The Brits are having an Indian summer. It’s mid-September, and yet it’s twenty-five degrees Centigrade. My legs burn beneath my black jeans. Not how we Kiwis imagine the UK. And, during this almost tropical weather, I’m moving in to my new home. To my new job. I’ve told all my friends on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook.

Fresh off the bus, I walk along Lexington Drive, weighed down by my overloaded rucksack. Everything I possess in the UK is on my back. Tired of moving from one temporary job to another, camping in strange houses, I’m so excited to be settling in one place, where I will be comfortable and relaxed.

I walk past the modern mansions, open-mouthed all over again. Houses big enough for twenty people to live in. Houses with tradesman’s entrances. Stone porticoes. Heavy front doors of antique oak and mahogany. Ornate door-knockers. Protruding security cameras, turning towards me as I pass manicured gardens and Range Rovers parked neatly in generous drives next to low-slung sports cars and family run-arounds. Houses that whisper – look at me, I’m rich.

Despite my heavy bag, I almost skip towards number 20, the one at the far end of the road. The one where I’m going to live.

I arrive and stand back to admire my new home. This mansion is set further back from the road than the others. It has a wide circular drive with a pond, and a fountain in it. The house is three storeys high, with six large windows on each floor. It has a fine old yew hedge bordering the garden, with shiny black railings in front of it. A large fir tree stands to the right of the drive. It’s magnificent. I hope they light it up at Christmas.

A large gold lettered sign, ‘Wellbeck House’, is attached to the railings, by the front gate, next to the entrance buzzer and a large security camera. I push the buzzer. A male voice, which sounds a little like a Dalek’s, answers, ‘Hello, Hayley. I’ll buzz you in.’

I hear a grinding sound, and push the gate. It’s heavy. I open it slowly and step into the driveway.

My feet crunch across stone, past the pond with its fountain. The front door opens. Miles Jackson, you are standing on the doorstep smiling at me, large brown eyes twinkling into mine. My stomach rotates. You are so good-looking. You have strong features. A proud chin and nose. Light brown wavy hair. Intense eyes I would love to lie next to. You’re an intellectual. An academic, according to my agency notes on the family. I expect your students drool over you, don’t they?

‘Welcome,’ you say, stepping away from the doorway.