We reach the top floor: the roof. Flat four has a tall plant outside and a faded Hello Kitty doormat. Flat three looks empty. Lorraine confirms it as she turns the key.

‘Nobody’s ever lived here,’ she says. ‘Brand, spanking new.’

It’s huge, perhaps due to the lack of furniture. We’re in an open-plan kitchen-diner-living area, wooden floors polished, a sloping low ceiling with beams. Three separate arched windows stretch from the floor upwards, overlooking a great distance. I press my body against the glass, taking it all in.

‘You won’t find any famous landmarks out there. That’s the Kent countryside, a few suburbs. Still impressive though, don’t you think?’ Lorraine says, then points her thumb behind her back. ‘That’s the property with the London skyline. The one your man viewed.’

I turn around. The space between us feels vast.

‘Jack viewed that flat? Opposite?’

‘While ago. Early June, maybe? It was a damn sight hotter than today, anyhow. We both had to duck to stand over by the windows – bloody slopes.’

I’d thought Jack had only been into the offices of Ashford Estates; maybe looked at photos in the window. He’s been here, though; actively viewed this place. Well, that place. Why hadn’t he told me?

‘Can I see the bedroom?’ I ask. Ironically, I need some space.

‘Plural. There’s two. And three bathrooms. Go bananas.’

I have to imagine a bed, a lamp; although there’s a delightful walk-in wardrobe. The slope ceiling is in here too, creating warmth within this somewhat sterile apartment. I wonder what we’d hang on the walls. Get some new prints of Thailand; frame them. A low bed, for sure. I can’t imagine Jack anywhere here though. The basement flat is much smaller and yet, there, he fits. Snug. Here, he’d be banging his head and walking in zigzags.

When I return to the main space, Lorraine is inspecting the cooker.

‘Thoughts?’ she asks.

‘Amazing. I completely love it. Out of me price range, like.’

‘Probably a good thing. If you know what I mean?’

‘No?’

‘Oh, because your lovely man, Jack – well, it’s not his style at all, is it? Said he’d rather be putting a deposit down on a place in the country, get some horses, build proper fires. He kept talking about chopping wood like his dad. What? What’s wrong? Have I put my foot in it again?’

She’s definitely put that bloody big foot in something; although what, I’m not sure.

‘So this place is for sale? Not rent?’ I ask.

‘Oh! Are you guys not looking to buy any more?’