I was only thirty-six, not too old to have a different life. If he’d found me five or ten years later… then it might have been different. But as it was, I knew I could give him everything he wanted.

Both of us understood that. We’d talked about it, but we actually hadn’t needed to discuss it at any great length. It was all astoundingly clear, compared to how dating usually seemed to be, compared to the stories of hope and betrayal and confusion I heard as I cut people’s hair all day long.

But I couldn’t explain all that to Ava, or Ellie. Not yet anyway. He wouldn’t let me. That was one thing he was absolutely clear about.

I had to stay calm, to behave as if I was just letting things unfold rather than pushing them forward as quickly as possible. I had to carry on as if it wasn’t yet a done deal, as if I might opt out at any time if I decided I didn’t like him after all. As if it was casual. No commitment.

But nothing’s casual when you have children, in my opinion.

My last appointment of the day – a full head of highlights at half past four – got cancelled, and when I got back to the flat I bumped into Peter, my downstairs neighbour, coming into the lobby. Peter lived in the garden flat, which he owned; he lived alone, was in his fifties, and grew the most beautiful roses. My gaydar was pretty unreliable, but in one of our first conversations he’d made a passing reference to his husband having passed away. This had two immediate consequences for our relationship. Firstly, obviously, I was sorry for him – how rotten to find someone you could actually be happy with, only to have death snatch them from you. And secondly, I felt safe with him. I knew I could be friendly to him without being accused of leading him on.

Peter had the most beautiful silver hair, which he’d never let me anywhere near. He always had it done at an upmarket barber’s in the West End, and smelled of their pomade. He had a part-time job at one of the museums in London, and always dressed immaculately for work – wool suits in winter, linen in summer. From the outside his life looked calm and orderly and peaceful, but the snatches of heartrending opera that sometimes drifted upstairs to our flat suggested that from the inside, it sometimes felt very different.

Peter insisted on carrying my case of hair colours up the stairs for me. I didn’t try very hard to stop him, as it was pretty heavy.

‘That was rather a swish ride you came home in the other day,’ he said.

‘Oh. It was, wasn’t it? You saw it?’

‘I certainly did. And I want to hear all about it. I’ve made some cake with courgettes from the allotment – pop down later and try some, if you want. It’s almost healthy. Bring the girls if they’d like some, though then we might not be able to talk quite so frankly. But of course, if you don’t want to tell me about the man with the Jag, we don’t have to speak frankly at all.’