LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Good for you,’ he says cheerfully.

      I look at him doubtfully. He seems a down-to-earth kind of person and not the kind of guy who’d be selling myths about horoscopes.

      ‘Can I ask, do you believe in this kind of thing, star signs and stuff?’

      ‘No,’ he says.

      ‘Eh? Oh.’

      ‘You?’ he asks.

      ‘No! Per-lease. Of course not.’ That would make Mick and me completely incompatible, because he’s a Scorpio, like my mother. ‘I mean, obviously I read my horoscope, who doesn’t? But I don’t believe in it as such. It’s just for fun, isn’t it?’ I’m expecting him to argue the case for the defence, but he looks at me impassively and doesn’t reply, and I worry I’ve offended him. ‘Obviously, I don’t know the science behind the constellations,’ I add. ‘I mean, what’s the point of knowing about the stars?’

      ‘Navigation?’

      ‘Oh, navigation,’ I reply as if it goes without saying.

      He takes a cloth out of his pocket and as he wipes my fingerprints off the wood, he says, ‘Luckily, Fern Banks, not everyone is cynical like us.’

      Cynical? I don’t know where he’s got the idea I’m cynical.

      As he polishes the Perspex, which is as blue as his eyes, he says, ‘It’s nice to believe in something, though, isn’t it? Everyone likes a guarantee; the belief that things are meant to be and they’re not just random occurrences. It’s good to believe that you’re destined to meet that person for a reason – the reason being true love, right? Otherwise …’

      ‘Otherwise what?’

      He looks at me from under those dark, straight eyebrows. ‘It could be any man, couldn’t it? Any man with a decent income.’

      Now that is cynical. Despite the stops and starts, I feel I’ve been keeping up with the conversation up until right now, when suddenly he seems to be talking about something else entirely.

      I decide to go along with it. ‘In other words, these light boxes symbolically convince people they’re destined to stay together,’ I say, grinning to show I get the joke. It seems artistic but at the same time, cheesy.

      ‘You’re romantic, right?’ he says.

      ‘No.’ I’m not the slightest bit romantic, honestly. You only have to see Mick and me together to know that. And I’d absolutely never buy him a light box with two constellations in it, not even ironically. ‘What makes you think that?’

      ‘I suppose it’s because of your clothes. They’re romantic, from a different era. You look like that Bogey woman.’

      ‘Thanks.’ The words that no woman wants to hear.

      ‘Hang on …’ he’s clicking his fingers ‘… it’s on the tip of my tongue. That Hollywood actress. Humphrey Bogart’s wife. Bacall! Lauren Bacall!’

      ‘Oh, that Bogey woman, Bacall. She had wonderful style, didn’t she? Shoulder pads give such a great figure!’

      For a moment his gaze skims over me and he looks away again quickly.

      There’s a sudden awkwardness between us and I go back to my stall. I’m easing a dress over Dolly’s head, when I realise that David’s still watching me.

      ‘That’s vintage, is it? What’s the difference between vintage and second-hand?’

      Dolly looks slightly indecent with her dress around her waist, as if she’s been caught drunk in a public place, and I tug it down quickly to spare her feelings.

      ‘The price.’

      ‘So how much is this one?’

      ‘One fifty.’

      He laughs out loud – against his tan, his teeth are white and slightly crooked, giving him a roguish appeal.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask. ‘This could be a wedding dress – see this colour?’

      ‘Pink, isn’t it?’

      ‘Pink! It’s not pink,’ I tell him. ‘It’s blush. It’s a great shade for a bride.’ I lift the hem. ‘Look at the quality. It’s hand-stitched – look at that! Where else could you get a hand-stitched wedding dress for a hundred and fifty pounds?’

      ‘Don’t ask me,’ he says. ‘Good luck,’ he adds, as if I need it, then he unfolds a chair, picks up a book and looks for new ideas for his light boxes.

      Good luck? What’s that supposed to mean? I could think of plenty of sarcastic comments to make about light boxes, if I was that sort of person. You can’t use them as a light and you can’t use them as a box, so good luck to him, too.

      A young Japanese couple wearing matching outfits come up to his stand and I retreat into my dresses and unfold my stool.

      The couple’s interest in the light boxes seem to have a knock-on effect, because a woman wearing a multicoloured floor-sweeping skirt stops to see what they’re looking at, and then another couple nudge in, and I sit and watch while David Westwood starts on his astrological patter, which involves words like ‘air signs’ and ‘moon in Taurus’.

      I hadn’t expected him to have a patter but there he is, pointing out the constellations and how these had looked to the ancients like twins, and here, the fish. And he throws in a few more facts as well about light years – and here is the large light box in which they can see the individual stars more brightly. Yes, he can pack it safely, he says, and lo! he produces some cardboard which, with an origami flourish, he makes into a box. Meanwhile, the woman in the long skirt is texting her niece to find out her fiancé’s star sign and the other couple are wanting a set for their bedroom. (Aquarius, I’m going to say, but I think I’m on the cusp …)

      I mull over what David said about the right man having a decent income, disagreeing with him in my mind. A decent income doesn’t figure in things at all. I have no idea how much Mick makes, and I’d never in a million years ask him. It’s just about the least important thing in our relationship. I like him because I get him and he gets me; generosity of spirit is vital, the same sense of fun is a must and mutual lust a priority. It’s not a lot to ask, is it? Who’d go for a man just because he has a decent income? A brief vision of Melania Trump flashes through my brain, but that’s just cynicism, because who am I to judge? For all I know she and Donald might have an amazing connection.

      I watch the people go past.

      There’s not a lot of space in this alley. It’s narrow; it acts like a funnel. But occasionally in the flow of the crowd a woman will catch my eye and in a flash I’ll know exactly how they feel inside the things they’re wearing. I know as surely as if I am them. I know when a baggy top hides a good figure and when dark colours are worn to blend in. I recognise the elasticated waist that’s snug around the belly. I understand the apologetic walk, the wistful glance, because I’ve been there myself. These are the women who I hope will linger at my stand – but, regretfully, they hardly ever do because it’s impossible to wander around and browse. You just have to stand there in full view of me and look; and I know they’re afraid the clothes won’t fit them. They don’t think my lovely dresses, even when they catch the eye, are meant for them. And worst of all, they worry that I might be pushy. We both have our roles, the seller and the buyer.

      I generally pretend I haven’t seen them, because the first thing I learnt on this market stall was not to scare people off.

      Which is why I don’t look up when a shadow falls over me and I hear a shriek. ‘Fern Banks!’

      ‘Gigi!’ I squeal back. I recognise her at once – Gigi Martin, who I was at college with until she left mid-term and got a job as a junior in a hairdressing salon in Camden.

      ‘You haven’t

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