Unlike its rather uninspired neighbours on both sides, which were rather squat, red-brick houses with pantiled roofs, like a million others on new-build estates, number forty-seven stood proud and aloof. It was a Georgian-style house on three storeys, with large, gabled dormers. The exterior walls were fawn-coloured and the door, framed by a handsome porch, navy blue. The front garden was a compact lawn behind black railings, with a wide drive and parking area and attached double garage to one side.

‘I think the estate agent said the house was a nod to the original ruined mansion that was here – that the architect had taken his inspiration from it.’

‘So, which grand house did the architect take his inspiration from for ours?’

‘I don’t know, my love.’

A removals van the size of an ocean liner had pulled up outside the house some ten minutes earlier and the removals men were milling around, two of them smoking, one on his phone. But it was when a silver BMW drove onto the driveway and pulled up in front of the garage that both the Penze-Weedells had taken up position by the window. The driver remained in it, seemingly talking on his phone.

‘That car’s just like ours!’ Claudette Penze-Weedell said with relief in her voice. ‘Identical!’

‘I’m afraid not,’ her husband said, gloomily. ‘Ours is a 520; that one is a 540i.’

‘Is that more expensive?’

‘Much.’

Claudette stared at the car across the street venomously. ‘It’s probably time to upgrade, isn’t it, Maurice?’

Only weeks after moving in, Maurice Penze-Weedell had been made redundant by the insurance company in Brighton which had employed him for twenty-eight years. He had risen from the post-room to become its Chief Operating Officer. Although given a substantial pay-off, a new car for either of them at this moment was out of the question.

He hadn’t yet told his wife just how serious their financial situation was and that – heaven forbid – she might actually have to get up off her backside, which seemed to widen every day like the flow of volcanic lava, and get a job. They only had sufficient reserve funds to cover the mortgage for another twelve months, and he had been finding out to his dismay that the jobs market for a fifty-five-year-old in twenty-first century Britain was pretty shitty. ‘My dearest, our BMW is only eleven months old. It’s fine, we don’t need to upgrade it for a few years.’

‘In that case we should upgrade my car. I think the Lady of the Manor should have a dignified motor car and not a child’s toy. Really, I feel like Noddy every time I get in it.’ She was referring to her little Japanese runaround, currently in the garage, plugged into the charger. It was a regular bone of contention between them.

‘I hardly think we’re the Lord and Lady of the Manor, dear. We’ve bought the very nice show house on a very nice estate, but I don’t think the other residents are going to be queuing at our front door to pay their annual tithe of chickens, bushels of corn and God knows what else.’ He hesitated and smiled. ‘Although I suppose, of course, droit du seigneur might be rather nice.’