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We drove west under overcast skies. The city faded into suburbs, then industrial estates and fir plantations and before long we left the motorway, bounced off the outskirts of Reading, down lanes past fields of wheat and rape; pleasant countryside, though not quite the remote and picturesque idyll I recalled from visits with the estate agent. There seemed to be an awful lot of pylons, a lot of high hedges, cars passing by in quick succession, lorries too. Never mind. We followed the removal van into a gravel drive, our gravel drive, the house early twentieth century, mock-Tudor beams, the largest in the village! There was an excellent state school nearby, my desk was just twenty minutes’ drive away, there were great rail links. An hour from London by road, too, on a good day. If you listened you could hear the M40! There was work to do, of course, just enough to fill our weekends, but we could be happy here, no doubt about it. On the front drive — with room for three more cars! — I draped my arms around my wife and son like a figure-skating coach. Look, in the trees — magpies, crows! We stood for a moment, then they broke free.

In the large family kitchen — flagstones, an Aga — I popped a bottle of champagne, pulled glasses from their newspaper and poured out an inch for Egg, and the three of us toasted new beginnings. But after we had placed the boxes in each room and the removal men had left, it became clear that a miscalculation had been made. Try as we might, the three of us could never fill this place. There weren’t enough pictures for the walls or books for the shelves. Even with Albie’s drum kit and guitar, we couldn’t make enough noise to make these high rooms seem occupied. I had intended the house to symbolise prosperity and maturity, a haven of rural calm with good rail links to the chaos of the city. But it felt — and would always feel, I suppose — like a half-empty doll’s house with not quite enough dolls.

Later that evening, I found Connie standing silently in a small gabled bedroom at the top of the house. The wallpaper was old-fashioned, flowered and marked with doodles, little biro-ed ants and felt-tip butterflies drawn on to the stems and petals of the roses. I knew Connie well enough to guess her thoughts, though we chose not to acknowledge them out loud.

‘I thought this room could be your studio. Lovely light! You could paint again. Yes?’

She rested her head on my shoulder but said nothing.

We bought a dog.

I did not tell Connie of my whereabouts. In Siena, I had told her to expect me home the following day, and wouldn’t it be better to phone her with Albie by my side? I’m not at Heathrow, I’m in Madrid! It’s a long story. Wait a minute, I have someone here to speak to you … That was the plan, and so I was absurdly cheerful and optimistic that night, my mood lifted by the lavish hotel suite — a suite! Two rooms! — that I had booked on a whim and at a surprisingly reasonable price. At the marble and gold reception desk there seemed to be some doubt that this rather shabby, worn-out solitary guest could afford such decadence. No luggage? Were there any other guests with me? No, I was all alone, but there was a sofa-bed for Albie. Only if he wanted it, of course.

The room — no, the suite — was all white marble and cream leather, a dream of modern living from 1973. Closing the door, I set about repairing the damage of the last few days. I eased my partially sunburnt self into the cool onyx bath, washed my hair, shaved, and dressed the wounds on my feet. I put on the last of my clean clothes and sent the others to be laundered. In the shopping streets below I found a department store and bought a new shirt, a tie, some trousers and, back in my room, laid them out on a chair as if preparing for a job interview. So giddy and excited was I that I broke the central guiding principle of my life and took vodka and tonic from the mini-bar then, dizzy with decadence, the peanuts too, and like some modern-day Caligula sat on the balcony and watched the traffic on the Gran Vía fourteen floors below. At the junction ahead of me stood a fine modern building, a rounded wedge — art deco, Connie, is that right? — with a huge neon sign on its top floor, and as evening fell I caught the moment when the neon sputtered into life, exclaiming Schweppes! against a rainbow background, so that the street resembled a milder, more laid-back Times Square.