Today, however, I was shocked by the rubbish. Old paint cans, buckets stuck with cement, bursting plastic bags, an office chair, the obligatory traffic cone. Despite the chill, there was a putrid smell in the air. I’d thought that ours was a respectable street, with its dinner parties and violin lessons. But maybe Pam was right; it had a dark, feral side, not glimpsed from the public front it showed to the world, with those self-righteous rows of recycling boxes. Out the back it was an illicit, fly-tipping free-for-all. Our dirty little secret.

We all have our secrets. For I was halfway down the alley when I saw my dentist, Mr Feinstein, who lived five doors down.

He was opening his garden gate to let out a young woman. She was buttoning up her coat but stopped to kiss him goodbye. For a moment they didn’t notice me.

I knew, just as I’d known with Azra and Greg. This time it was a lot more obvious. At that moment they both swung round and saw me.

The young woman hurried away. Mr Feinstein gave me one of his dazzling smiles.

‘It’s a scandal, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘All this.’ He gestured at the rubbish.

‘Oh. Yes.’

‘You haven’t seen my cat, have you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘My friend popped round to help me have a look. She’s very old and suffering from rheumatoid arthritis.’

‘Your friend?’

‘No!’ He laughed his easy laugh. ‘My cat!’ He didn’t even look shifty; he was going to brazen this out. ‘Anyway, if you see her, do give me a ring.’

He touched my shoulder, raised his eyebrows, and left.

His gate was wrought iron so I could see into his garden. I watched him saunter oh-so-casually into his conservatory, then hastily disappear into his house.

His wife was in hospital, having just given birth to twins. Many of us neighbours had put cards through his door, and left cakes and flowers on his step, to celebrate the happy event.

Five

Five

That encounter was to change my life. Of course, I didn’t know this at the time. All I knew was that in January, when I was due for a check-up, I needed to find another dentist.

This wasn’t just triggered by my fury at what I’d seen, and the awkwardness of meeting Mr Feinstein again. I’d never liked him. He had film-star looks and I’ve always been suspicious of handsome men, especially smooth talkers. And, my God, the chap never stopped talking. Of course he had a captive audience, pinioned in the chair, mouth open and unable to answer back. But he came from South Africa and some of his monologues were borderline racist. I’d never challenged him because once I was released I just wanted to get the hell out of there. For God’s sake, the man had a drill.