But this is something else entirely. I may not be a classical music aficionado. I may approach evenings at the opera with the same horror as the prospect of root canal. But I have no doubt that what I’m bearing witness to is art and alchemy and God-given talent, the splendour of which has my skin breaking out in goose bumps and my breath stalling in my lungs and my heart swelling. There are gifts—and there’s greatness.

I let that final Amen in her flawless soprano wash over me. I never, ever want this private performance to end. But when her voice fades off, my need for more has me heading for the staircase.

‘Please sing it again,’ I say, practically running down the stairs. ‘Please. That was incredible.’

She turns to me, and I can tell I’ve taken her by surprise. Her eyes are wide, like she’s forgotten where she is, and, as I approach, the tears tracking down her cheeks glimmer in the morning light.

‘Please,’ I beg her, stopping just short of the piano. ‘Sing it again. Just pretend I’m not here and don’t hold back.’

She considers, then nods and lets her eyes drift closed, and the haunting melody starts up again.

I may have told her to pretend I wasn’t here, but I don’t take my eyes off her for a second. The woman not only looks like an angel; she sings like an angel. She’s also a performer. She’s captivated me in two minutes flat. I have no doubt she would captivate anyone who watched and listened to her sing.

It strikes me that she sings the first few lines of the hymn a little more self-consciously. She doesn’t falter, but her voice is fainter than it was. Then she finds her stride and goes for it. She’s probably already forgotten I’m here.

Marlowe is beautiful every single day, but when she sings, she lights up. Like this, in her casually sexy cycling gear, sitting at my piano with the sunlight casting a halo around her hair, she commands every ounce of my attention.

As she concludes the hymn once again with that breathtaking, transcendent Amen, I fight the urge to tell her again like a little boy who’s just watched something so cool he never wants it to stop. She’s not a performing monkey. She’s a very, very special person, a person whom, I suspect, I’ve repeatedly underestimated so that I can treat her as an object and a convenience.

When she opens her eyes and smiles self-consciously at me, she finds me staring at her.

‘I don’t know what to say. That was… beautiful. So moving.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmurs.

‘May I?’ I ask, gesturing at the wide piano stool.

‘Of course!’ She shifts to the side so I can sit beside her. ‘Please tell me you play.’