Rebecca was good with houses. Her life had been a series of them—homes, worlds—all remembered with intense fondness, as if the gains she made from those houses never wholly compensated for the loss each time she moved on. Whenever we talked about the past, Rebecca would refer to each house by name, in shorthand for that phase of her life. Northam Road, the semi-detached in Oxford that we shared, meant student days when the world was all before us. Then Hackney, the unrenovated carapace that was Rebecca’s first move into London property, a footing on a ladder that would climb to fabled prosperity for her generation. Montmorency Gardens followed, an elegant address for a difficult but creative marriage and a young family. Finally, Austen Road, North London. This was Rebecca’s blessed house for all seasons and kept on revealing new corners and layers, from basement to attic, as the years went by.

Austen Road was my favourite place to stay in London on visit after visit, until the day came when Rebecca began to talk about what to do next. Her grown children had moved out into places of their own. The husband was long gone. Even the two ancient cats had at last gone to heaven. Rebecca filled the rooms with lodgers who crept in after hours. Foxes climbed the wall from next door into the secluded garden and scavenged from the garbage bins. It was all luxuriant and grand, and had too much space to hold onto at today’s prices.