As the end of the college year approached, we all started to feel the pressure of our impending examinations. I began to spend more time in the library as the cold, confined space of my tiny bedroom offered little comfort and inspiration when it came to the intensity of study required. As the leaseholder, Holly had obviously selected the biggest bedroom and she even had space in there for a desk, wedged in the corner between two bulging and overstuffed wardrobes. This left Libby, Toni and I battling it out for a perch in the living room and I often watched in discomfort as their little everyday rivalry escalated into tension, raised voices and slamming doors. As a consequence, I decided that I would leave them all to it and I took my chance at the library, along with hordes of other harried and fixated students; lugging my textbooks in an ugly, oversized denim carry-all I'd bought for a quid at the local market.

I was feeling reasonably confident after achieving quite good marks throughout the year and, to be honest, after the pressure of A levels, it all felt a lot less stressful actually. I did miss the reassuring cups of Hot Chocolate that Karen would bring me, and the mind-clearing walks on the Coastal Path were just a dream in busy London but, all-in-all, it was fine and, for me at least, completed without too much anxiety. The results were another thing but they would arrive soon enough. As I said, I felt like I'd done my best so I wasn't going to worry about them for now.

I'd made the call to stay in London for the holidays which meant that it was imperative I find a job. The truth was, I didn't actually have anywhere else to go. When I'd spoken to her a few months earlier, Karen had been very excited to tell me that she had signed up for a two year contract, teaching in Vanuatu. She'd resigned from Port Wenn Primary, rented out her house and sold her car. Of course, I'd known for a long time that volunteering abroad was her eventual goal but it was still a bit of a shock to think that I no longer had a home to go to in the village. I thought that I could probably ask Mrs. Norton if I could stay with her if I needed to but, right now, there wasn't a lot of point. With everything that had been going on, I wasn't really keeping up with Caroline's life and I had completely lost touch with Isobel. Besides, the thought of being stuck on the farm for longer than a couple of days on my own wasn't very appealing when compared to everything that was happening so close to me in London over the summer. So I stayed put and I believe that Lester took what remained of my belongings up to Mrs Norton's barn for safe storage before surprising a lot of people by joining Karen on an aeroplane heading for a tiny archipelago in the South Pacific.

Despite the tension during exams, things can't have been too unpleasant in our flat because we all committed to continue living at Holly's for the upcoming year, however I was the only one who needed to find full time work in order to stay there. Toni decamped with Giles to Tuscany, and Libby and Holly both disappeared at various times to opposite ends of the country for their obligatory parental visits. If I hadn't been working, it might have been a bit lonely, but because things had so miraculously fallen in to place, I was actually relishing having the house to myself for days on end.

I'd always had a bit of an interest in vintage clothes, which had been a necessity really due to a really tight budget, but the more I'd experimented with, the more I'd started to realise that I did have a bit of a flare for vintage style. Whenever I had any spare cash, I would head down the markets and seek out whatever interesting pieces I could find. I had the advantage of being such a skinny thing then that the sixties designs that I loved were often in my size. There was one stall that I favoured particularly and I struck a bit of a friendship with the owner, an older lady named Simone, who was quite Bodmin actually but also really kind to me. She quickly understood my taste and she would put new arrivals away for me, and whip them out excitedly whenever I turned up, pulling them from underneath her little makeshift counter with a theatrical flourish. Of course, then I'd have to listen to a lot of flannel, as her sales patois had to be heard to be believed but, inevitably, she was right and I'd add another piece to my burgeoning collection of mothball-scented couture.

As it turned out, the hours I had spent in vigorous conversation with Simone, over such riveting topics as the merits of Pucci versus Biba, whether hotpants could ever make a come back, and even the thorny question of which was the best long lasting, liquid eyeliner, must have made an impression because she offered me a job. It seemed she needed someone to look after her stall Wednesday to Sunday and, thrilled as I was by the prospect, I couldn't say yes quickly enough. I took to it with enthusiasm, Simone and I worked side by side for a weekend and then she left me to it. She could now travel further afield on her buying excursions and, although I didn't ever know when to expect her, she would drop in from time to time with fresh stock, and together we would gush over the new arrivals. As well as an hourly rate, she gave me a fantastic staff discount and I was able to purchase some key pieces that I never would even have looked at previously. As a result, my finances were improving but not as exponentially as my personal appearance. I hovered somewhere in between Twiggy and Audrey Hepburn in style, while still paying homage to my longtime favourite icons, The Ronettes.

While the weekends were obviously considerably busier, we tended to get the more interesting and knowledgeable customers in during the week. The regulars knew to come in before the Saturday rush if they wanted to get their hands on the cream of what Simone had sourced, and I found myself getting to know their preferences quite well. As well as locals, there were of course heaps of tourists and it was quite interesting to meet people from such a wide range of countries, especially those who shared my love of vintage designers. On the weekends, there were a lot of tyre kickers and I spent much of my time rehanging garments that had fallen to the ground as a result of careless and desultory browsing which was pretty irritating actually. Occasionally, a young, impoverished student would stop by and I always loved to see how creative people my age were with what they were wearing especially if they were a bit alternative or eccentric.

