Behind me, I hear Geoffrey clear his throat then he begins to tell me the history of the house. I turn and give him my full attention.

‘This part of the house, and the bedrooms just above where we’re standing, date back to 1647,’ he says briskly. ‘Later additions were made by previous owners at the turn of the last century and then again in the 1960s, though thankfully the older parts were listed and therefore had to be preserved.’

‘It’s a magical house,’ I say.

‘Yes, it is,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Or at least it was, anyway. I don’t know whether you’re aware but the house was the inspiration for some books I wrote.’

He smiles modestly.

‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘I am aware. In fact, I’m a huge admirer of your work.’

He nods his head briskly and his smile fades a little.

I instantly regret my outburst. I will have to be careful or else Geoffrey will think I’m some silly fan girl, a time-waster. I have to think of something to prolong the visit.

‘When I say that,’ I tell him, regaining my composure, ‘I mean that it was this house and your amazing storytelling that, er, inspired me to write my own books.’

He nods wearily at this. He has obviously heard all this before and probably thinks I’m some wannabe hoping for a hand up the ladder. I move on hastily.

‘In fact,’ I continue, ‘my books are the reason I’m able to afford this house.’

Geoffrey smiles politely, though he seems completely disinterested.

‘Well done, you,’ he says, glancing nervously at the staircase. ‘Though I must say, I don’t envy anyone getting involved in the publishing industry. It’s a rotten business. Still, a young woman like you shouldn’t find it too difficult to get on. That’s what publishers are looking for nowadays. I’m afraid I’m one of those old, male dinosaurs they want nothing to do with. Now, come this way and I’ll show you the living area.’

He looks worried all of a sudden and the warmth he had greeted me with at first has faded. In fact, there’s a distinct chill about him as he leads me from room to room, politely pointing out the various features.

I’m surprised to find that the inner rooms, later additions, as Geoffrey informs me, are pretty dull and nothing like as magical as the main hallway or the rooms in the book. There is a rather dated, nineties-style kitchen with pine cupboards and stained, beige tiles, a living room with faded floral wallpaper, a dado rail and well-worn, soft leather sofas. It’s all so ordinary I might as well be in Dad and Lynda’s new-build bungalow in Reading.

As we stand at the living-room window, Geoffrey turns to me and asks if I have any children.