I catch Alex’s eye and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh, because the menu is – well, it’s not Starbucks, that’s for sure.

‘Can we have a couple of moments?’

‘Sure. I’ll leave you some of this for now. It’s rose-quartz-infused water.’

She puts a carafe down on the table. There’s a pink crystal sitting at the bottom of it. We both contemplate it for a moment before Alex drops his head in his hands.

‘If we weren’t so bloody British, we’d get up and leave,’ he says.

‘I know.’

‘Instead, we’re going to have to have a rice milk latte and a—’ he looks down at the menu and frowns ‘— spiralised courgette and carrot hummus open sandwich on pressed raw grain bread?’

‘I dunno, I quite fancy the radish and sprout salad,’ I say.

‘I want a cinnamon and raisin bagel, and a large bucket of coffee.’

I groan at the thought of it. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a bacon roll.’

‘Maybe we could get one on the way back.’

‘Ready to order?’ The woman has returned, and – being too polite to leave – we request our food, then sit back and look at the clientele. There’s a woman with two scruffy-haired children who’ve been freed from their pushchair. They’re climbing over the cushions on the bench to draw pictures with thick crayons.

‘Cute.’ Alex looks over at them.

‘I bet they’re called Hephzibah and Moon Unit, or something.’ I take a look at them, trying not to catch their eye in case they come over and start making conversation. I find small children slightly alarming.

‘No way.’ Alex shakes his head. ‘Myrtle and Theodore, and they go to a Steiner school and her husband earns shitloads working as an investment banker.’

‘Like the ones next door to us? You reckon?’

‘Totally.’

We’ve seen the family from next door going in and out a few times. They’ve got two nannies, I think, and a gardener, and a fleet of cleaning people who come in every morning. The children go off to school wearing the kind of expensive-looking woollen coats and hats that suggest they’re at a posh private school.

‘They must think we’re lowering the tone, don’t you think?’

Alex grins. ‘What, Becky and her random collection of low-rent waifs and strays?’

After the waitress brings our food, Alex takes a bite of his open-topped sandwich and makes a face. ‘God, this is disgusting.’

‘It is a bit weird,’ I say, picking a radish off the top of mine and biting into it. It’s got some sort of lime dressing on it. I steer the conversation back to Becky and the house. ‘I don’t think Becky knows what to do with the house, so it seemed like the easiest thing to do.’