‘You have a lot of interesting things, Edward. A lot of . . . things. How does someone ever get to own a smoking squirrel?’

‘Oh, Cyril? I’ve had him since the sixties. He came from a tobacco shop on the King’s Road that was closing down. The bastards were going to throw him away, so I saved him from certain second death.’

‘I see . . . Well, there’s so much it’s hard to know where to look.’

‘It was my mother’s fault. Well, isn’t everything? She was an actress . . . theatre mainly . . . Collected artefacts from her tours around the world. Always had an eye for the most wonderful things. “The items we own must either be a thing of beauty or tell a story,” she’d say. And so that’s the rule I’ve stuck to. And let me tell you, Constance . . . there’s been a lot of stories. Obviously, sometimes they’re both. Like with dear Ursula.’

‘What’s the story with Ursula?’

‘Ah, now, not all stories are meant to be told.’ With the hanky, he wiped his magnified eyes underneath his glasses. ‘I’d like to show you something, Constance . . . You help yourself to more biscuits.’

Seeing his struggle to rise, I went over to help him, to be greeted by his hand tapping me away. ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous . . . What do you think I do when I’m on my own?’

I apologized and returned to my seat. Turning, so he didn’t feel the pressure of me watching him. You were still on the phone. Laughing. Sipping on your wine. Enjoying the conversation far too much. My stomach curdled, so I refocused on Edward, shuffling towards the huge cabinet and pulling down the back of his risen jumper, which exposed his purple crackled skin. As he rooted in one of the cupboards, I stood and rested my hands against the windowpane, hoping to improve my vision by blocking the sunlight.

‘It’s here somewhere. Please bear with me, darling girl . . . and eat as many biscuits as you like.’

‘No rush, Edward . . . take your time.’

I hadn’t seen you move, but you’d disappeared and were no longer on the sofa. Then you reappeared, lifting the sash window of your bedroom, minus your phone, and perched on the sill smoking a cigarette. You’d always told me you didn’t really smoke. Only took puffs on mine. Another lie? Or were you thinking of me as you inhaled?

‘What’s so interesting?’ Edward made me jump.

‘Sorry . . . I . . . I was just seeing if it looked like it was going to rain.’

‘And is it?’

‘No . . . I’m not sure . . . Oh wow, what’s that? Edward, I think someone’s parrot has escaped.’

He laughed. ‘It’s a feral parakeet. Have you not seen them before?’

‘No . . . A what?’

‘Feral parakeet. They’re parakeets that escaped and bred and bred and now adorn the trees and skies of London.’