TPR and I poured all our savings into a property purchase. Our new flat was on the first floor of a Georgian square in London that actually looked like it belonged in Edinburgh. Its size and layout very much resembled Drummond Place.

With VJ’s help, we were renovating the flat as a holiday let. It would, however, take some time to work our way through the main rooms and then the four bedrooms in the servants’ quarters. I wondered whether we needed to replace the bouncy (and possibly rotting) timber floors, and how we could cut out noise pollution from the traffic running over the cobbles outside. One thing for certain was that the ancient rusting Victorian brass bedsteads would have to go.

The phone rang just before we went to bed. Why X was ringing me from Edinburgh, I had no idea, but she seemed to have forgotten that we were no longer friends. I politely joined in the conversation, desperately trying to work out how to get her off the phone. I wasn’t sure how to handle this. I had signed up to the Archers’ Lenten vow of not indulging in gossip until after Easter, but the guidance did not cover how to get out of conversations with anyone who was often a source of gossip amongst your friends.