I get lost though, trying to find my way to Marianne’s flat. She gave me good, clear instructions over the phone, but in the rush of the call I didn’t note them down properly. The app on my phone has got confused as well. I’m not familiar with this part of London and the roads in front of me don’t seem to match up with the lines on my map. It’s as though the city has turned maze-like, distorting my sense of direction. I find myself travelling in circles, doubling back on myself until eventually I have to ask someone for help. I stop a man with a sharp face who looks at me impatiently while I reel off the address. It turns out that the road I’m looking for is right behind me, and now I finally find the right number – twenty-three – which is Marianne’s door.

Outside, it takes me a moment. If I knock, there’s really no turning back. I will have really involved myself. My life will have become entangled with someone else’s. It won’t just be me any more.

I need to be sure I’m ready for that.

When I ring the bell, Marianne is a long time coming. I don’t want to ring again, I already fear I am intruding into her life, but I am standing out in the cold and she should be expecting me and perhaps it’s just that she didn’t hear me. I am just reaching up to ring again when there is a clatter behind the door and then it swings open.

She looks so much older than I remember. I know it’s been three years since I last saw her, but in that time she looks as if she has aged ten. Her hair has greyed and she leans on a stick – a grey plastic crutch – and seems shaky on her feet.

‘Jennifer,’ she says. In person though, her voice sounds just like I remember. There’s a warmth in it that was lost on the phone line and I feel a rush of that old feeling, that longing to huddle under her wing.

‘Marianne,’ I reply, my voice as formal as ever. ‘Thank you so much for getting in touch.’

She shakes her head. ‘I should be thanking you. If you hadn’t messaged, I would never have known.’ She holds the door open for me so I can step inside. In the hallway, the flat smells strange; stale somehow. Not unpleasant … just strange.

‘Should I take my shoes off?’

Marianne herself is wearing grey slippers. She looks down at my feet, then up again. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’