If I’m honest, I fancy red, but there’s a hell of a lot of white stuff in this flat. I feel a bit like a penguin. Ingrid takes my bottle of Blossom Hill with such gratitude – as if I’m presenting her with a trophy – that I’m convinced she’s possibly (hopefully) never heard of it before. As she slinks off to the kitchen to put it in the fridge, I notice how she wipes her hand on her skinny jeans, wet from the cold condensation of the bottle. Giles’s head and upper body poke around the door frame and he waves, assuring me he’s not being rude, he’s just snowed under. He’s wearing a blue and white striped apron. The aubergine is in his hand.

‘Cheers!’ Ingrid says, elegantly clinking her large wine glass – quarter-filled with a red I bet the Sainsbury’s Local does not stock – with my cold, delicate glass of white. I return the cheers with a ‘Woop!’ and sip.

‘God, that’s good,’ I say, a delightful tingle dancing along my tongue.

‘A wedding present,’ Ingrid tells me, almost apologetically. ‘My cousin knows her wine.’

I think about my mum and Carol. No wonder I chose Blossom Hill.

The gentle tones of electronic jazz filter through the room from carefully positioned speakers. It’s the sort of music I imagine is played by a live DJ at expensive beach bars during sundowners. Ingrid invites me to fall into a fluffy sofa and bounces herself down on the opposite one.

‘Chloe! Sit, sit!’

‘It’s so funny to be in here,’ I say.

‘Why?’ She looks around, startled, as if a joke might be hanging on the wall.

‘Oh, no. I mean, although I live in this actual house, it’s like stumbling upon a secret room, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, fantastic, Chloe.’

‘I mean, it’s practically Narnia.’

Ingrid laughs and I gulp twice in succession.

‘It’s gorgeous, Ingrid.’

It’s much bigger than my basement. It takes over the whole second floor. At first glance, the inviting lounge is very monochrome-meets-Morocco, just the right amount of black to break up the fluffy white rug, delicious white sofas, floor-to-ceiling white bookshelves. Black Moroccan lamps stand alone, burning with cosy white candles, casting a twinkling cocktail of light and shadow in sporadic patches around the room. A grand black hanging shade matches, the light dimmed to a flicker. Wooden shutter blinds dress the double-fronted bay windows. The dining table is smooth black, set for three but with four cage-like metal chairs. They look torturously uncomfortable. I bet they’re engineered to encourage the perfect posture.

From the sofa, I gush about various pretty items dotted about. Oh, the stylish singular wedding photograph; oh, the coffee-table books on fashion and feminism; oh, the silver sculpture of a slim figure running. Ingrid calmly responds to all of my comments as if I’m interviewing her for the Sunday Times mag.