She pushes at the door and it opens easily. Why doesn’t he worry about crime? All that barbed wire and the door still unlocked; a contradiction, a statement, a dare. People seem to come and go here, drifting into Matthew’s home like it’s an exclusive private members’ club. If you turn up and they’re having a family meal, a place is set for you straight away – no trouble, no problem. Becky has eaten like that on half a dozen occasions, smiling along with every family joke until her jaw ached with tension.

She pads over a paved area and pushes at another door into the house, stepping through the dark utility room, rehearsing her lines. No, she can’t stay. It’s a small thank you for Cannes, a token really. If she stays for a drink, will she be so bold as to propose a toast to their forthcoming trip? Is that hopelessly gauche, wishing aloud for success that Matthew has no need of? Siobhan’s laser-guided words hit her again: this is a very expensive kind of work experience. Said to her face, to Siobhan’s credit, as Siobhan booked two hotel rooms and two sets of flights. Chosen and not chosen. Emboldened by Becky’s example, Siobhan is developing her own idea to pitch to Matthew, while also printing up the Cannes travel itineraries.

There is music playing in the kitchen. The lights are on in the hallway, but not in here, where the downlighters are set to low. Becky pauses on the threshold of the room. What if he is home alone? What if he has fallen asleep and now she’ll wake him? She regrets not ringing the front doorbell but Matthew is always at pains to say it’s only ever the builders and delivery men who do that, and she’s more than that to him. Isn’t she?

But this is an imposition. What if she walks in on him getting undressed or even, God help her, masturbating? In the kitchen? she asks herself. Surely not.

She steps over the threshold into a room that is kitchen and dining room and living room all in one, and each area is generously apportioned. The overall footprint is larger than her entire flat.

The retractable glass wall is closed to the garden but its formal raised beds are tastefully under-lit. The kitchen features navy walls and a distressed copper breakfast bar with matching taps. Soap in big blue apothecary bottles and stripped, white-painted floorboards. There are half-full wine glasses on the marble worktop.

Becky sets her own wine down on the kitchen island and looks around for paper with which to leave a note. ‘Popped in?’ ‘Sorry I missed you?’ Or is she right that it’s an imposition, this stealing into a person’s home, even if it’s allowed, encouraged even?