘The whole thing seemed quite perverse, if you don’t mind my saying so.