We looked right at each other. Your cheeks turned puce. Knowing what we were both thinking. How like your father you really were. How those apples don’t fall far.

‘Get out, Constance. Go on . . . get out. Or I really will call the police.’

I took you at your word. Gathered my clothes and bag, and ran out the room as best I could, hindered by the cumbersome material.

‘You can’t take the dress, for fuck’s sake.’

As I opened the front door, you came behind, attempting to press it shut, which led to a brief pushing-and-pulling sequence, until you let go and the edge ricocheted back, smacking me in the face, knocking the already-damaged tooth.

Pain shot through me like a bullet. The metallic taste of blood burst into my mouth. I couldn’t see what you were doing, or your reaction, because I’d broken free and was about to run, when I stopped at the top of the stairs, swathed in the chandelier’s glow.

‘Come on, Constance . . . just give me the dress. It’s my mother’s.’

I turned to you. Earnest. ‘It won’t undo, though.’

The atmosphere changed as if we’d called a truce. You came to me. Gently. As though we may kiss. Then yanked me around and tugged, hard, at the zip. Strands of my hair entwined your fingers, though it lacked the pleasure it used to, and the combined agony of my now bruised scalp and broken tooth caused me to yelp.

A droplet of red fell from my lips to the bodice. Then another. And another. I surrendered to the music once more. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Waiting for it all to end.

The door of the opposite flat opened.

Tippi Hedren emerged, her excited dog circling her legs as she stared at us, phone in hand. You were oblivious to our audience. Shouting, swearing, shoving me around like a doll.

I looked directly at her. ‘Samuel, you’re hurting me.’

I don’t think I’ll ever truly know what happened next.

I frequently attempt to fill in the blanks. But each time it’s different, like a game of Chinese whispers.

I had my back to you, so I’ll never know for sure. But Tippi Hedren, or Mrs Jennifer Prowse, as I now know her to be called, gave the best account. The account the police believed.

‘Leave her alone,’ she shouted, ‘or I’m calling the police.’

The Labrador barked its support.

Perhaps it was the veil that slipped down my head with every jerking movement. Mrs Prowse insisted it was. That your shoe caught in the net, causing you to step back once, twice . . . We both know what happened the third time.