‘It shows,’ he says, smiling warmly. ‘And I meant what I said. Connor’s a good ’un. I’ve known him since he was a kid and he’s always had a big heart. It’s great that he’s found a good ’un too. Right, enough of this schmaltz, I’m off to crunch some numbers.’

Later, as I’m walking back over Albert Bridge, I feel a deep sense of relief and contentment. Today was a good day, a brilliant day. We all pulled together and secured a major client. And throughout the presentation I’d felt relaxed and confident. As I stood up to speak I could hear Connor’s words in my head – ‘You can do this. You know you can. I believe in you, Vanessa’ – and it felt like he was there in the room with me, cheering me on.

I thread my way along the outskirts of Battersea Park and on to Queenstown Road, thinking about the day and how I should swing by Sainsbury’s and pick up a bottle of champagne to celebrate, but as I reach the corner of Ingelow Road, two streets away from the flat, I see a large ‘For Sale’ board outside a red-brick Victorian terrace. It’s a house I’ve noticed as I pass by on my way to work, as it has retained its original iron railings and has a fox-head door knocker. I take a closer look at the board: ‘Two bedroom, split-level ground-floor flat with garden. Open Day: Saturday November 11th at 1 p.m.’

A garden flat. My mind goes into overdrive, imagining me and Connor planting flowers and vegetables in our own little garden. I take out my phone and go to the estate agent’s website, scrolling down until I find the listing. The flat is on at £500,000 which, for this area of London, is a bargain. And I actually think we could maybe afford it. For a while now I’ve been thinking about how amazing it would be to have our own little home, and something about this just feels right.

My mind is whirring with all the things we could do to the flat as I make my way back. I’ll put together a mood board, I tell myself, get Jack to give me some architectural advice, see if it has its original flooring. By the time I get in I’ve got a fully formed picture of our future home in my head.

‘Is that my brilliant girlfriend?’

Connor comes out of the kitchen and hands me a glass of champagne. He’s wearing an apron and the air smells of cumin.

‘See,’ he says, clinking his glass against mine. ‘The outfit did the trick. I told you.’

‘Yeah, thanks for helping with that, baby,’ I say, following him into the kitchen, which is a bit of a squeeze for two.