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ONE NOVEMBER

The house is spectacular. A huge white stucco villa on three floors plus attic rooms, and a direct view of the sea visible through tall windows that frame the vista at the back and the front.

I imagine that a wall must have been taken down at some point to offer up that level of open-plan space in a Victorian house.

Steel beams put in. Expensive stuff. Just to give the owners more light and space.

I feel an uncharacteristic twitch of jealousy.

It’s not like me to envy others. I rarely, in fact, give a thought to them.

But this is a different case altogether.

I turn off the van’s engine and sit, just for a moment, readying myself.

Through the window, on the other side of the house, I see the shadows of movement and as I pull on a baseball cap and open the driver’s door, I hear the muted murmur of chatter.

There are four cars parked outside and clearly the day is still going strong.

I go to the side of the van and pull open the door.

There it is, my last delivery of the day: an extra-large bouquet of white hydrangeas and roses, no expense spared, in a pink bag.

On the envelope is the inscription “Nina Swann I see a designer kitchen in midnight blue and pink, with flashes of brass and copper, big globe light bulbs hanging at irregular intervals from golden chains, plants on shelves.

Through a door at the back of the kitchen, I see huge velvet sofas, a mixing desk, a Gorillaz poster.

It’s the home of a Gen X man who has made good decisions, made a success of his life, piled his building blocks one on top of the other with precision and care. But also, the home of a man who made one really bad mistake that his wife and his family are going to pay for, over and over again.

I keep moving past the window and then I put my finger to the doorbell.