You buzzed me in and I stepped over the threshold. Crossed into your world.

The entrance hall was grander than Edward’s, with its polished black-and-white-checked floor and imposing staircase. Sweeping, curved marble, drawing my eyes upwards towards the opulent chandelier that hung ominously above my head. Such a contrast to the bare low-energy bulb in the hall at Lynton Road.

I gripped the wooden banister that perched on top of the ornate black wrought-iron balustrade, my clammy hands leaving prints which disappeared like invisible ink. The climb seemed never-ending. Especially as my foot had fully returned to its previous sore state. When I finally reached the landing, I held on to the rail to catch my breath, leaning over to view the spiral below, testing my vertigo, touching distance from the chandelier, until the rail inched forward and I stepped away, unsteady, my heart feeling as if it had slipped over the edge.

‘Be careful, Constance.’ I turned and moved towards you. The smell of your cleanliness hit me. ‘The residents’ committee needs to get it fixed, but often as it is with rich people, no one wants to pay . . . Come here, you.’ You pulled my head towards your chest and hugged me.

It was so unexpected that every one of my muscles tensed. My rigor mortis arms longed to slide around your waist and under your T-shirt. When I finally gained the courage to return the gesture, you released me and held the door open for me to enter.

‘I can’t believe it, Constance . . . I feel so bad.’

I suppose you wanted me to tell you not to. That there was nothing to feel bad about. But I didn’t. We should all get to endure the guilt we deserve.

The pale parquet of the landing continued through your hall, which was the polar opposite of Edward’s, with its gallery-white walls and strategically placed black-and-white framed photographs. As you guided me past the metal console table, displaying the lamp that looked like twisted white paper, I was showered in shame. Remembering you’d seen where I lived.

Even with the stylish lead-up, my eyes widened when we reached your lounge. You hadn’t mentioned it was akin to a music video. You know the ones. A white grand piano in the corner and muslin curtains billowing into the room. ‘Ebony and Ivory’ meets ‘Imagine’. Except there was neither a piano nor curtains. Just two vast windows that stood almost floor to ceiling, dramatic and bare. It was, however, as empty as you’d described, with only your sofa – grey, of course – the beaten-up leather club chair, TV and shelves filled with books and CDs. Other framed arty photographs and prints, which hadn’t made it onto the wall, rested against the perimeter. It wasn’t like a home. Not a home I’d lived in. I’d walked into the pages of a lifestyle magazine.