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The green shutters are closed but I can see the light on inside. I get a warm feeling knowing Gareth’s old leather chair and a glass of homemade rosemary ale awaits. If I’m lucky, he’ll ask me to stay for dinner and then we can watch some documentary I have no interest in but then find utterly compelling, all the while snuggled up in one of his big gardening jumpers and outsize Tibetan knit socks. He’s offered for me to take a set home since I always express my contentment at wearing them, but part of the pleasure is knowing they are exclusive to his pad. His cats, however, I’d snap up in a second.

Gareth first encountered the duo as abandoned, flea-bitten kittens. No cute wisps chasing pink yarn here – they resembled threadbare cat toys that had been swept out from under the sofa covered in dust bunnies. Too weak to stand on their own teeny paws, the vet decided their inner organs were so depleted it would be kinder to cut short their malnourished misery. But Gareth had revived many a withered plant in his time and ever since he looked into their tiny glass-bead eyes, he knew he was their last and only hope. He took them home, cradled them in feather-soft warmth and set alarms throughout the night so he could feed them with a pipette, even taking time off work to monitor their progress. I think the kittens must have found the smell of Gareth reassuring – a combination of dewy grass, damp earth and every plant he had encountered that day. Perhaps that’s what gave them the will to live – the promise of one day leaving their blanketed box beside the radiator and tiptoeing around the garden discovering all those fragrances first hand.

When that day came, it was such a beautiful sight to watch them exploring the kitty Shangri-La that Gareth had created for them, complete with sun trap terrace, mini bamboo jungle and trees dangling baubles they love to bat in the breeze. It was only after several days’ watching them pounce and roll and leap and tumble that Gareth named them.

‘I wanted to see their personalities first,’ he reasoned.

The girl he named Zazel, after the first human cannonball, on account of her high-flying acrobatic qualities. Zazel’s brother was also a natural circus performer: he would squat solidly on his back haunches, rise up like a gopher and then do the begging paw motion more affiliated with dogs or performing bears.

‘How on earth did you teach him that?’ I gawped the first time I saw it.

‘I didn’t,’ Gareth shrugged. ‘He did it spontaneously and seemed pleased with the response so now he does it all the time!’

But not just for food or attention, he does his little begging prayer at the wicker toy basket like a snake charmer or before snuggling on one of Gareth’s fleecy throws – anything that pleases him, he performs this ritual.

For this he earned the name Frankie – as in Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, specifically for their song ‘Beggin’’.

I think of how different I would feel coming home after work if I knew I’d get some silky-furred playtime with them. The only possible downside to my neighbourly visit would be having to turn up the TV a few notches to drown out Zazel’s purrs.

Suddenly I find myself smiling, eagerly knocking on the door and ringing the bell, excited to propose the idea of a joint purchase.

‘Cooee! It’s just me!’ I call through the letter box.

While I wait for him to respond I eye the property next door. I never used to like those doors with the stained-glass panels but now I’m looking with ‘potential owner’ eyes, I can see a certain appeal to this cornflower-blue fleur-de-lys design. Imagine if I painted the wood panels the same hue . . .

I’m just stepping up for a closer look when Gareth’s door opens a cautious crack and an unfamiliar voice calls, ‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello.’ I hop back into view, surprised to see a young man in an Embrace Science T-shirt. ‘Is Gareth in?’

‘No, sorry. Can I take a message?’

‘Um.’ I feel decidedly wrong-footed. ‘I was just with him earlier today – he left, er, something behind so I was just returning it. I’m Amy?’

‘Oh right,’ he nods. ‘I’m Dharmesh. His new assistant? He asked me to feed the cats while he’s away.’

‘Away?’ I repeat.

‘Apparently he was dropping some friends at the airport and he made a last-minute decision to hop on a flight himself.’ He gives a light shrug.

My jaw drops. Has he decided to try and stop Freya’s wedding? ‘To Sweden? Did he say he was going to Sweden?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘I know he had an overnight bag but did he have his passport? I know he doesn’t have his phone.’

‘Well, you know he’s not as attached to it as the rest of us.’ Dharmesh offers a smile.

‘True . . . Do you know how long he’s gone for?’

Dharmesh shakes his head.

‘But you’re okay with running the shop?’

‘Yeah, we’ve got a pretty quiet week. Anyway, I’ll let him know you came round.’

‘Right.’ I note the cue to wrap things up. ‘If he calls, can you let him know I have his mobile?’

‘Will do.’ He loiters awkwardly for a second before adding, ‘Goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight.’

I take a few steps and then stop. This seems really odd. I go to call Charlotte to see if she has any intel but realise she’ll still be in the air. And even when she lands she will be on her honeymoon so I should respect the Do Not Disturb sign on that particular doorknob. Still, an email wouldn’t hurt, she can answer that at her leisure.

In the meantime, I text May.

Gareth has left the country. Possibly. At the very least he got on a plane at Heathrow. Should we worry?

There’s a few seconds’ pause then she replies:

Unless he’s joined Marcus and Charlotte for a ménage à trois, I think we can refrain from alerting the authorities.

