I search my mind for an answer but all I can think of is toads. Toad’s Hatch. Hatching eggs. Think, Vanessa, I tell myself. Think of a district of Manhattan. But it’s no use. My head is full of nonsense.

‘I … er … perhaps you can show me the bedrooms?’ I say, my cheeks reddening. ‘The description on the website said they have amazing sea views.’

‘Sure,’ says Ros, her eyes narrowing. ‘The master bedroom is on the first floor. This way, please.’

She leads me up a flight of stairs that are so polished I have to grip the metal banister to stop myself from slipping. At the top there is a vast landing with floor-to-ceiling windows. I follow Ros through a doorway and step into what looks like a padded cell. The walls have been decorated with a strange, textured paper, there’s a stone floor and a metal bed with pale-blue, prison-style bedding.

‘Here you are,’ says Ros, striding towards the window. ‘You can see all the way to Margate from here.’

‘Wonderful,’ I say, but I’m not looking at the view. Instead, my eye has been drawn to a tiny picture hanging to the left of the window. I step aside to take a closer look and see that it’s by Grimshaw, my mother’s favourite artist. It depicts a mother and child walking down a moonlit path and looks so out of place in this white mausoleum I feel I have to liberate it.

‘Over here is the en suite,’ says Ros, walking over to a metal door at the far side of the room. ‘Again with sea views.’

I watch as she opens the door and steps inside. I quickly lift the picture from its hook and I’m about to slide it into my bag when she puts her head round the door.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she says, striding towards me and grabbing the picture from my hands.

‘I … I was just taking a closer look,’ I say, my heart flipping in my chest. ‘My, er … mom loved this artist and I wanted to see if it was him.’

‘You were about to put it in your bag,’ she cries, her eyes blazing. ‘Now come on, get the hell out of here.’

She grabs my arm and escorts me down the stairs.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice trembling, my accent slipping. ‘I’ve been having a bad time lately. I don’t know what came over me. Please don’t call the police, I beg you.’

She pauses by the front door and looks at me, her face softening slightly.