‘Sorry,’ says the girl. ‘I only caught a bit of that. You said you want to rent out your house while you go into hospital?’

‘No,’ I say impatiently. ‘I said you had a house on the market – my house – a few weeks ago.’

‘Okay,’ she says, dragging the word out. ‘So you’re the vendor?’

‘Yes. I mean, no, erm, my husband, he … we were renting.’

The girl sighs loudly down the phone.

‘And how can I help you today?’

The question slurs through my foggy brain. How can she help me? What did I ring for?

‘Er, yes,’ I say, sitting up straight in the hope that the lost words will spring back into my head. ‘Well, you see, my house, the house, was put up for rent by your agency a couple of months back.’

‘What was the address?’ she asks.

‘Oh, the address … well, it’s a name actually.’

‘What was the name then?’

‘Larkfields,’ I say, reassured that I can at least remember that name.

‘Oh, yeah,’ says the girl. ‘I know it. The Gothic lodge house on the outskirts of Rodmell.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s the one.’

‘We rented that out, ooh, about six weeks ago.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say. ‘My husband, Sean Allan – well, we – were the previous tenants.’

‘Yeah,’ says the girl. ‘So how can I help you?’

I take a deep breath. I have to get the story right.

‘Well,’ I say, keeping my voice bright and brisk. ‘We need to get hold of our former landlords, BH2 Properties? Er, we have a friend who has a house that they’d like to sell and we thought BH2 might be interested in, er, buying it.’

There is silence on the other end of the phone.

‘Hello?’ I say. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Sorry about that,’ says the girl. ‘My colleague was just asking me a question. You said you wanted to contact who?’

‘BH2 Properties,’ I say. ‘The owners of Larkfields. I just wondered if you had their details.’

‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be allowed to give that information out without consulting my boss and she’s just gone home,’ says the girl. ‘If you leave me your number I can get her to call you back tomorrow.’

My number. The bloody number. I don’t have it.

‘Oh, gosh,’ I say. ‘It’s completely slipped my mind. Erm …’

‘Are you Mr Allan’s partner?’ asks the girl.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’m his wife.’

‘Well then, I think I’ve got your number here on our system.’

‘Really?’ I say. ‘How?’

‘Well, I’ve just brought up all the contact details for that property,’ she says, her voice a drawl. ‘And I have your husband’s number as a first contact and then Freya Nielssen, which must be you.’