The door was answered by a woman wearing a square-necked smock dress with a ruched hem. It was light brown with cream details and a subtle floral pattern; the stitching, although perhaps not as durable as it could be, was of a good standard and the general impression was of a high-quality garment, albeit one with a limited lifespan. Her shoes were blunt-toed black leather low-heel pumps, stylish yet comfortable and projecting an air of casual professionalism. Her cardigan was a loose-knit off-white woollen number, available from all good retailers.
‘Is this 57 The Birches?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s next door.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. I walked up the drive and then down the garden path of the house next door. I rang the bell. After a few seconds, the door was answered by a man in an argyle sweater with grey and blue patterning, the collar of his shirt protruding from the neck...
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