I pause before replying, my eyes still fixed on the bookshelves. Did Imogen like cooking? I’m not sure. I think back to when she was a young teenager and got rather obsessed with The Great British Bake Off. Every time I visited, there would be an aroma of slightly burnt sponge cake hanging in the air and a flour-spattered kitchen. Georgie used to roll her eyes at it. How could a feminist Oxford graduate like my sister have produced a daughter who just wanted to bake cakes? I had found it all rather comical though I could see the relief in Georgie’s face when Imogen eventually tired of baking and returned to her books, finally gaining a place at Oxford herself.

‘Er, I like to bake from time to time,’ I say, following Amy down a narrow, dimly lit, wood-panelled corridor.

‘Ooh, lovely,’ says Amy, her voice growing fainter ahead of me. ‘My mum loves baking too, though I have to be careful as I can put on half a stone just looking at a cake.’

Though the living room had been light and modern, the rest of the house is in need of updating. Amy had pointed out earlier that the property belonged to an elderly couple and this is evident as we enter the kitchen. There’s a bottle-green Aga, an ancient-looking white fridge and a counter with chipped orange tiles. All very much in vogue circa 1982. ‘Oh,’ says Amy, unable to hide the disgust from her face. ‘It’s a little dated but then I always find clients want to put their own stamp on a kitchen. It could be fabulous, once all this clutter is removed.’

I walk across to the kitchen counter, a strange feeling rising inside me. I run my hands along the orange tiles that I last saw in my childhood home in Caversham and suddenly realize why I’m feeling so spellbound. Unlike all the other houses I have visited, this one feels like a home. Like I could actually live here. Not Imogen or Tabitha or any of the other personas I’ve adopted, but me: Vanessa Adams. All that is missing is Radio 2. And Mum.

Just then Amy’s phone rings. The sound makes me jump.

She looks at the screen, smiles then turns to me, holding the phone in the air.

‘I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to take this,’ she says, her eyes twinkling so much I seriously doubt it’s a work call. ‘Can I leave you to have a look round the kitchen? I won’t be a sec.’

‘Of course,’ I say, trying to hide my delight. ‘Take your time.’

‘Thanks, Imogen,’ she says, beaming as she answers the call and hurries out of the room.