AND NOW, AFTER DOUGLAS HAS LEFT, I’M IN SOUTH Kensington showing prospective tenants around a house: a French couple with three small daughters. It’s the kind of house that makes your mouth water, with a white stucco facade, pillars and a big, shiny door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. I tell them about the area, the schools, public transport, where to get the best coffee. They love the high ceilings and classical coving, adore the fireplaces, love the kitchen, and coo over the bathrooms. They need somewhere immediately, which is great for Rupert, but means added stress at my end.

As they confer, in their own language, my mind strays back to Saturday, trying to remember every word we said, every fleeting expression on Nick’s face. Apart from his proposal, the most significant thing that came up was that his work no longer made him happy. He was fed up with the treadmill, with making money for money’s sake. Could that have had something to do with it? Was there something more to his mood, something that happened at work to trigger a change in his thinking, that perhaps opened his eyes? Maybe he had already decided to walk away. I shouldn’t have allowed the conversation to end there. I should have dug deeper.

I wrap up the viewing quickly, anxious to get to the school by three, in time for my appointment with the head.

Mrs Shaw comes to pick me up from the school office, where I’ve been sitting on the chair normally reserved for sick children, my phone in my hand, listening to the secretary and Mrs Shaw’s PA gossiping. The headmistress of Cedar Heights could be a politician or a newsreader with her bright, boxy jackets, obedient hair and unflappable eyebrows. When I arrived, the admin staff had been overly familiar, calling me Grace, their eyes alight with interest, from which I understood that the grapevine had been working overtime. They couldn’t quite bring themselves to ask direct questions, but I fielded several indirect ones before resorting to my emails. I zone out their voices and the sound of a netball match going on in the playground and try to focus.

Cedar Heights is a popular, two-class-entry primary school. The building is red-brick and two storeys high, with an enormous hall that does service as gym and dining room, the trestle tables and benches stacked away after lunch. The head’s office is up one flight of stairs, next to the girls’ loos. A child bursts out as we pass, stopping to gaze up at us before running downstairs.

‘Walk, Amelia,’ Mrs Shaw admonishes her.

Amelia walks, so slowly she could be on her way to the guillotine. She reaches the bottom, jumps the last step and skips off.