Monday morning, Daniel had a meeting in central London with important energy bigwigs, and needed to leave early to catch a train from Newark. ‘I would have made my excuses and dialled in, but if you don’t mind watching Hope again, it would make my boss very happy if I showed up in person.’

‘Of course, no problem. But can you leave me some very clear and minutely detailed instructions?’

Waking just after 6.30, I slipped out of bed in the hope of squeezing in a coffee and maybe even a shower before my housemate’s summons. At the first creak of the floorboard, a thin wail informed me that I was kidding myself. Daniel had taped a spreadsheet to the end of her cot. He might as well have written it in computer code.

Two hours later, Hope had been fed, changed and changed again. I, on the other hand, had only managed to consume a glass of water and the mushed up remains of her banana. For some reason, Hope thought she was the one with something to cry about.

An hour after that, watching the clock like a crack sniper scrutinises their target, only while weeping slightly and with far less steady hands, I gave up trying to placate her screams and decided to distract myself with some further farmhouse exploring.

I peeked into three additional bedrooms on the first floor. Each contained a bed, a solid looking wardrobe and maybe a chest of drawers or a pair of matching bedside tables. The walls were covered in tatty wallpaper similar to the rest of the house, with threadbare carpets in indistinguishable shades, and yet more oppressive curtains. One of them must have been Daniel’s childhood bedroom – there were football trophies decorating one shelf, the others filled with children’s books and a wonky globe. There was also a tiny box room lined with shelving full of bedding and other odds and ends like broken lampshades and cracked leather suitcases. And then, behind the final door, I found another staircase. Balancing carefully as I carried Hope up the steep steps, we found an attic split into another bathroom, a large storage space tucked under the eaves, and what I instantly knew was Charlie’s room. Stretching half the length of the house, the room included three gabled windows and a sloping roof on either side. Rather than a carpet, brightly coloured rugs lay on top of faded floorboards. Three of the walls were covered in white wallpaper dotted with unicorns, while the wall opposite the windows was a deep yellow.

Her bed was utterly Charlie: a gold bedframe with a pale pink canopy, still made up with pink and gold speckled bedding. There were open wardrobes and shelving filling half of one wall, haphazardly stuffed with clothes, shoes and other accessories as if trying to make it impossible to find what she wanted quickly. A dressing table was covered in make-up, jewellery and other knick-knacks, and the rest of the room – a huge armchair, the bookcase, the floor – was simply filled with Charlie. Stuffed toys, souvenirs from her travels, pretty notepads and art equipment. Stacks of books and yet more shoes. A string of fairy lights in the shape of flamingos draped across one wall, mobiles and windchimes dangled from the higher points of the ceiling.