I suddenly get a picture of Iain with his head between Isabel’s legs, tangled in the sheets. No, no, that way madness lies.

I quickly go out.

‘So let’s go back into the living room and I’ll just sit here and let you have another quick look,’ she says, looking at her watch.

She clicks her pen on and off a few times, impatient, a big bunch of the keys in her hand, like a gaoler.

I wander a little round the room, feeling Sam’s eyes burning into my back. I run my hand over the sofa, leaving a little trail in the pile, like rubbing a cat the wrong way. They hate that. I stand at the mantelpiece – there’s a little collection of junky trinkets, some shells, a shell with a perfect hole in – they’re supposed to be lucky aren’t they? – a tiny jade Buddha, some old bits of dirty glass. In the mirror I can see her looking at her phone, distracted.

‘So when are you looking to move?’

‘Yes, soon.’

‘So what’s your situation? Do you have something to sell? Is it on the market?’

I can tell she thinks I’m a timewaster. I fudge the answer to that one to appease her for a while.

‘So do you think you’ll take it? It is lovely isn’t it? The tenant has been given notice and has to be out by the end of August.’

‘I do really like it.’

‘I can tell you now it will get snapped up. I have more viewings planned later today and tomorrow.’

‘Sure. It’s a big decision though – I don’t really know it round here.’

‘Ah I see, well you should look around then if you have time. London Fields is two minutes’ walk that way, with the Lido and a leisure centre, there’s Broadway market of course. And that way there’s a lovely little row of shops. It’s such a nice area, really.’

And then I’m bundled out on the steps again, locked out, my nose pressed up against the glass. I don’t really want to go.

‘Lovely to meet you and speak soon. Yes?’ says Sam and off she goes.

I should do what she suggested and look round the area. It’s my day off so I have nowhere to be.

It feels odd to be walking down Isabel’s street, seeing things that she sees every day, as if I’m looking through her eyes. The area is pretty grimy, edged in by housing estates. No wonder she wants out. I can hear the rattle of the overground train in the distance. People have tried to make an effort – lots of the houses have a small flight of stone steps leading up to the front door and people have put pots of brightly coloured flowers at the edges and the windowsills too have narrow planters filled with geraniums perched on them. There are several double buggies parked at the bottom of steps – how trusting, I think, until I notice they’re padlocked on.

There’s a coffee shop just round the corner, with bright orange canopy blinds. There are some tables on the pavement with people sitting outside, their legs stretched out before them, in little clusters of twos and threes. I order a coffee as straightforward as it comes. It’s an odd little place, with its rusty madeleine pans displayed on the walls as if they’re art. There are no seats downstairs so I go up a narrow white wooden winding staircase where there’s another room and as I enter and take a seat, I feel people’s eyes on me. I drink my coffee quickly and leave.

On the way home, I can’t remember details from her flat already. I have a lasting overall impression of white and calm and light. I wonder what was the name of that paint? But were the kitchen cupboards white or grey? Or birch? What were the bathroom tiles like? Where were her clothes – I can’t even remember a wardrobe.

A second viewing won’t hurt.

Read the winning extract from Stylist’s 2017 fiction competition