‘Some woman wanted me to buy her a drink. Never seen her in my life. She was drunk. Do you often go in there?’

‘It has a lot of Atmosphere,’ said Tony, apologetically, as he helped her on with her coat. ‘Augustus John used to drink in there.’

Did they really. What difference did that make? It was still a horrible pub.

‘You sure you won’t change your mind and have a bite to eat?’

Not on your life. If that was his idea of a nice pub she dreaded to think what the meal would be like. Foreign probably.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. Aunt Doreen has tea on the table at seven. I’ll be lucky if I make it. It’s nearly half six.’

‘Another night?’

Oh God. How to make him stop? Crew-cut, fifty-shilling suit, nylon shirt, body odour. Did she have to spell it out? She’d only agreed to ‘one quick drink’ as a thank you. Without Tony she wouldn’t have the precious contents of her carrier bag: a Hardy Amies cashmere and wool dogtooth-check costume. Buy the best suit you can afford. Tony worked in the accounts department at the Savile Row boutique and told her that they were selling off that season’s samples and misfits at an invitation-only sale on Friday lunchtime. Jane had got there on the dot with £10 from her post office savings. Hardy Amies suits retailed for nearly thirty guineas – six weeks’ wages – and she wasn’t sure what kind of discount she’d get. In the end the pricing was up to Tony who let her have it for a fiver.

She had spotted her suit straight away: short, exquisitely draped jacket, real horn buttons, pencil-slim skirt with a nice deep wrap at the back. She tried it on in the back room filled with half-naked size-ten salesgirls and under-buyers looking for a bargain. There was a really nice violet dress and coatee as well but she couldn’t afford both and the black and tan dogtooth was more of a classic. The house fitter wouldn’t leave off about Jane’s stock-size figure. Not a single alteration. Jane could hardly wait to get home and try it on again.