I remove the card from beneath the flip-flop magnet that doubles as a bottle opener, hold it between my thumb and index finger. The last person to touch this was Jack. I bring the card to my lips and kiss it. Slipping from my grip, it flutters away, landing beneath the washing machine. I drop to my knees but my fingers can’t reach to retrieve it. I grab a fork from the draining board and coax it out, my phone still pressed to my ear with my shoulder.

‘Lorraine? Are you still there?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Can I help you with anything else?’

I’m not reading the front of the card, where the logo for Ashford Estates is printed above its address, a few metres from the Sainsbury’s Local. A different address altogether is written on the back. In Jack’s handwriting.

‘Flat four, 68 Woodhill Road please,’ I say, reading aloud. ‘I’d like to view it, please.’

‘Of course, Woodhill Road. Lovely. Just what you’re after, on a hill. Perfect. Oh, no. Not perfect. It’s no longer on the market. Never mind.’

‘Oh.’ I deflate. Gutted. On the verge of crying. Oh God. Over a flat I’ve never fucking seen. It was on a hill. Whoop-de-doo! That would mean a steep, breathless trek from the station or the bus stop every day on the way home from school. Wonky floors. Dodgy stairs. Visitors would avoid the trip. I’ve saved myself the bother.

‘Would you be interested in …’ Lorraine begins, pauses. I hear the click of her mouse.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘It was 68 Woodhill Road or nothing.’

‘68 Woodhill Road is still available. It’s only flat four that’s gone. You can view flat three. Same floor, flat opposite. Like a mirror image?’

‘A mirror image?’

‘That’s what I said. Now what’s your name and I’ll book you in.’

On the spot, I oblige.

‘Are you coming alone or should I expect your husband as well?’

‘We’re not married,’ I say, somehow finding that marginally easier to say than ‘alone’.

Lorraine releases a high-pitched, ‘Oh!’ and decorates her mistake with an unashamed giggle. I hear her hand banging on her desk. ‘You’d think I’d learnt my lesson,’ she says, catching her breath. ‘Been with my other half thirty-two years. Never got round to tying the knot, though. And still, I always presume everybody else is shacked up with a ring on their finger. Oh, what am I like?!’

Lorraine from Ashford Estates has let her guard down.