‘It’s nicer inside,’ she said, and flushed beneath the powder she wore, which had settled on the blonde hair fuzzing her cheeks.

Cilla hadn’t lied, exactly. The house was nicer inside. But it had the thin, held-breath confidence of someone trying to get away with something. The bright throw cushions, the tall vase of flowers on the dining table; these details directed by an expert hand couldn’t hide how obsessively utilitarian everything else felt. The surfaces were clean, but what was most remarkable about them was how wipeable they were: everything was laminate or the kind of broad white tile you might find in an operating theatre. The place seemed designed to withstand regular hosing-down.

I tried to imagine who had lived here, who had designed their life around avoiding stains or bacteria, or living with any fixture that required care to be taken.

‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ I said.

But Pete was still looking. There was something that had captured his imagination: the security features. When Cilla showed him the alarm, CCTV, motion sensors and security light, he nodded in satisfaction, perhaps recognising in the hoser-downer a kind of kindred spirit. Pete loved security, not because he felt threatened by any imminent danger, but because he disliked the idea of someone getting the better of him. He didn’t even walk away when he was grilling chicken. He would crouch down and watch, taut as a guard dog, in case the wavering blue flame behaved unpredictably once his back was turned.

The only other extravagance in the first house were the lights, which could be switched on and off by clapping. Cilla demonstrated, or tried to; her hands connected but the sound failed to resonate. Pete clapped loudly and the lights vanished; he clapped again and they came on.

But once wasn’t enough for him. He stood in the bare, tiled living room and clapped his hands again and again, making the light appear and disappear.

‘Just testing its reflexes,’ he said, smiling at Cilla.

Cilla swayed on the spot as if she was about to dance and gave a breathy little laugh.

‘Would you like to move on to the next house?’ she said.

Pete clapped. On. Off. On. Off.

Cilla made a show of taking her phone out, exclaiming at the time.

‘This is fun,’ Pete said, looking at me. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘I guess,’ I said.

He clapped once more and the lights flicked off.