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never wear vintage clothes.’
    ‘Why not?’
    She shrugged. ‘I’ve always preferred new things.’
    ‘I don’t know why.’
    ‘I’ve told you before, darling – it’s because I grew up in the era of rationing . I had nothing but hideous hand-me-downs – scratchy Shetland jumpers and grey serge skirts and coarse woollen pinafores that smelled like a damp dog when it rained. I used to long for things that no one else had owned, Phoebe. I still do – I can’t help it. Added to which I have a distaste for wearing things that other people have worn.’
    ‘But everything’s been washed and dry-cleaned. This isn’t a charity shop, Mum,’ I added as I gave the counter a quick wipe. ‘These clothes are in pristine condition.’
    ‘I know. And it all smells delightfully fresh – I detect no mustiness whatsoever.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Not the faintest whiff of a mothball.’
    I plumped up the cushions on the sofa where Dan had been sitting. ‘Then what’s the problem?’
    ‘It’s the thought of wearing something that belonged to someone who’s probably …’ – she gave a little shudder – ‘ died . I have a thing about it,’ she added. ‘I always have had. You and I are different in that way. You’re like your father. You both like old things … piecing them together. I suppose what you’re doing is a kind of archaeology, too,’ she went on. ‘Sartorial archaeology. Ooh, look, someone’s arriving.’
    I picked up two glasses of champagne, then, with adrenaline coursing through my veins and a welcoming smile on my face, I stepped forward to greet the people walking through the door. Village Vintage was open for business …

TWO
    I always wake in the early hours. I don’t need to look at the clock to know what time it is – it’s ten to four. I’ve been waking at ten to four every night for six months. My GP said it’s stress-induced insomnia, but I know it’s not stress. It’s guilt.
    I avoid sleeping pills, so sometimes I’ll try to make the time pass by getting up and working. I might put on a wash – the machine’s always on the go; I might iron a few things, or do a repair. But I know it’s better to try and sleep so I usually lie there, attempting to lull myself back to oblivion with the World Service or some late-night phone-in. But last night I didn’t do that – I just lay there thinking about Emma. Whenever I’m not busy she goes round and round my mind, on a loop.
    I see her at our little primary school in her stripy green summer dress; I see her diving into the swimming pool like a seal; I see her kissing her lucky Krugerrand before a tennis match. I see her at the Royal College of Artwith her milliner’s blocks. I see her at Ascot, photographed in Vogue , beaming beneath one of her fantastic hats.
    Then, as my bedroom began to fill with the grey light of dawn I saw Emma as I saw her for the very last time.
    ‘Sorry,’ I whispered.
    You’re a fabulous friend .
    ‘I’m sorry, Em.’
    What would I do without you …?
    As I stood under the shower I forced my thoughts back to work and to the party. About eighty people had come including three former colleagues from Sotheby’s as well as one or two of my neighbours from here in Bennett Street and a few local shop-owners. Ted from the estate agent’s just along from the shop had popped in – he’d bought a silk waistcoat from the menswear rail; then Rupert who owns the florist’s had turned up and Pippa who runs the Moon Daisy Café dropped in with her sister.
    One or two of the fashion journalists I’d invited were there. I hoped that they’d become good contacts, borrowing my clothes for shoots in return for publicity.
    ‘It’s very elegant,’ Mimi Long from Woman & Home said to me as I circulated with the champagne. She tipped her glass towards me for a refill. ‘I adore vintage. It’s like being in Aladdin’s cave – one has this wonderful sense of discovery . Will you be running the place on your