Our customers were, in the majority, female but we did have a few avant-garde gay boys who were regulars and I loved my interaction with them because they were just brilliant. With my preference at the time for the beehive hairdo and miniskirts, they nicknamed me 'Dusty', after Dusty Springfield I suppose, and they loved our eclectic collection of 'rig-outs' as they called them, often turning some of the more fabulous pieces inside out so that they could admire the work of the seamstress who had created it so many years ago. Hilariously, they would also critique my makeup, staring into my face somewhat disconcertingly, and were not shy to pour scorn on my musical choices, if I didn't happen to be listening to something they approved of. Actually, all my regular customers became like a little family within that crowded, noisy marketplace and I loved every minute of it.

Usually, by four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, the crowds had thinned out considerably and I could start closing up the stall. Inevitably, as soon as I started to pack everything away, a customer would appear and I would have to patiently hover around until they had examined every item on the racks, bought nothing, and then drifted away with a breezy 'thank you'. It seemed that today was no different but, instead of the usual ice-cream wielding tourist, the lone, late browser was a bloke. I smiled at him, frankly surprised that he wasn't one of my regular boys, but not so friendly that he was encouraged to hang around and waste my time.

"Can I help you with anything?" I asked pleasantly without looking at him directly, preferring to keep on packing up so that he was aware that I was closing shortly.

"I'm not sure." He replied, a little distractedly, as his eyes roamed the extensive racks and shelves of stock. "Do you have hats?"

"Not really." I replied and turned to face him, and gestured behind him. "Just a few over here."

"Sorry, you must be wanting to shut up shop." He said with a conciliatory smile. "I'm one of those nightmare, last minute shoppers. I won't hold you up I promise."

"No, it's fine." I said and I found myself not minding at all. "What is it you are looking for?"

"I have a hideous fancy dress to go to and I'm desperate for a beret, as ridiculous as that sounds." He laughed apologetically. "I was even desperate enough to pop into a ladies milliners but, and you probably already know this, it seems men's heads are a lot bigger than women's."

"Who'd have thought?" I said in mock surprise and smiled up at him as I bent down and pulled out a battered box from underneath the tiny counter.

"If we have anything, it will be in here." I said, and started to rummage through the eclectic contents; cravats, driving gloves, old school ties, a sea scouts hat, a couple of tweed caps and a battered fedora. As I searched, I became aware that he was staring at me. As much as I had actually got used to this in the last year, it was still a bit disconcerting. I turned to face him and our eyes met. He had a nice face and was well dressed and well spoken so I didn't feel threatened at all, but I was curious.

I raised my eyebrows at him querulously but he was unfazed.

"I'm sure I know you from somewhere." He said and continued to gaze at me.

"Really." I said coldly, unimpressed. That old chestnut.

Instead of being embarrassed, he started to laugh.

"Sorry, I just realised what I said!" He said quickly. "Forgive me but I really do know you. I'm sure I've seen you studying at the library. You are at UCL, aren't you? "

I squinted at him and then I couldn't help smiling back. He had such a pleasant, self-deprecating manner that I realised he wasn't just trying to chat me up. I pulled two ancient berets from the bottom of the box and handed them to him. He took them from me, tucked them under his left arm and extended his right hand out to me.

"Andrew McPhaedron." He said, his dark brown eyes twinkling as he smiled back at me. "With any luck, about to graduate from UCL myself."

I took his hand, noticing instantly how his fingers were surprisingly marred by badly bitten fingernails, and gave it a gentle shake.

"Louisa." I replied, giving him a knowing look and folding my arms in front of me. He hesitated and I gestured at the berets he had clutched under his arm. "Go on then, try 'em on."

I watched him closely as he patted the fabric, and pushed out the beret's shape, cautiously placing it on his head at a jaunty angle. His hair was auburn and trimmed almost to a brutal army shortness. With his brown eyes and his almost olive skin, it was quite an attractive combination actually.

He turned back to me and gave me a broad smile, and I noticed how even and white his teeth were.

"What do you think, Louisa? Do I make a passable Frenchman?"

I laughed. Not many people could wear an old burgundy beret with dignity but Andrew McPhaedron was one of the lucky few.

"You do actually!" I said, smiling at the way he cocked his head and adjusted his beret so it was at the perfect angle.

"You're not just saying that because you are a brilliant saleswoman?" He said, teasing me now.

"No, not all. Scouts honour. It looks great."

"I'm reluctant to take it off!" He said with a smirk. "I'm quite taken with it, you know. How much do I owe you?"

"Umm, shall we say four quid?"

Smiling at me, he reached into his wallet and handed me a five pound note.

"Keep the change, Louisa. You have saved the day." He said solemnly. "I feel a huge weight lifted from my shoulders now that I will be able to conform to the stereotypical norms of a cartoon Frenchman and wear my woven garland of garlic with pride."

"Right!" I said, giggling now as he continued to admire himself, theatrically, in the mirror. "Would you like a bag?"

"A bag? No thank you! I'm so enamoured of my own appearance now that I shall wear it!"

And, with that, he gave a flamboyant bow from the waist with the result that his purchase ended up in the pavement. Sweeping it up and replacing it on to his head in one elegant movement, he strode off, true to his word, the ancient burgundy beret still perched jauntily on his head. I watched him disappear into the distance, and I was still laughing and shaking my head five minutes later as I padlocked the shutters and made my weary way home.