Outside my kitchen window, the bare branches of the big oak trees sway with the gale that’s blowing again out there today. I’m over these Arctic cold winds. But it sure is picturesque, in a wintery stark way, out there. I love where I live. Located just off Warwick Avenue, in the affluent suburb of Maida Vale, northwest London, my flat is fashionably close to the cafes and canals of Little Venice and an easy run into the West End for work. The bedroom is quiet, cosy and overlooks the pretty back gardens of the mansion blocks that line the street. The front-facing reception is spacious and light-filled. The ceilings are high, and a fire escape runs off the old but well-appointed kitchen. Being on the raised ground floor, I have a basement that’s well-proportioned and, though unrenovated, dry. It leads onto a private, grassy patch outside. In summer, I enjoy pottering about planting geraniums, sweet peas and impatiens in pots and filling herb boxes with the gorgeous greenery and aromas of coriander, parsley, rosemary and the like. Sometimes, I fall asleep in the sun reading books. When it’s warm and Faith is visiting, we have been known to get tipsy drinking wine on blankets on the grass.

Best of all, the rent is low. Even on my pittance of a chef’s salary when I first moved to London, I could afford such luxury. The property belonged to Miriam Whitbury, who died at the remarkable age of one hundred and one, leaving it to her daughter June Whitbury, a close friend of my parents. June lets the property to me cheaply while she brings herself around to the idea of selling. She’s eighty-two years old and I’ve lived here for almost a decade. Throughout the years, I’ve been a model tenant accordingly.

My phone on charge at the bench, I send Jordan a text.

Morning, sorry about last night. Hope I didn’t wake you? Stayed out to celebrate new show! Will tell you more later after meeting with new agent. Not working today. Can cook us a nice dinner later? Gx P.S. sorted your washing

Jordan texts me back immediately.

Are you at home now?

Before I have the chance to text back, he calls my mobile.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey, are you at home?’ he asks me.

‘Yeah. I don’t have to go into work today. Jordan, I think I’ve landed a whole new show.’ I don’t want Jordan to know I’m anything less than enthusiastic at this point. I want him to be proud of me. ‘I’m meeting Faith, and a professional agent, Harry Hipgrave, in a bit to find out more. Why? Where are you?’

‘I’m with a client. When will you be back?’

‘Um, not sure? Later this afternoon? Jordan, I didn’t lose my job. Did you get my messages?’