I want this job. It pays well. It’s in a good neighbourhood. The agency I’m with informed me that the nannies who’ve worked here have enjoyed the experience, and have felt cherished and respected by their employers.

When I commented, ‘But there’s been a high turnover,’ the agency boss replied, ‘It’s just been one of those things. The last two nannies had trouble renewing their work permits. Our government has been tightening up on immigration.’

I ring the doorbell, feeling nervous. A young woman with razor-blade cheekbones and sharp glasses opens the door. She looks a bit like Margot Robbie. I would so like to look edgy and sexy like that. Super-skinny. A real clothes horse. The sort of woman who would look good in anything, even a bin bag.

‘Welcome. Do come in,’ she says.

I step into this modern mansion. The hallway is laced with thick-pile carpet. A designer dresser built of metal and mirrors stands to the right of me, displaying a crystal vase bristling with flowers: lilies, roses, agapanthus and delphiniums. They fill the air with scent. A spiral marble staircase with a curved mahogany handrail coils upwards from the back of the hallway. Impressionist paintings adorn golden rag-rolled walls. I drink it all in to write about in my diary later. The diary I’m keeping to show my mother when I get home.

‘I’m Saffron. How do you do?’

Saffron. Even her name is interesting. Her voice is deep and husky. Deep, but not masculine. Saffron oozes style and femininity.

‘I’m Hayley,’ I reply, shaking her hand.

‘Are you from New Zealand?’ Saffron asks.

I nod my head. As soon as I open my mouth everyone guesses where I’m from. My English boyfriend tells me my vocal cords are as soft as guitar strings and that, like all New Zealanders, I sound as if I am talking through my teeth.

‘Whereabouts in New Zealand?’ Saffron asks.

‘Queenstown.’

‘We’ve been there for a holiday. It was fabulous. How could you bear to leave?’

‘Every young New Zealander craves some time in England.’ I pause. ‘New Zealand is small. Parochial. There’s more to life than sharp-edged mountains and life-threatening adventure.’

My insides tighten. Actually, I miss our small cosy family bungalow full of finely stretched enthusiasm. My cheery father and brother who spend their days strapping people to bungee elastic. My thin, worried mother who works stoically at the local supermarket.

Saffron puts her head on one side and her lips burst into a wide smile. ‘Do come and sit down.’

I follow her into the drawing room, which looks like a film set. It has a large curved window adorned with tumbling white damask curtains and matching window seat. This white extravaganza frames a view of a tennis court and a swimming pool. Am I dreaming? Have I arrived in Hollywood?

‘Please sit down,’ Saffron says, smiling across at me.