He pulls himself out of his sleeping bag, still wearing his Kid Rock T-shirt, and his black oil-stained jeans. I watch my unsavoury boyfriend and tell myself for the hundredth time, I must be mad to live here with him.

‘See you later, Hayley,’ he shouts as he leaves.

I don’t reply. The roar of his motorbike vibrates into the distance.

We do not have running water in this derelict cottage, but I managed to travel to Euston station yesterday and have a shower. This morning I wash myself with facewipes and apply copious amounts of perfume and deodorant. I dress myself in clean clothes. I manage to apply some make-up using the cracked mirror in the bathroom.

As I stride through Esher, the sting of the crisp, cold autumn day, pushes the damp smell that permeates the flat from my nose. From my head. And even though I am worried about what Mann and Mann are going to say, it’s good to be out. Along Esher High Street. Past the Good Earth Chinese restaurant. Past the Giggling Squid, Red Peppers and the post office.

I stand in front of Mann and Mann Solicitors. Floor-to-ceiling tinted windows. Grey canopy. Gold lettering. I step inside. The reception area boasts wide grey leather sofas either side of the path to a young woman in a sharply tailored suit, who is beaming at me from behind a welcome desk. I look around. The dusky peach walls are adorned with well-lit modern art. Coloured brushstrokes. Sunsets that tone perfectly with the sofas and walls. Seascapes. Mountains. You can only tell what they are by their names. The air is thick with silence.

I move towards the receptionist. She looks so manicured. I look down to check that I don’t look too much of a sight. At least my jeans, T-shirt, and ankle boots are clean. That’s all I can say about my drab outfit.

‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

‘I’m Hayley Smith. I was asked to come here to see Mr Mann.’

She nods her head. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here. Please sit down. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘That would be lovely. Yes please.’

Lovely indeed. Since I moved in with Jono I only have hot drinks when I’m out. I sink into the sofa and sigh with pleasure at the feel of a comfortable seat. I’ve hardly sat down when the receptionist places coffee and a biscotti, a miniature jug of milk on the side, on the glass table in front of me.

‘Thank you,’ I simper.

I sit drinking, relishing every sip.