His address turned out to be a huge town house in a nook of Chelsea where the likes of me were suspected burglars. Though, today I was more ‘hooker’. I was her again. In her black stretch dress this time. Same crippling shoes. The heels so worn that raw metal scraped against the pavement. Hair bigger. Make-up stronger. I couldn’t find my lipstick anywhere, so in a brave moment bought a Barry M one called Pillar Box Red. All the entrapments that had worked previously. But extra. Except I was more self-conscious this time, because there would be people who knew the other Constance, and my confidence dwindled with each pinching step. And as I clung to the iron railings that caged the immaculate pansy-lined private square, the centrepiece to the white mini palaces, greyed by twilight, clutching the bottle of some French Red le Plonk I’d bought from Costcutter, I lacked conviction in my choices.

I surveyed the street for your car, thinking how even in such an exclusive area, it would stand out for its rarity and beauty against the boring Audis and Mercedes. Then it dawned on me that you’d be drinking and I wouldn’t get the prior confirmation I’d hoped for that you were inside. If I’d known for certain you weren’t, I would have bailed. Gone home and downed the wine myself. But there was no way of knowing without entering the unknown.

I viewed the film of elegant people through the bow-windowed cinema screen. Each elegantly holding elegant cut glasses, under a stupendously elegant chandelier. Laughing elegantly at what were undoubtedly elegant jokes.

I practised a titter of my own. Unaware of the Dalmatian-walking man coming towards me. I smiled. It wasn’t reciprocated.

After crossing the quiet road with as much grace as the shoes would allow, I walked under the pillared entrance and ascended the steps. The security light came on as if I was an actor on stage, under a spotlight. I was. I stood for a moment staring at the oversized glossy black door. Then once my breathing levelled, I pressed the bell.

A woman dressed like a breakfast-television presenter opened the door. Though smiling, she viewed me with wonderment as to why such a person would be on her doorstep.

‘I’m Constance . . . I work with Dr Harris.’

‘Oh, of course . . . Hello. I’m Cecelia . . . Bill’s wife. I think we may have met at poor Peter’s funeral.’ She looked me up and down like I was shit on her shoe. Yet I still had nothing but admiration for her. She did live with, and, even worse, shag her husband.

She took the bottle from my hands. ‘Oh, how lovely, thank you.’ Though we both knew it would end up in a stew. ‘Would you like some champagne?’

I’d barely nodded before I was being handed a glass by a young waitress who was way more refined than me.