Page 55 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Well, no … I mean …’ I trail off to take in the large windows, the black-and-white tiled path leading up to the front door, the shiny brass door knocker. It’s a real, proper, grown-up house. The kind of house in which you put down roots, raise a family and live for the next thirty years.

‘Are you sure we can afford it?’ I blurt.

‘Oh, I’m sure we can work something out,’ he says, like he always does, kissing my nose affectionately. ‘But let’s not worry about that just yet – we haven’t even looked inside!’

‘No … Yes. I mean, you’re right.’ I nod.

God, I’ve never seen Miles this excited. Normally he’s so level-headed and moderate about everything, but today he’s buzzing with eager anticipation. I feel oddly left out. Why aren’t I buzzing too? After all, I’m sure I’m going to love it; I can tell just from the outside, I decide, looking at the shiny navy blue front door and the two large potted yuccas on either side. And we have been talking about moving in together for ages. It’s the next step. It makes total sense.

‘Mr Richards?’

A sharp voice causes us both to turn round to see a grey pinstriped figure striding along the pavement. It must be at least eighty degrees today in London, and as the man hurries towards us, his jacket flaps open to reveal damp patches spreading out from under the armpits of his blue shirt.

‘Benedict Meyers, Formans Estate Agents.’ He shakes hands briskly with Miles. ‘And Mrs Richards?’ Holding out his hand, he turns to me.

‘Oh, no,’ I correct quickly, then blush. ‘I mean …’

‘Not yet,’ jokes Miles, and we all share a polite chuckle.

‘Well, if you’d like to follow me …’ The estate agent jangles a huge bunch of keys authoritatively and briskly sets about unlocking the front door, deftly disabling the alarm and flicking on lights, all while providing a running commentary: ‘Into the main hallway, where, leading off to the left, we have the full-width reception room, which opens into the breakfast room, offering a fantastic living and entertaining space …’

I walk slowly behind, trying to take everything in. I’ve always found house-hunting to be slightly bizarre. It’s like stepping into someone else’s life. All this history, all these memories … My eyes flit across the photographs lining the shelves and try to imagine them being replaced with photographs of Miles and me.

‘… and an actual working fireplace.’

Looking up, I turn to see the estate agent standing in front of a large exposed-brick chimney breast. ‘Wow, really?’ I smile eagerly. Miles once told me that you’re supposed to act like you’re not that interested when you’re looking at property, so you can haggle over the price, but I can’t help myself. I’ve always wanted a real fireplace.

‘Hmm, is there a gas supply as well?’ interjects Miles, frowning slightly.

‘Why do you need a gas supply?’ I ask, puzzled.

‘Real fires look lovely, darling, but they’re a lot of work.’

‘But everyone loves a real fire!’ I cry with dismay. ‘They’re so romantic.’

‘In hotels maybe,’ he says firmly. ‘But not when you’re shovelling ashes first thing on a morning. I used to have to clear out my housemaster’s when I was at boarding school, and trust me, it wasn’t fun.’

‘Actually, I do believe there is a gas hook-up,’ the estate agent is saying, crouching down and pointing at something, ‘so if you prefer, you could convert this quite easily.’

‘Hmm, right, yes.’

I watch as Miles bobs down next to him, their heads bent together.

‘And you can get those very realistic gas fires these days. They almost look like the real thing.’

‘But we have the real thing,’ I protest loudly.

The estate agent and Miles suddenly both look up at me.

‘Darling, I had no idea you loved real fires so much,’ Miles says, surprised.

‘Well … sort of,’ I say, blushing slightly.

God, now I feel like a bit of an idiot. I didn’t mean to make such a big deal of it.

‘My wife and I can never agree about anything,’ chips in the estate agent jovially. ‘We argue about everything.’

‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll work it out,’ says Miles amiably. Straightening up, he squeezes my shoulder. ‘We don’t do rows, do we, darling?’ he says proudly.