Even the reception area of the hotel looks expensive, and I look uneasily down at my old jeans and battered Vans. I stand back as Zeb deals with the receptionist. He exchanges a few words with her, and I can tell from their tone that they’re kind. I like that about Zeb. He’s always kind and courteous. She smiles widely at him, and he turns to me with a small smile on his lips. It vanishes as he looks at me. “We’re on the third floor,” he says abruptly, jerking his head at the lift. Oops!

I follow him into the lift, which arrives with the obliging haste that life seems to arrange for Zeb. He settles his back against the mirrored wall, and I move to stand next to him, staring ahead and starting a tuneless humming which is sure to annoy him.

Sure enough, it does. “Do you have to make that noise?” he asks crossly. “Either sing or be silent.”

“Are those my only choices?” I say innocently. “I’m not sure about that, Zeb. Surely life has more options for me.”

“Not about humming.”

I smile at him, watching the tic in his jaw get more prominent. Then I bend forward and hum straight into his ear. He jumps about a foot in the air and whirls on me. “What the fuck?” he says.

“Just making sure you’re awake,” I say happily as the lift dings and the door opens onto a long carpeted corridor that smells of furniture polish and money. Big oak doors are set along the wall, set far enough away from each other to denote large rooms.

He glares at me, and I follow him as he removes the key from his pocket and inserts it into room eighteen.

He swings the door open and waves me in rather like someone gesturing someone to their execution. “After you,” he says tersely.

“What a gentleman,” I say meekly.

I look around. I’m standing in the lounge area of the suite. There are a pair of French doors leading out onto a balcony. Two pale green sofas are sitting on either side of a long coffee table and facing a large-screen TV. One wall is entirely brick, and the other walls are painted white.

Spying a door, I beetle over and find the bathroom. It has another exposed brick wall on which the sink is set, and it’s light and airy mainly because of another set of doors. Gauzy curtains blow in the slight breeze, and I eye the copper freestanding bath sitting in the middle of the room. I love a bath and constantly bemoan the fact that we picked a flat that only has a shower.

I turn round and nearly bang into Zeb, who’s leaning against the wall, his arms folded and a forbidding expression on his face. I search for a diversion.

“Ooh, look,” I cry out. “There’s a hotel umbrella here.”