‘Meet Mabel,’ Imelda introduced the little dog to Billie before giving her a brisk, welcoming hug. She led Billie to her car, which was parked just outside the station. Billie was delighted to discover that Imelda drove an ancient silver Jaguar. On the journey back to her house, Imelda explained that Mabel was her retirement present to herself.

‘I had a dog years ago, a beautiful borzoi I rescued from the streets when he was a puppy. My heart was broken when he died, and I couldn’t face having another.’ She honked the horn furiously at an indolent young man wandering across the road while studying the screen of his mobile phone. ‘But now, I have more time on my hands and I could do with a little company at home.’

Imelda had apparently visited the local animal shelter and asked to see the dog that had been there the longest. ‘I’d made up my mind to take the one that no one else wanted, whatever size, breed or age.’

Billie clung to her seatbelt as Imelda swerved suddenly to overtake a Nissan Micra whose driver was dithering between two lanes.

‘Mabel was always overlooked because of her original features, but I think they give her character.’

Mabel, who was safely harnessed on the back seat, barked approvingly at the mention of her name. They pulled into the driveway of a tall, semi-detached Victorian house and Billie unclenched her jaw, relieved to have survived the journey and Imelda’s exhilarating driving. Inside, the house was exactly how Billie hoped it would be. A pair of enormous mirrors with ornate gilt frames faced one another on the richly coloured walls of the hallway. The polished wood floors were the colour of freshly shucked conkers and cut crystal chandelier lights hung from the ceiling. In the middle of the kitchen stood a large oak dining table surrounded by six chairs, and on an oak dresser sat a gleaming silver samovar.

‘It was Papa’s, and his mother’s before that,’ said Imelda, brushing it tenderly with her fingertips as she passed. ‘Now, take off your coat and hang it in the hall. Would you like tea or vodka?’

After a mug of strong tea and a shot of icy vodka, Imelda showed Billie to her room at the top of the house.

‘It used to be mine when my parents were still alive.’

The deep brass bed was topped with a velvet patchwork cover and strewn with silk-fringed cushions. A Persian rug was sumptuously snug underfoot, and glass candlesticks on the mantle over a cast-iron fireplace glinted in the soft pink light of the afternoon sun. The window looked out over the garden. And there under a canopy of skeletal winter trees, looking for all the world like an Arthur Rackham fairy-tale fantasy somehow conjured into reality, was a Romany gypsy caravan.

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