It was warm enough that I unclipped my tie and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. I didn’t want to arrive sweaty, so I took my time and ambled along in the shade of the plane trees planted along the pavement. It was the kind of day where a tune gets stuck in your head and you can’t help singing it out loud; in this case it was a blast from my past, ‘Digging Your Scene’ by the Blow Monkeys. Given that it was released when I was still in nappies, it was a wonder I knew all the words. I’d sung, ‘I’d just like to be myself again’ in the third chorus when I reached my destination. The house was a tall gothic confection with a mock tower at each corner and sash windows painted white. Marble-clad steps led up to an imposing front door but I ignored them and made my way to the side gate – I knew where I was going. I checked my jacket was straight and rubbed the toes of my shoes on the back of my calves; satisfied, I pushed open the gate and stepped through.

Honeysuckle had been planted along the side wall of the house, making a sweet-scented corridor that opened up into a wide, sunny garden. A neatly mown lawn was bordered by formal beds planted with surfinia petunias, marigold and tulips. Two huge terracotta pots bursting with spring flowers guarded the steps down to a sunken patio at the centre of which the afternoon sunlight pooled around a fountain. Even I could see that this wasn’t some piece picked up in a garden store or hypermarket. It was a delicate marble birdbath with a central statue of a nude carrying water; Italian Renaissance, maybe – I didn’t have enough art history to know. It was antique and battered, the marble chipped in places, and the nymph had a discoloured streak running from her shoulder to her groin made by the water trickling out of her gourd.

The water smelled sweet and enticing, just the thing after my long, slow walk up the hill. A handsome middle-aged woman was waiting for me by the fountain. She was dressed in a yellow cotton sundress, straw hat and open-toed sandals. As I drew closer I saw she had her mother’s eyes, black and slanted like a cat’s, but that she was lighter than Beverley with a nice, straight media-friendly nose.