Time passed. But not long actually, only a few days. Estate agents work like quicksilver in London, particularly when there’s a commission in the offing. They sent some Rupert round to look over the place, he liked what he saw, and then they got going: photos were taken, particulars were printed and put on the web – it looked rather smart, actually, and for a moment I wondered why I was going. But the following day I opened the door to my first prospective tenant. I’d forgotten, of course, that Ned had said he might pop round for a coffee, so that when I discovered the two of them together on my doorstep, it wrong-footed me. Being grown men, however, they’d managed to introduce themselves and ascertain what the other was doing there. As they stepped inside, Ned introduced me to the stranger, whose name was Joshua Cohen. He was slim, dark and not terribly tall, with glasses rather like the ones I’d seen on the face of Imo’s ex-boyfriend. He was possibly a bit younger than me and had the look of a young Jeremy Paxman before he got cross and arrogant. I was about to extend my hand, but then wondered if one did shake hands with viewers, and since he didn’t remove his from his overcoat pockets, I didn’t. We exchanged a few pleasantries and then I led them down the hall to the kitchen where I’d been brewing coffee, the aroma from which, I’d read in a colour supplement, was seductive when showing a house. When I got to my fragrant kitchen, however, I realized I only had Ned with me. Mr Cohen had peeled off. Raising my eyebrows at my son, I went back to find him in the sitting room.

‘Sorry.’ He turned to me abruptly. ‘I was just looking at your shelves. I saw them through the window.’

‘Oh yes, quite a few, I’m afraid.’ They were floor to ceiling on both sides of the fireplace and crammed. ‘But you don’t have to fill them with books like this, I just happen to have rather a lot. You could put ornaments or whatnots on them.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I happen to have rather a lot, too.’

‘Oh. Splendid,’ I murmured. He’d gone again, ahead of me, making his way to the kitchen. Which left me following him. It occurred to me that Jeremy Paxman had always been arrogant.

‘What’s all this, Mum?’ Ned was perched on a stool at the island, looking at lemons I’d arranged attractively in a large shallow dish. He picked one up and grinned. ‘Gone a bit Tuscan?’

‘It was in the Sunday Times last week,’ said Mr Cohen with a smile. ‘That and the smell of coffee. This is the third house I’ve seen with the same vibe.’