‘Yes, please.’ I dry my hands and he leads me through double doors from the kitchen towards a large orangery, where sunshine streams in through big windows, onto the stylish Italian-tiled floor. I pause in the doorway. Two huge sofas fill the space, and bi-fold glass doors open out onto what must have been an immaculate garden at some point, although now the lawn needs mowing, and the shrubs are looking a little wild. Despite the cosy, comfortable vibe this space gives off, there is something slightly dead about it – a thin layer of dust sits atop the small glass table next to one of the sofas, and the air is thick and stale, as though the doors haven’t been opened for a long time.

‘Wow. This space is incredible.’ I venture closer to the window to peer out into the garden. What I’d do for a garden this size – you don’t get a lot of outside space with a flat over a takeaway in the centre of Swindon.

‘I, er… I don’t really use this room much,’ Rupert says stiffly, appearing beside me and taking my arm to walk me through the rest of the house. ‘Let me show you upstairs.’

We go upstairs via the living room, another huge space, occupied by a large open fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line one wall, and a piano is strategically placed, giving that whole part of the room a calm, quiet feel, like a library. ‘Do you play?’ I ask Rupert, but he shakes his head.

‘No, not me.’ He doesn’t elaborate and I wonder who does play – his wife, maybe? He hasn’t mentioned anyone else living here yet, and I have to squash down the question on the tip of my tongue. I follow him up to the first floor, where he quickly shows me the bathroom (huge, freestanding claw-footed tub, dusty Jo Malone bottles of bath oil on the window sill), first one small spare room, the master bedroom and en suite and then into another, larger spare room, where his phone starts ringing. Rupert sighs as he glances at the screen.

‘I’m so sorry, I need to take this… Will you excuse me for just a second?’