She loved this apartment so much she could marry it. With its high, stuccoed ceilings, tall sash windows, and wonderfully airy rooms—all two of them, plus a full bathroom containing a utility area—she simply couldn’t bear to think of living anywhere else. It was certainly one of the reasons why she and Greg hadn’t considered moving in together. It wasn’t big enough for two, and it would be crazy to make this their home when his riverfront duplex in Wapping was at least three times the size and, in real-estate terms, far more desirable. Plus, he owned his place outright, thanks to his father, while her first-floor, street-view section of a Georgian town house close to Hollywood Road in Chelsea was rented. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford a mortgage; she was earning enough now to take on some hefty repayments, but the amount needed for a deposit in an area like this—in fact almost anywhere in London—was still out of her reach, largely thanks to her lavish lifestyle. Her friends had managed their down payments thanks to BoMaD—Bank of Mum and Dad—but her mother could never have found a near-six-figure sum without selling her own house or hairdressing salon, and even if she’d been prepared to do that (she wasn’t), Vivi wouldn’t have let her. However, her mother—refusing Gil’s offer to step in—had practically emptied her savings account to help raise a deposit for the lease on this flat. Having viewed it with Vivi, she’d understood right away why her daughter had fallen in love with it, so she’d been keen to make it happen. Since that time, just over four years ago, Vivi had repaid almost two-thirds of the amount, and by the end of the year her mother’s account, thanks to the interest Vivi had added to the loan, was likely to be healthier than it had ever been.

Still feeling slightly stiff, she performed a couple more stretches, then grabbed her phone and wallet and let herself out of the flat into the black-and-white-tiled front hall where her upstairs neighbors had parked a bicycle and stroller. There were also several paintings lining the walls, all done by the delightful and talented Maryanna, who paced about the large attic studio like a trapped cat in the grip of an artistic frenzy. Though her canvases were as indecipherable as they were confrontational (Maryanna’s word), Vivienne had long ago decided that she loved them. She owned two but had left them in the hall for others in the building and their visitors to enjoy as they came and went.