The first time I saw her, I was struck by how sad she looked. Given my own situation, I was surprised by that. What did she have to be sad about? If anyone should have been sad it was me, moving into the tiny, spidery cottage, my furniture packed away in storage. The money gone, the big house. Everything gone.

It was when I first viewed the cottage, a still-warm day in October. The agent – a young man with too much aftershave, whose name was Gavin – had driven me in his little branded Fiat. His upselling was so tiresome. I wanted to tell him I’d already made my mind up to take it, as he went on about peace and tranquillity and getting away from it all. The cottage was one of three, set down a narrow country lane several miles from the M25. Sevenoaks was the nearest town, and it wasn’t that near. There was nothing else for miles, not a single building. Once they had been staff cottages, tied to the big ruined estate a few fields over. Holly Cottage was empty, half-derelict. Ivy Cottage was the one I’d be renting. Willow Cottage was the one she lived in. ‘You’ll have neighbours,’ said Gavin cheerfully. ‘Nice young couple. Bought the place, ooh, about six months ago.’

I said nothing. I wasn’t sure I was up to meeting them yet. It felt too soon, after everything. But I admit I was curious, and had my eyes peeled as we passed their cottage. They’d made some inroads in their garden, but I could tell they were city people. They’d planted all the wrong things, delicate flowers that wouldn’t survive the first cold snap; a poor attempt at growbags, which I could see were being ravaged by slugs.

As the car swept past, Gavin driving too fast for the narrow country road, I saw movement at the window, and a woman inside the house, shading her eyes to look at us. Her gaze was strange – hungry, somehow. She had fire-engine red hair, a shade that couldn’t be natural, and her face was pale.

‘That’s the wife,’ said Gavin. ‘Came down from London. Escaping the rat race, you know. They did the whole place up – fancy alarm system, underfloor heating.’ In that moment, I felt sorry for her. Maybe because these city transplants never understood what real country life meant. Maybe it was her air of boredom, sadness. Fear, even. Maybe the way her eyes followed me as I got out of the Fiat and walked up the narrow weed-choked path to Ivy Cottage. As if she was desperate to talk to someone, anyone at all. I felt I should wave, or greet her in some way, but shyness held me back. There would be time for that later.