She makes everything seem so simple.

What is not simple is the London traffic, lines of it stretching through gridlocked junctions, along what seems like the same street, over and over again. But then I see the street signs, the names of which bring home to me how far away from home we are.

Turn left. Turn right. Turn right. Turn right again. Turn left. Take the second exit here. Straight through the junction there. It feels as though this is how I will spend the rest of my life, following the endless directions issued by an automated voice. It feels as if we will never arrive, so when we do, I am awash with equal measures of drenching shock and exquisite relief.

I look around. I am stopped outside an efficient-looking custom-built apartment block that does not suggest gardens, secret or otherwise. It does, however, have an underground car park to which Iris has the code.

The apartment itself, on the top floor of the block, appears spacious, and this impression is enhanced by the furniture, which is spare. And the echo of our footsteps bounces against the bare walls. There are narrow, steep steps up to the roof, which will be difficult to negotiate on crutches. However, Iris will negotiate them because she was right. There is a secret garden. Although garden might be a little suggestive. The area is small, and what there is of it has more in common with the secret garden at the beginning of that book than the one that flourishes beneath the horticultural attentions of Mary Lennox and her friends. The flowerpots and baskets are overstocked with the remains of last year’s annuals, and vigorous weeds line the gaps between the patio slabs. But while the minuscule water feature is fighting a losing battle with rust, the sound of the water falling over round, smooth stones is pleasant enough, and the deck chair beside it provides a bright splash of red against the vivid green of the ivy that has wrapped itself around the wrought-iron railings that enclose the space and ensure that nobody stumbles off the edge.

Instead of the shy little robin redbreast that shadowed Mary Lennox around the garden, there is a pair of ragged crows, perched on a satellite dish and inspecting me with cold black eyes. I step towards them and flail my arms. They don’t move.

At least the railings seem sturdy enough. The ground is a long way down.

Inside, the walls are painted a watery shade of cream and the gray floor tiles are cold underfoot. The kitchen, usually my favorite part of any house, is a line of gleaming appliances and spotless cupboards and marble countertops. The cooker looks as though it’s never been switched on.

Clinical. That’s the word for this kitchen. A wave of loneliness comes over me then, pure and potent. I nearly buckle under the weight of it.

I check my phone for the source of the earlier beep. A missed call from Brendan. I will of course phone him back. Just not now. I’ll do it later. Or tomorrow, when my head might be clearer. I need to clear my head. Get some fresh air. I need to get out of this kitchen. Out of this apartment that seems spacious but is not.