She shakes her head. ‘When you live in a house like this, you want people to know that you’re home.’ She raises her eyebrows and I do the same. ‘We were broken into last year. They didn’t take anything of sentimental value, just the televisions, a camera and a couple of laptops, but ever since my father has been militant about making sure that all the windows and doors are locked and the lights are on. Everything’s on a timer. The windows are alarmed.’ She thumbs down the stairs. ‘I know the front door looks original, but it’s not. You’d need a steamroller to get through that thing.’

‘Comforting.’

‘He’s getting a whole new security system installed in the New Year, with cameras everywhere, so I’m trying to take full advantage of hanging out here when they’re not home before that happens.’

‘So where’s your room, then?’

Poppy points up. ‘I’ve been banished to the attic like Bertha Mason. Not quite the attic,’ she admits, nose wrinkling. ‘There’s still another floor above me, but it feels like it sometimes.’

‘There’s another floor? What’s that for?’

‘Nothing at the moment. It still hasn’t quite recovered from the seagulls, but my father’s converting it next year because that’s exactly what two people in a house this big need . . . more space.’

She sighs heavily as she stomps up the stairs and I follow.

‘Bathroom.’ She points at a door when we get to the top, then at another door. ‘My room.’

I follow her in and when she turns on the light, it’s not what I expected at all. There’s lots of pink. Pink walls. Pink fluffy rug. Pink curtains on either side of the windows, dotted with gold foil stars. There’s a framed black and white print over the bed of a woman in a flowing dress leaning off what looks like the side of the Eiffel Tower, the whole of Paris at her feet. It’s nice. Pretty. But that’s just it: it’s pretty. Poppy likes horror films and Basquiat and wants to get a Kurt Vonnegut quote tattooed across her ribs.

It’s all a little soft for her.

A little dreamy.