I stand listening as her footsteps disappear down the corridor then make my way over to the oak dresser. There are four sturdy-looking drawers midway down it. I pull open the first one and look inside. Whoever lives here is obviously a bit of a hoarder. There are scraps of paper, a ball of elastic bands, old packets of seeds and some soiled gardening gloves. I close the drawer with a shove then open the next one along. This one is full of old perfume bottles, most of them empty. The contents, like the kitchen, look like a freeze frame of the early 1980s. There’s Chanel Number 5, Le Jardin, Poison by Dior and, to my amazement, Penhaligon’s Violetta, the perfume my mother wore. The bottle is almost empty. I lift the stopper off and inhale, and as I do, I’m back in my mother’s arms, nuzzling into her neck. It smells of happiness and safety. It smells of Mum.

I hear Amy’s footsteps coming back up the corridor so I shove the drawer closed then hurriedly place the bottle into my bag.

‘Sorry about that,’ says Amy, bounding into the room. ‘Now, shall we go and see the garden?’

‘Actually, Amy,’ I reply, the bottle a reassuring bulk in my bag, ‘I don’t think this is the house for me after all.’

My mood is so much better when I get back to the flat that I barely register the coat. A camel-coloured coat hanging on the hook in the hallway. A woman’s coat. There’s a murmur of voices coming from the living room: Connor’s and another. A woman’s.

I stand in the doorway and look into the room. Connor is sitting on the sofa. A woman with shoulder-length dyed auburn hair and a Bardot-style cream top sits next to him, her arm wrapped round his shoulder. She is holding something in her hand. Her hands are wrinkled, the skin paper thin with bulging blue veins, old woman’s hands that belie the highlighted auburn hair and youthful clothes. It’s then I realize this is Connor’s mother. I recognize her from the photo he keeps on the bookshelf. I have never met her, though I’ve asked Connor enough times if I could. He has always said she was busy or working away. As I step closer I see what she’s holding. It’s my appointment card from the abortion clinic.

I clear my throat and they look up at me. Up close, Connor’s mother resembles a piece of jagged driftwood: brittle and tawny.

‘Vanessa,’ says Connor, jumping to his feet and smiling nervously. ‘You’re home. Come in. We need to talk.’

‘That is my personal property,’ I say, my voice shaking, gesturing to the appointment card. ‘What are you doing with it?’