Okay. I’m overreacting. He’s a grown man, free to go where he pleases, when he pleases. And halt the wedding of an ex-girlfriend if he sees fit.

The phone buzzes. It’s May again.

BTW are you free Thursday night?

Short of one of my mystery suitors making me a better offer, yes, I tap back.

Good. I need you to come to a photography exhibition with me. Teagan will be there.

Wow.

I can’t keep avoiding her, May adds.

No. It’ll be good, I encourage her. Well, maybe not good but a step forward.

Right.

Okay. In the diary.

Thanks. And don’t worry about Gareth. He’ll be fine – maybe he eloped with Peony.

I’m about to bring May up to speed on Peony’s call when I hear a voice behind me.

‘Julianne?’

I turn to find an elderly man peering out of the stained-glass door.

‘No, sorry – I’m Amy.’

‘Oh, I thought you were here to view the flat.’

I hesitate. ‘Could I?’

‘Are you in the market for one?’ He gives me an assessing look.

‘As a matter of fact, I am – I’m actually friends with your next-door neighbour, Gareth . . .’

He looks at his watch. ‘Come on then, if you’re quick.’

*

Whereas Gareth’s side of the building has a big shopfront and a modest living space out the back, this side has two bedrooms, a balcony and the lion’s share of the garden.

‘I never realised how much bigger this side is . . .’ I say, gazing down from the back bedroom and imagining how amazing the garden area could be if you took down the dividing fence. Gareth could transform this tumbledown, weed-tangled sprawl into a dining terrace, reading nook, fire pit – the works!

‘It’s a sun trap here in the afternoons and in the evenings you can sit out on the balcony and watch the sun go down.’

I sigh, imagining being able to bring my mum here on a Sunday to give her a proper break from the home. I’d set out the garden table with a pretty tablecloth and a sprig of wildflowers, use a cut-glass decanter for the water, complete with slices of strawberry bobbing alongside the ice . . . We’d chat away as I rustled up my latest Hello Fresh taste sensation and, after her favourite dessert of sticky toffee pudding, she would take a little snooze in a sun lounger while I did the washing-up. If it was raining, as it so often is, we’d just set up within the patio doors and rustle up a fire.

‘Does the fireplace actually work?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes, you can get nice and toasty in front of it.’

The bathroom is charming – vintage fixtures and tiling but the shower jet blasts out with enough vigour to loosen the knots at the back of your neck.

‘Impressive,’ I note.

As he chats away, pointing out other features and foibles, I notice I’m getting a light-headed, happy but assured feeling – This is my place, I have to live here, can I move in tomorrow?

‘I had no idea how beautiful it was in here . . .’

‘Well, it doesn’t look like too much from the outside,’ the old chap concedes.

‘Do you know much about this Julianne person?’

‘Not a lot. Apparently she’d want to gut it and modernise it—’

‘Noooo!’ I protest. ‘Wouldn’t you rather know that it was being preserved and enhanced? You know Gareth would do an incredible job with the garden, no one could do it better.’

‘That might be true but it’s the wife that makes the money decisions and she wants to retire to Lanzarote, so it’s basically going to the highest bidder.’

‘But . . .’ I begin. There has to be a way around this. ‘What if . . . What if you had a cut of the new cafe business?’

‘The Botanist?’ His face brightens.

‘Yes!’ I smile, glad to hear that Gareth has broached the topic with his neighbour. ‘So you’d have the lump sum from the sale of the house but then every month you’d get a cheque for your share of the profits?’

‘Are you Gareth’s business partner?’

‘Well, no, not technically, not yet. But I could be.’

‘Does he know about any of this?’

I puff in frustration. ‘We’ve half talked about it.’ As in I’ve always been very enthusiastic about his cafe idea.

‘Well, get back to me when you’ve whole talked about it.’

My shoulders slump. ‘He’s gone away, without his phone.’

‘Then I guess we’re at an impasse.’

‘I guess we are.’

The doorbell rings.

We look at each other. ‘Julianne.’

*

I walk out into the street in a daze. I feel a mix of fired up and fatigued. Perhaps I should sleep on this scenario? I mean, a lot has happened this weekend, it’s probably not the best time to make a massive life decision. Especially when Gareth could announce tomorrow that he’s relocating to Sweden.

But it just feels so right!

I turn back to look at the building. I could totally see myself living there. To be this close to my mum and live next door to one of my best friends! Even if my dream guy moved in with me and Gareth shacked up with Freya or Peony, we’d progress to couple friends and have the best of both worlds – bickering away with our partners but always on good terms with each other.

I take out my phone and plot my route to work. Not exactly a hop, skip and a jump but doable. Especially with a bazillion podcasts to listen to en route. And if I get the four-day week I’m angling for . . .

I wonder if I should propose this to Gareth via email. Even without a phone he could still get access to his account, right? I start typing to him on the bus home but then decide I’d rather wait and do it in person so we can really hash out all the details. For once, scrolling Instagram has little appeal. I put my phone in my bag and look around at my fellow passengers. Normally I’d be just as glazed and dazed as them but tonight I feel weirdly alive, like my life is about to get some momentum after so many false starts. I take a tremulous breath as I wonder how many changes the week ahead could bring.