However, it’s still extremely neat, which feels very familiar after three years of watching Zeb organise everyone around him to an inch of their lives. I try to imagine living here, but I’m pretty sure that after twenty-four hours of my mess he’d chuck me out of a window. We pass a laundry room with not even a sock on the worksurface, and I amend that to two hours.

“This is lovely,” I say. “Bang smack in the middle of Seven Dials and all this space.”

He glances back, looking suddenly almost shy. “Thank you. I like it. There are another two floors above us. This floor has the kitchen, dining room, and lounge. Next floor has the spare bedrooms and then at the top is the master suite.”

“I bet this cost a fortune.”

He shakes his head. “My father was a property developer. He left me this in his will. He bought it for a song years ago when Neal’s Yard was derelict and just a place for bins and rats. But even though the other buildings got renovated, he never did anything with this. I think he actually forgot about it and when I inherited, it was very dilapidated, so I had to spend a long time doing it up.”

So it was him. “Did Patrick help?” I say and hold my breath. That’s way too personal, but I’m curious about his ex.

He smiles. “No, he didn’t, and if you knew Patrick you’d be thankful for that. He hardly knows how to change a bulb, so the idea of him tackling wiring is rather scary.” He shrugs, leading me into a huge kitchen. The cabinets are painted navy with a wooden worksurface and the floor is made of navy-and-white patterned floor tiles. It could look cold but it’s warmed by the exposed brick wall, battered-looking sideboard, and the bright paintings giving it a slightly shabby chic look. “Anyway, this was mine before Patrick came along. And it’s stayed mine,” he says thoughtfully.

“Yes, I heard you’d split up.”

A funny expression crosses his face. “Is it a topic of conversation now? It was a year ago.”

I shrug. “I only found out recently. Sorry.”

There’s an awkward sort of pause as he stares at me without saying anything. Then a lid on one of the saucepans rattles, and it breaks the stasis. He gestures me to one of the barstools at the central island. “Sit down. Do you want a glass of wine?”

I stare at him as I sit down where instructed, looking at the very healthy-looking herbs in their ceramic pots. If this was my house, they’d be dead. “Okay,” I say faintly. “That would be lovely.” Is this a dream? I wonder. If it is, hopefully we’ll have sex soon.