I circle the house, but as is typical in this part of North London, it’s absolutely impossible to find a parking space anywhere in his street. I’d hate to be paying all this money for a flat and still have a half-mile schlep every time I needed to get to my car. Finally, I find somewhere to squeeze my Peugeot into that’s still in the South of England—just about. My umbrella is black and has a huge orange-and-yellow–striped Tigger on the side—Jake bought it for me for my birthday. I can’t keep gloves or umbrellas or sunglasses. They mysteriously vanish from about my person when I’m not looking. I’m single-handedly responsible for most of Accessorize’s business. I huddle under the brolly while I lock the car and then brave the rain, rushing along the pavement, trying to dodge the puddles.

Pip has the ground floor of an old Georgian town-house—which sounds slightly more salubrious than it is. In reality the door could do with a lick of paint and there are always piles of black bin bags in the street. Some of the houses have been renovated and are inhabited by advertising executives and magazine editors. Some look as if they’re inhabited by students or dossers and have grubby lace curtains with holes in. I rap at the door, shivering in the cold. No matter how many clothes I wear, I can never seem to get warm enough when I’m outside. I think I should have been born in Southern California or Italy to suit my ambient blood temperature. There’s no answer. It’s not looking promising. I can’t see a light on through the main window or through the frosted glass in the front door, even though I push my nose right up against it. I don’t know what to do. If I’d managed to park right outside I could sit in the car and wait, but as it’s miles away I won’t be able to see when Jake comes back. I could just go home and chalk it down to bad luck, but I want to know where he is, I want to talk to him and I’ve driven too far to give up on my quest now. Indecision knocks around my skull. Why is it when you’re suddenly alone, even the most basic of mental processes becomes a Herculean task? The sky is almost black and obviously still has plenty more rain to disgorge on us poor unfortunates below. I crouch on Pip’s doorstep while I think. There is one dry patch in the corner where the bouncing rain has missed and I claim it as mine. I pull the Tigger umbrella close over me, cuddle into a ball and try to pretend that this will stop me from freezing to death.