I let myself in and went upstairs. Although the first floor is technically mine, I don’t have a door that blocks it off entirely. The landing is shared territory because of access to the airing cupboard and the loft. I could see Kate had been upstairs today. A plastic box had been left on the table outside my living-room door, an offering from Sunflowers. ‘Aubergine and Potato Curry’ was scrawled on the label, the writing blurred by partial defrosting. I picked it up with a smile. Having landlords who own a cafe means there are always plenty of leftovers, and I’m not proud.

My flat consists of a living room, a small kitchen, one bedroom with a brass bedstead and tiny original fireplace, and a bathroom with a dodgy boiler.

I unlocked the living room. Bill was sitting on the windowsill pretending to be a vase, his tail curled neatly round his feet. He likes the view from my living-room window, looking down into the mad tangle of the oddly shaped garden beneath, across to a crooked line of rooftops, and the green hills beyond. I stroked the short, black velvet between his ears and he started a deep, rasping purr, turning his head to gaze at me adoringly from one blazing, emerald eye. He’d lost the other as a kitten, in an encounter with an outraged chicken and his beautiful black nose was raked by long scratches. Bill’s not my cat, you understand; he belongs to Adam and Kate downstairs. Whenever I leave my place I make sure he’s locked out; and whenever I come home, he’s back inside. Like a magician, it seems he can enter and exit at will; none of us can work out how he does it.

I made myself a mug of coffee, a peanut butter and banana sandwich and settled down in the armchair, kicking off my shoes and heaving my socked feet up on to the coffee table. I raked my fingers through the tangled mess of my curls and gave my head a rub.

Bill stretched his long body on the windowsill and wandered over to join me, leaping on my lap and flexing his claws into my thighs in appreciation. ‘It’s no good settling down,’ I told him through a mouthful of sandwich, ‘I don’t expect I’ll be here long.’ I could see the red light flashing on the answerphone and reached over him awkwardly to press play.

I didn’t recognise the voice. It was foreign and heavily accented, hesitant, awkward at talking to a machine. I want speak to Miss Browne … er … Juno. This is Mr Nickolai … Nickolai Antiques. I want her come work for me. He left a number. I dislodged a disgruntled Bill so I could reach for a pen to jot it down, and then phoned back.

‘Mr, Nickolai?’ I asked when the phone was picked up. ‘Juno Browne. You called about a job?’