I pretend to listen as Jane tells me the history of the house, but my eye is drawn to a framed picture sitting on the table next to the vase of lilies. The picture, a black-and-white photograph, shows a dark-haired woman with sparkling eyes and white teeth, her arms draped around a handsome man with cropped greying hair. In the forefront, nestled in their daddy’s arms, are an impossibly cute little girl in a floral dress, her hair tied in sweet bunches, and an older boy, around eight or nine, looking smart in his school uniform. I can’t take my eyes off that family. It’s as though they have stepped right out of my fantasy: a loved-up couple, two children healthy and thriving. It’s a happy scene but the photo fills me with a sadness I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s the same sense of time running out I had when I viewed the garden flat in Battersea. I back away from the photo and go to find Jane, who is standing in the drawing room looking out at the sweeping countryside.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ she says to me, her eyes gleaming. ‘Just under eight acres of land. And it could all be yours.’

I smile but my initial enthusiasm has gone, the excitement drained away. I should go but, first, I really need to use the loo.

‘Er, sorry, Jane,’ I say, putting my hand on the woman’s arm. ‘I’m afraid I’m having trouble concentrating because I’m desperate for the loo. I don’t suppose you could tell me where it is?’

‘Oh, gosh, dear, of course,’ she says, guiding me back into the hallway. ‘I’m the same after a coffee or two. There’s a bathroom at the top of the stairs to the left.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘I won’t be a sec.’

The bathroom is light and vast. A huge roll-top bath sits on clawed feet in the centre of the room and the casement window looks out on to landscaped gardens. There is a large vase of white hydrangeas on the window ledge. They were my mother’s favourite flower. The sight of them makes me smile. I go across to the window. Leaning forward, I pluck a large sprig of hydrangea. Holding it to my nose, I take a deep breath of its soft scent and whisper a silent wish to my mother. Then, tucking it into my bag, I head back out on to the landing.

‘Does that feel better, dear?’ says Jane, smiling warmly as I walk down the stairs towards her.

‘Yes,’ I reply serenely. ‘That feels much better.’