Now that I’m booked in for a property viewing, Lorraine is my friend. She’s telling me about a divorced couple who put their house on the market last year, how she cocked it all up – ‘Oh, not the sale, just their dignity’ – by putting her ‘big bleeding size nine’ foot in it, and well, on she goes. I might just put the phone on speaker, start tidying up, make some toast.

The man sat in the shopping trolley shares my opinion of Lorraine.

‘Don’t worry,’ I think. ‘You’ll be coming with me.’

And on and on she goes.

39

Jack’s problem with living in a basement flat was that this particular area of London is green and hilly. A cluster of steep parks hide behind rows of residential streets, with spectacular views of London Bridge and Canary Wharf. Jack – as grateful as he was to his parents for the low rent – always felt like he was hiding, when it suited him to be up and out. I can only hope this place is affordable.

I’ve got a Saturday late afternoon viewing. It’s a short bus ride away. I’d walk, but the shrill wind blows sideways, smacking you in the face no matter what direction you stomp. Christmas is only six weeks away. We’re in that lull before windows get their annual festive makeover; a temporary bleak darkness.

Lorraine meets me outside. She’s Amazonian. She wears blue mascara. Her size nine feet sit in flat court shoes and her whole look is eighties powerhouse: pinstripe suit with pencil skirt (at least a size too small); fine black tights. She walks with a long umbrella, using it as a stick.

‘So did your partner like the other flat?’ she asks, jangling the keys in her hand.

Did he? I don’t know. I make a comment about the weather.

She leads the way up the path towards the main entrance, unlocking the door and holding it open for me. Like the Victorian building where Jack’s parents own the flat, 68 Woodhill Road is a large, double-fronted house. The exterior has been reconstructed though and the ground-floor hallway is pristine proof that the interior has been refurbished recently.

‘What’s his name? Your other half?’ Lorraine asks. ‘I remember everyone.’

‘Jack. Jack Carmichael.’

I love saying his name. And I love Lorraine’s question. She’s innocent when it comes to the tragedy of Jack, of me. To Lorraine, Jack is still alive. Why wouldn’t he be?

‘Small guy, cycles everywhere?’ she asks.

‘Nope,’ and that single word gives it away.

‘Oh! I know Jack. Big bloke, beard. Laughs and the whole room shakes.’

‘Spot on.’

‘See? Told you I remember everyone.’

We go up six flights of stairs. The carpet is sea blue, spongey, the staircase wide.

‘Keeps you fit, this place,’ Lorraine says, out of breath and seemingly enjoying it.