The job floats into my mind again as I climb into bed and I hug myself tightly, sending up a prayer to whoever is up there that I get called for an interview. I turn the pillow over to the cool side, Mags’s voice sniping in my ear, ‘you’ll just be a glorified wife’, and as I drop off the edge into sleep, my last thought is that perhaps that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Chapter Three

I try not to gawp as I hop off my pushbike and wheel it up the path to the house, making out as though houses this huge, this imposing, are part of my world. There is a sweeping gravel drive, leading to the front of a huge, double-fronted house, with a double – maybe even triple – garage nestled to the side. I try to keep my eyes on the front door ahead of me, two stone lions flanking the porch, and take a deep breath.

Although the house is imposing, and clearly my potential employer is doing OK for himself, there are tiny signs of neglect. Weeds sprout up in the tubs that house straggly-looking topiary bushes on either side of the windows, there is a recycling box in front of the garage that looks as if it is about to overflow with empty bottles, and the window sills look as though they could do with a scrub. Despite what Mags says, I am actually very house-proud, having been brought up with a mother who couldn’t abide dirt. I’ve just given up in the flat, because Mags doesn’t have the same outlook. I could take a picture, I think, once it’s all clean and tidy. I’ll stick it next to the job advert in my book. I finger the outline of my phone in my pocket, resisting the urge to take a ‘before’ picture.

Smoothing my hair down, I make sure the waistband of my skirt hasn’t twisted round – after what happened with Harry, I lost nearly a stone that I haven’t put back on yet – before taking a deep breath and lifting the brass knocker, letting it fall with a loud bang. There is a long pause, where I think for a moment that perhaps there is no one home; that the guy, Rupert, has forgotten I’m coming, before the door is wrenched open.

‘Yes?’ The man in front of me is tall, over six feet, with floppy dark hair in a style that reminds me of old Hugh Grant movies. Even though it is Saturday morning, he is wearing jeans with a smart shirt, as if he is about to go to work. That is, if he’d actually tucked it in and he had shoes on his feet. My stomach gives a tiny flip.

‘Hi,’ I smile, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Emily Belrose. I’m here for an interview?’