Tabitha Richardson is thirty-five years old, a little older than me, and a widow. Mother to two children, Bertie and Amelia. Tabitha’s husband, a hedge-fund manager, tragically died in a skiing accident two years ago. ‘It’s been such a terrible time,’ I mutter to myself as the train goes under a bridge. ‘But now we’re ready to move on. To sell the house in Chelsea and head to the country. It’s going to be a fresh start for us. A chance to start again.’

Don’t overdo it, I tell myself as the train pulls into Epsom station. Just keep it simple.

As I approach the door of Fairfax and Latimer Estate Agents, I practise my intro one last time, under my breath. ‘Hellay, my name is Tabitha Richardson. I’ve come to view … My name is Tabitha Richardson … Oh, hello … er … hellay. My name is …’

But as I walk into the office and see their faces my mind goes blank and I stand limply in the centre of the room, the eyes of half-a-dozen women fixed on me.

‘Er … hi, my name is …’ I begin. ‘I’ve got an … an appointment at 11.30.’

‘Oh, you must be Mrs Richardson?’ says a smiling blonde woman who looks to be in her early sixties. ‘You’ve come to view Rosedale Manor?’

There is a hushed silence as she gets up from her desk and comes towards me, her hand outstretched.

‘I’m Jane Treadwell,’ she says warmly. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

I nod my head but my mouth is dry as I shake hands with Jane, aware of the other women looking at me. Do they know what I’m doing? Can they tell it’s a lie?

‘Yes, I’m Tabitha,’ I say finally as Jane Treadwell grips my hand. ‘It’s so good to meet you.’

I wonder if I should start with the bio now, tell Jane Treadwell a little more about myself, or rather Tabitha, but before I can say anything she has swept me out of the office and into the passenger seat of her car, a large, silver 4x4, and as we make our way along the narrow country lanes, she takes the opportunity to quiz me about my situation.

‘You said in your email that you had been recently widowed, dear,’ she says, raising her voice over the hum of Radio 4. ‘A skiing accident. How awful for you.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, speaking slowly and carefully. ‘It was such an awful shock for me and the kids, er, sorry, the children, but we’re finding our feet now.’

‘And you’re moving from London?’ asks Jane, slowing down to let an elderly man cross the road. He’s carrying a King Charles spaniel in his arms. ‘Chelsea, you said?’