As the crowd disperses I make my way out on to Warwick Avenue. It’s a bright morning and the sun beats down on the stucco buildings, making sugar houses of them. To the left of me the Little Venice canal shimmers snake-like as it passes under the bridge. It’s a perfect summer’s day and as I cross the road and head to Formosa Street I almost forget the looming appointment at the police station. It feels like old times, when Lottie and I would spend a summer’s day drinking iced coffee on the King’s Road, people watching and putting the world to rights as the hours rolled by.

When I reach the corner of Formosa Street I get a flutter of nerves. Last time I had seen Lottie she was shaking with rage. What will she say when she finds out what I’ve done?

A sharp ray of sunshine hits the street, temporarily blinding me, and I nearly walk straight into a startled passer-by. I should have brought my sunglasses to hide behind, but I left the house in such a hurry. I glance around, looking to see if anyone is following me.

As I approach the coffee shop, which sits in the middle of the curved street, the sun dips and I blink as white dots bounce in front of my eyes. Then I hear it. A familiar voice: animated and warm. A voice I haven’t heard in months. Lottie.

I look ahead and see her. She’s sitting at one of the tables outside the coffee shop, deep in conversation with a man. The man has his back to me but I recognize the dark-brown curls, the straight back, the blue-and-white Adidas Gazelle trainers.

It’s Connor.

29. Then

Sitting on the 10.30 from Victoria to Whitstable, I look down at the loose-fitting cotton harem pants and linen shirt I’m wearing and breathe a sigh of relief. For the next few hours I will be Zen-like Eleanor Hawkins, floating off on a cloud of patchouli oil and loose linen clothing to view her future home.