The house was subdivided into a series of studio and one-bedroom flats made more rentable by plywood stud walls. Love doesn’t notice décor. The squalor of Mr Perkins’ cash cow passed right over my head. If Mitch had been sleeping rough in Marble Arch I’d have found something to love about the urine-stained pavements and cardboard covers. Love has a one-track mind.

Outside my boyfriend’s flat, I took out the door key from the bottom of my bulging handbag. First, however, I turned to the cracked mirror hanging on the wall across from the apartment entrance.

The floral green and pink wallpaper was ripped in places and I tugged loose a stray slither of green flowery border and watched it flutter to the floor. Black damp patches gaped through the walls like an invasive disease. But the only appearance that mattered in those days was my own.

The reflection from the rusting mottled glass was of a beautiful woman, but the image could have belonged to someone else; such were my insecurities. I reapplied a thin layer of lipstick and touched up my mascara. Bending over, I shook free my long hair then, right way up, undid the top button of my blouse before I tapped gently on the door.

There was no response. I knew Mitch would be asleep or at least pretending to be and would only grunt as I slipped in beside him. However, in case he was awake I wanted to look my best.

The key stuck. I took it out and tried again. I gripped the stair banister as I momentarily feared I was going to throw up. In my drunken stupor, I thought it must be the wrong key and proceeded to stick another one attached to the same key ring into the opening. Three different keys later, I reinserted the original. The door wouldn’t open. I rapped loudly, with increasing panic and persistence.

‘Mitch? Are you there?’ I whispered at first but soon started to call out more loudly. ‘Yoo hoo. Mitch? It’s only me.’

At the time my doubts were all-consuming and I assumed Mitch had changed the locks to put distance between us. I was too scared to know the reason, so didn’t ask. It was a long time later before I learnt the truth.

Mr Perkins yelled at me to close the front door on my way out and not to come back. Of course there would be an explanation. There always was. I was like a sponge, sopping up white lies and fabricated storylines.

As I staggered away, the moon lit my path, illuminating the weeds which peeked through the cracked paving stones. I jumped backwards when a black cat squealed and dashed in front of me, away from the squalid rubbish bags stacked against the wall.