I didn’t want to know, not yet. For Calvin and I were in a state of limbo. It was exhilarating to be locked away like this, outside time. We spent Saturday in bed, snoozing and talking, endlessly talking, and watching YouTube videos on my computer. Later we had a bath together. Later still we went to the twenty-four-hour shop at the local garage and bought food and rip-off wine. It was raining again and as we walked home arm-in-arm, the cars hissing past, my legs bendy from lovemaking, I thought: this is happiness, this moment. I shall always remember this.

It’s hard to make Calvin sound attractive, particularly in the light of what happened. This beefy, freckly man with his sandy eyelashes and suspect political opinions was not the sort of person I’d usually meet, or indeed fancy. The clients he flew around the country sounded repulsive specimens of hubris and greed. His own morals were pretty dubious. One day he let slip that he’d bought his house from the classic little old lady who’d had no idea of its value. He wore loud shirts and made crude jokes.

I could go on, but what’s the point? I just adored being with him. My loneliness had vanished; I knew I’d been acting strangely and Calvin restored my sanity. My feelings for him were a mixture of friendly intimacy and profound sexual gratitude. I had a man in my life—a man who made me laugh, and whose warm body protected me from the horrors of the night. I don’t want to die alone, buzzing with bluebottles. Was that really so unusual a wish?

We were inseparable, those first weeks. I went to Calvin’s place or he came to mine. His imaginary house lay like a hologram over the real building in Potters Bar. It took a while for this to fade away as my vision was not far from the truth. It was an ordinary 1950s building, much extended by Calvin and his wife—conservatory, pillared porch, plenty of garden statuary and, inside, wall-to-wall marble. Calvin was hugely proud of it and I found this touching. Who was I to sneer? His parents had been dirt-poor, back in Sydney, and he’d worked his way up in the world to build his own Shangri-la. Besides, he’d once saved lives. Admittedly he now ferried around corporate CEOs and reality TV stars, but hey ho. Compared to my Guardian-reading, Amazon-embargoing, fair-trade-coffee-drinking, electric-bike-riding, pious Muswell Hill friends he was a breath of fresh air.

Not that Calvin met any of my friends, in those early days. We kept ourselves to ourselves. Most of the time he was at my house. He managed to get a resident’s permit for his Range Rover—God knows how, I didn’t ask—and started to sort me out.

‘This place gives me the heebie-jeebies,’ he said. ‘You’re living in a slum, sweetie-pie.’