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‘Right, yes.’ He started the engine. ‘Let’s get you home.’

‘It’s not my …’ Her voice trailed off. Because it was about to become the closest thing she had.

If she didn’t know better, she might wonder if that weird, hollow feeling in her chest was because no one was expecting her. She’d made a quick bank transfer for a week’s rent, and there would be a key shoved under the doormat. No one would care what time she arrived, or even if she didn’t. But smiley taxi driver and his two-dimensional, slightly fading family didn’t have to know that.

Alyssa must have fallen asleep on the journey, which was probably just as well. She didn’t need to dwell on what she was leaving behind, nor where exactly she’d be landing. Anyway, Hackney definitely had its desirable parts, even if World’s Grottiest Flat might not be one of them. Having waved her driver off with a tip she couldn’t really afford, to account for her bad mood and exhausted snoring, she dragged her stuff up the sticky-carpeted flights of stairs and arrived at her new front door. One hundred and thirteen. It was a myth that numbers could be unlucky.

‘Right, well. Let’s crack on.’

There was only herself to hear – which was probably for the best. In fact, the whole tower block had seemed deserted, like one of those vacated places, earmarked for destruction. As long as the wrecking ball didn’t arrive too soon, what could go wrong? Like a person who’d resolved to tear off a plaster, she whipped the key from under the mat, turned it in the lock and stepped inside.

‘Urgh.’ Her hand flew to cover her nose and mouth, wishing for the simpler times when her senses were being assaulted by pine fresh. What was that stench? Was her landlord harbouring dead people?

She grabbed some spray from her bag and moved around, throwing windows open and performing a vanilla-scented fumigation. At least she didn’t have a year-start hangover, or she would have felt even more nauseous. She was now strictly a one-drink kind of girl, because too much wine time could lead to utter humiliation. Although maybe New Year’s Eve would have gone quicker with a wine glass stem to strangle. How could you be in a room packed with people and feel completely alone? She’d been doing much the same for at least a decade, albeit different partners, different parties. Though perhaps the loneliness was to be expected when she only chose men who were unlikely to get emotionally attached, and she swiftly moved on if they did. They were always decent guys, and definitely not married. She had morals. But she opted for men who were too busy focusing on other things to dote on her, like Boardroom Bradley, who’d relished a good meeting and had rarely been home before nine p.m. Or Vincenzo with the nice holiday villa, who travelled a lot to see family so didn’t get under her feet. Or were divorced and done, like laid-back Lionel, who had no desire for further romantic gestures, wedding bells or bearing crotch fruit.

She sighed. Much like the state of this flat, Arnaud had finally seen the cracks she couldn’t paper over.

Alyssa reached up and swiped a cobweb, grateful at least that it didn’t have a spider attached to it. This place wasn’t completely terrible, was it? She took a moment to look around her. OK, so the flat was a bit pongy, and the furniture had seen better days – but she was the queen of plastering on a smile and pretending everything was bloody brilliant. There was a cupboard full of cleaning stuff, and she could leg it to a launderette with the bedding. There probably wouldn’t be rats, even if she had seen some traps and a scribbled note saying: ‘Kill the vermin. They’re anyone’s for a piece of cheese’. This was just a stopgap until … well, something.

But what? It had been far too long since she’d had a paying coaching client. No income. Zero enquiries. That was a problem she’d now be forced to stop ignoring. She had a talent agent who was meant to bring her PR and media gigs to boost her visibility and income, but lately, Rufus had been worse than useless. Perhaps she hadn’t been pushing herself either. Had she got complacent, living with Arnaud and not needing to contribute much? Or, more worryingly, was she becoming jaded when it came to her unlikely, love-themed career?

Was she giving off some kind of bad-luck energy? She used to find it a breeze to help couples to stay together and put on an affectionate show, even though she’d never believed in the ‘L’ word. Her no-nonsense, dispassionate outlook had been what set her apart. But as time moved on, she was finding it hard to be bothered about other people’s relationships – or her own. Why was that? She had avoided anything ‘meaningful’ since she’d fled to London twelve years ago. It had been easier to pick someone ‘reasonable’ and play her superficial, non-heart-wrenching part.

And now it was time to play a new one. This wasn’t exactly how she would have chosen to embark on a journey of change. In fairness, nobody liked change, but when it was flung at them like a wet sponge, they had no option but to duck or fight. Which would she choose? And who did she even have to talk it through with?

She dropped onto the single bed, with its flowery sheets that looked like they belonged in the Eighties, feeling worn out again. Her hand twitched to her phone. She had at least a hundred and twenty thousand followers. She only had to post a pic of her toenail polish or an uplifting quote about something or other, and she’d have an onslaught of people to chat to, even if it was trivial natter.

As she went to click onto social media, she froze. There was something small and furry in the corner of the room – and it was staring at her. If there had been anyone around to listen, she might have screamed.