‘Apparently he inherited it from his great-aunt, but he lives abroad and has no use for it.’

It’s dark outside, and my reflection stares back at me in the windowpane. I look tired. Old. Pale as a ghost.

No use for it.

That’s how my husband must have felt about our marriage when he walked out. The thought drops like a weight on my chest. With my back still turned, I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching the tear ducts with my thumb and forefinger. I mustn’t cry. Not here.

‘Well, like I said, it was a bit of a wild card.’

As he flicks off the bare bulb overhead, I open my eyes and linger for a moment by the window. My reflection has disappeared and my gaze extends over the high stone wall and through the skeleton branches of the trees, into the graveyard’s dark recesses. It’s only four o’clock, but it’s already pitch-black.

‘So, going back to the new mill conversion we first looked at in town.’

I can hear the clicking of switches behind, in an attempt to find the one to illuminate the staircase. Maybe I should call this whole move off. Admit I’ve made a mistake and acted too rashly. Rent something in London and beg for my job back. After all, this is so unlike me. I don’t do impulsive. I’m sensible. Cautious. ‘Risk-averse’, according to my pension-fund provider.

Plus all the self-help books advise against making any major decisions for at least a year after a divorce, and I have a whole stack of them on my bedside table.

‘The one with the roof terrace that you liked, ten miles from here. There’s been a lot of interest in that one, what with it being in a bustling market town near the big shops, station and amenities . . .’

In the background, the estate agent is giving me his sales pitch.

‘So if you’re serious I’d advise acting quickly.’

Still staring out of the window, I catch sight of something. A flash of pink. White spots. I peer more closely. It’s started to rain and drops are hitting the window, forming rivulets down the glass. It’s an umbrella. A bright-pink polka-dot umbrella. I follow it as it moves across the graveyard, its owner hidden underneath. Something about it makes me smile. It looks so incongruous, this spotty flash of colour bobbing cheerfully along in the wintry bleakness, weaving in and out of the graves. Like a beacon of light in the darkness.

‘I’d like to make an offer.’

Turning away from the window, I look across at the estate agent, who is waiting for me at the top of the stairs, studying the screen of his smartphone. He looks up, his expression like one of my pupils caught misbehaving.

‘Christmas shopping,’ he explains sheepishly. ‘Perfume. For the wife. I get her the same thing every year.’ He puts his phone away quickly. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I want to make an offer.’