I wheel my suitcase along the tiled floor of a corridor and into the main room, a large open-plan kitchen-living-room that’s probably bigger than my entire flat in Peckham. I take in two plush, cream sofas, a capacious Bosch fridge with one of those ice-maker thingies I’ve always coveted, and a painting on the wall that’s the sort of abstract stuff Patrick likes to mock: two swirls of red and a blue dot. Bet it cost a fortune. To the right, sliding glass doors lead out onto a terrace with a table and chairs beneath the shade of a tree. Beyond, I can see houses dotting the slope for half a mile down to the lakeshore, where a ferry is just sliding into port, a white V dissolving in the water behind it. On the far side of the lake, mountaintops are etched against the sky.

I’ve never even owned a place with a garden, let alone a view like this.

In Peckham, the bedroom looks out over a patchwork quilt of small gardens belonging to the neighbours, while the living room faces the road and the row of Georgian houses the other side, unaffected by the Second World War bombs that took out our side of the street, later replaced with solid but uninspiring apartment blocks.

‘Better to live in the ugly house rather than have to look at it,’ Patrick had said when he’d convinced me that third-floor flat should become our first home together. I wonder if my tenant now thinks the same. I wonder if Patrick’s found himself a nicer place.

I take a step forward, drawn to the scene. ‘Wow. That’s amazing.’

Julia laughs. ‘Go out if you want to.’

I step through the door onto the terrace and Julia joins me. We stand there for a moment, both gazing at the view. Down below, the sun glints off the water and I hear a bass rhythm coming from a tourist ferry – some kind of party boat, perhaps. I can’t think of anything to say and it strikes me that this is like an awkward first date. Something about her poise, the confidence oozing from her, makes me feel I’m likely to say the wrong thing.

‘Is this your first time in Switzerland?’ she asks, and I feel relief that the silence is broken.

I nod. ‘Is all of it this pretty?’

She laughs. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ She proffers a packet of cigarettes and I notice her nails are beautifully manicured. ‘Do you smoke?’

I smile and take one in answer. I think how disapproving Patrick was about it, and how I actually managed to give up for a time, back when we were trying – that awful word. But in the last few months I’ve needed it more than ever.

‘We only smoke out here. And I’d prefer you not to do it when the kids are around, okay?’