‘We don’t, I suppose. We have Netflix and there are DVD drives in the TVs … Why, do you have one?’

She nods. I wait, but no invitation is forthcoming.

‘Do you think we could …’

Still nothing.

‘… watch it in your house? If you’re not busy?’

A small sigh. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m being too direct or she has no interest in watching it, or something else, but then she nods and beckons me to follow, which is how, after shouting back to Mark that I’m popping out for a few minutes, I find myself making my first visit next door.

Fran’s house is a replica of ours on the outside, but completely different inside. Where our ground floor is gloomy and dark, Fran’s is a rainbow of twentieth-century hues: bottle-green carpet in the hall, with stripy red-and-cream wallpaper on the walls, while in the sitting room, the carpet is dusky blue, and the walls deep pink. There are piles of newspapers and magazines on both armchairs and on the small glass-topped coffee table that sits in the centre of the room. A floor-to-ceiling built-in shelving unit is home to knick-knacks and souvenirs from Fran’s – or someone’s – trips abroad. I spot a small gold Eiffel Tower, a green Murano glass vase, and a ‘Los Angeles’ snow-globe (perhaps appropriately) without any snow. Books fill the top four shelves and I’m not surprised now that she wanted a look through our books last night. My eyes scan the covers while my neighbour goes out to put on the kettle. Fran has eclectic tastes. I spot the distinctive orange spines of Penguin classics dotted between familiar contemporary crime titles, along with non-fiction books on everything from American history to Roswell to the JonBenét Ramsey mystery.

I step away from the bookshelves as Fran returns from the kitchen and gestures for me to take a seat. This is no easy task – one side of the couch is home to a stack of newspapers, and the other holds a camera and a photography magazine. I remove the camera, placing it carefully on the floor, and am reminded of the photo Fran took through the kitchen window last night. I open my mouth to ask her about it but can’t find the right words. And maybe Fran is just someone who likes taking photos. With the lights and the drinks and the falling dusk, it was, no doubt, a pretty picture. This gives me an idea.

‘Last night seemed to go well and we were blessed with the weather – I’ve no photos though! Such a lovely, sunny evening and I forgot to take even one picture.’

‘Ah well, I’m sure your friends took some,’ Fran says. ‘People are always snapping away on their phones. I don’t get it myself. Dozens of photos of the same thing, then they never look at them again. Give me a proper camera any day, and proper printed photos.’ Fran points at the wall above my head. I turn to see a dozen framed images of a variety of blond boys, one tall red-haired woman, and a somewhat awkward-looking girl I recognize as Fran.