‘Clutter? What clutter? This fridge is American, by the way; I just resisted one of those vast ostentatious ones. What clutter?’ I’d tidied the entire house yesterday, until my fingers were numb. Taken bin bags of rubbish to the tip. My cupboards looked like Benetton displays, which was why I hadn’t minded him peering around in them. He should have come last week.

‘Statues in the bathroom, that kind of thing.’

‘Oh, my lovely Nefertiti! Don’t you love her? Well clearly not. And that marble one is Diana, goddess of the moon, but I can take her with me, if you like?’

‘And all the blue and white china?’

‘You don’t like it? It’s antique.’

‘Mum, furnished really just means bare bones,’ Ned interjected. ‘Sofas, beds, tables, that kind of thing.’

‘Of course. Yes, of course. I know that.’ I straightened up. ‘Well, you can be sure I’ll pare it down to the very … bare bones, Mr … Josh.’ I nodded curtly. I wasn’t sure I liked this man. He was ungracious and uncomplimentary. ‘Would you like to see the garden?’

He shrugged non-committally. ‘Sure.’

I led him through and out of the French windows to the terrace. It was a beautiful spring day and this was my sanctuary. Any love I could no longer pour into my children, I poured in here.

‘Have a wander round,’ I suggested.

Another shrug, but he ambled off. Would it hurt to comment on how gorgeous it was before he went, I wondered? But I held my tongue.

The small raised terrace looked on to an immaculate rectangle of well-tended grass, surrounded on three sides by suitably distressed walls at which I’d been known to throw yoghurt, to age them. All were clothed with delicate creepers, and carefully espaliered fruit trees which were now in blossom, the apple the palest pink and white. Below, the beds positively billowed over with late spring flowers. Tulips, slightly dishevelled and decadent, like beautiful courtesans after a night out, were the softest blush Dutch ones from my very exclusive catalogue: they bowed their heads over a sea of blue forget-me-nots, nearly over, but not quite. Poised to replace them, and just starting to bud, in fact, were my all-time summer favourites, frothy lime-green Alchemilla mollis, which would spread and scramble everywhere like eager children, replacing the bluebells I cultivated in small clumps. An ancient wisteria, of the Chinese variety, so white, climbed the back wall I shared with my neighbour and dripped its elegant, pendulous flowers like huge, milky teardrops. Whoever lived behind had trained climbing roses on their side, and in the summer, they crawled over to mine. My neighbour had taste: they were softest yellow and classy.