Slipping the photo in my handbag, I quickly finish checking over the rest of the house, then lock the front door behind me and post the keys through the letter box. The estate agent has a set, so I’ll leave these ones for the new owners. As I hear them land on the doormat, I remember I haven’t taken off the key ring – a silly souvenir from a weekend spent in Italy a few years ago for my birthday.

My mind goes somewhere, but I force it back again. Who wants some stupid Leaning Tower of Pisa key ring anyway? It didn’t even lean the right way.

The removal van is parked up outside with its hazard lights on. The house is on a busy main road and, like the homes of most people living in London, it doesn’t have a driveway, so the van has wedged itself on the street corner, next to the pile of discarded Christmas trees. It’s the third week of January, but the council is slow to recycle them and they lie there in a sorry-looking pile, devoid of their needles and decorations. Life can be brutal, even for Christmas trees.

‘Olivia.’

As I watch the removal men loading the last of my possessions into the back, I hear a voice over my shoulder.

‘Oh, hi, Madeleine.’

Forcing a bright smile, I turn to see my neighbour on the corner appearing from her garden gate. Madeleine likes to know everyone’s business – she is the Neighbourhood Watch – and ever since my ex-husband moved out, she’s been stationed behind her plantation shutters, like a sentry on lookout. Luckily, through a mixture of stealth and having to rush off early to work, I’ve managed to avoid being trapped in conversation with her.

Until now.

‘I’ve been hoping to catch you for ages. Roger and I wanted to tell you how sad we were to hear about you and David . . .’ She wraps her waterfall cardigan around her and folds her arms against the cold. She’s obviously just shot out from behind her shutters, as she’s still wearing her Peruvian sock-slippers. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know . . .’ I trail off lamely.

But of course, no, Madeleine doesn’t know. She has no idea. Married for forty years to Roger, a retired accountant, Madeleine has a life of strict routine. Of local church meetings and Ocado deliveries, and weekends washing Roger’s shirts, which she pegs out on the line with such regularity, I’m certain she must use a tape measure.

Hers is not a life of divorce lawyers and chaos, and a husband running off to live with the pretty young American he’d met at Bikram yoga.

To be honest, I can’t believe mine is, either. David, of all people! David who likes playing golf, and New Zealand wine, and his Rotary Club dinners. A man who wears boating shoes and button-down collars and was forever teasing me about my love of vintage clothes.