‘I could pop over around six if you like. I can install the alarm then.’ Nathan, the shop owner, was very accommodating but the exorbitant price seemed well worth it for peace of mind.

‘Yes. That would be great.’ The sooner the better. I jotted down my address.

I decided to take a walk through the back streets of Highgate Village afterwards; clear my head. The sun shone, high and bright in a cloudless sky as I meandered through the labyrinth of tiny streets. I passed a small detached cottage covered in ivy and with a front door glossed in garish red paint. A heavy polished brass knocker oozed homeliness and a bike was chained up against the wall.

Mitch had guessed the price correctly when we’d seen it. We imagined it as our future love nest. I’d been several thousand pounds too high, defining how utopian this small cottage had been in my mind.

The For Sale board only stayed up for a week but Mitch had promised me there would be plenty more cottages, every bit as perfect, when the time was right. I remember our kiss in front of the small wrought-iron gate. I’d savoured the moment, knowing for certain that such a home would indeed one day be ours. How could I have been that wrong? Or was I?

Nathan from the security shop arrived promptly at six. I spent the time after my stroll around the village giving the flat a spring clean. The cupboards were dirty, smeared with several years of grease and grime. Love had led me to slovenliness while I wasted time, waiting and fretting, for the future to arrive.

‘Come in.’ I ushered Nathan inside, comforted by the sight of the steel toolbox, extension lead and step ladders.

‘Thanks. A bit difficult to find. You’re quite tucked away here.’

He took off his boots, setting them neatly outside the door. His big toe poked out from a worn left sock.

‘Coffee?’

‘Please. Three sugars, if that’s okay.’

I unwrapped a packet of custard creams, remnants of Mitch’s midnight demons.

‘You live here on your own?’

‘Yes. My boyfriend recently moved out.’

Nathan proceeded to drill holes, measure levels and began to secure my flat. He talked while he worked and drip-fed me his own potted relationship history.

‘Nadine, that’s my wife, has moved out too. Says she doesn’t love me anymore.’

‘I’m sorry.’ What else could I say?

‘Don’t be. It happens to the best of us. Work keeps me busy. What about your guy?’

We kept the conversation on a superficial level, commiserating with each other over our disastrous love lives. There was light relief opening up to a stranger.

‘Mitch. Mitch Dawson. He lived round the corner but I’m not really sure what went wrong.’

Then it happened again; a curve ball presented a totally unexpected revelation.