The blonde woman was there, looking incredibly sleek and expensive in two-hundred-quid jeans, spiky heels and a ludicrously soft-looking leather jacket. Issy narrowed her eyes. This woman didn’t need to earn a living, surely. She probably spent more than Issy’s old salary on highlights alone.

‘Caroline Hanford,’ she said without smiling, extending a hand. ‘I don’t know why we’re having this meeting, I put my offer in first.’

‘And we’ve had a counter-offer,’ said Des, pouring repulsive sticky black coffee from a push-button machine into three cups, the first of which he gulped down like medicine. ‘And Mr Barstow wanted us all to meet to discuss the offers in more detail.’

‘Didn’t you used to have cafetières in here?’ said Caroline, briskly. She could do with a proper coffee; she hadn’t been sleeping properly. Those homeopathic sleeping pills she’d bought at enormous expense didn’t seem to be working as well as she’d been assured they would. She’d have to go and see Dr Milton again soon. He was expensive too. She grimaced to think of it.

‘Cutbacks,’ muttered Des.

‘Well, anyway, I’ll match the counter-offer,’ said Caroline, hardly bothering to look at Issy. ‘Whatever it is. I’m starting this business off on the right foot.’

A short, bald man marched into the room and grunted at Des.

‘This is Mr Barstow,’ said Des unnecessarily.

Caroline let forth a very toothy grin, impatient for this to be over. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I call you Max?’

Mr Barstow grunted, which didn’t seem to indicate an answer one way or the other. Issy didn’t think he looked like a Max at all.

‘I’m here to offer you the best deal I can,’ said Caroline. ‘Thanks so much for agreeing to see me.’

Hang on, Issy wanted to say. Don’t you mean to say ‘see us’? Issy knew if Helena were there she would make some remark about this being business, and tell her to get tough. Instead she just said, ‘Hello,’ then felt cross with herself for not being more assertive. She clasped her favourite cake tin – decorated with a Union Jack – to her side.

Mr Barstow looked at both of them.

‘I’ve got thirty-five properties in this city,’ he said in a strong London accent. ‘Bloody none of them have given me as much trouble as this one. It’s been one damn lady thing after another.’

Issy was taken aback by his bluntness, but Caroline looked totally unfazed. ‘Thirty-five?’ she cooed. ‘Wow, you are successful.’

‘So I don’t just care about the money,’ said Mr Barstow. ‘I care about bloody not having someone move out without warning leaving the back rent unpaid every bloody five minutes, do you understand?’

Both women nodded. Issy fingered her notes. She’d done research into what made a nice café, and how a good bakery could add value to surrounding houses, and hopefully how many cakes they’d sell every day (admittedly, she’d plucked this figure out of thin air, but pasted into a spreadsheet it looked quite good. This way of working had been reasonably successful in property management so she couldn’t imagine things were much different in baking). But before she could speak, Caroline opened up a tiny silver laptop she’d brought with her that Issy hadn’t even noticed.

Before Caroline had got married – to that shit – she’d been a senior marketing executive at a market research firm. She’d been great at her job. Then when the children had come along, it made much more sense to be the perfect corporate wife. She’d poured her energies into her children’s extracurricular activities, volunteering for the school board and running the house like a military operation. Had it stopped him fannying about with that floozy in his press office? No, it bloody had not, she thought grimly, waiting for Powerpoint to load. She’d kept working out, eating healthily, rushed to get her figure back after Achilles and Hermia were born. Had he even noticed? He’d worked all hours, come home too exhausted to do much more than eat and fall asleep in front of Newsnight, and now appeared to be banging some twenty-five-year-old who didn’t have fifteen cat costumes to make for the school play. Not that bitterness was attractive. Caroline bit her lip. She was good at her job. And this was going to be her new job, to get her out of the house a bit.

‘I’ve prepared this presentation,’ she began. ‘Now. Extensive market research undertaken by me has shown that seventy-four per cent of people say they find it hard to get their five a day, with a further sixty per cent saying that if fresh fruit and vegetables were more readily and temptingly available, they’d be fifty-five per cent more likely to up their vegetable intake …’

It was relentless. There were screeds of it. Caroline had gone in, out and round the houses. She had categorized the postcodes, designed the website and sourced organic carrots being grown on an allotment on Hackney Marshes. Nobody was going to beat her on this.

‘We’ll source locally as much as possible, of course,’ she simpered. Mr Barstow watched the entire presentation in silence.

‘Now, have you any questions?’ she said after twenty minutes, her look defiant. She knew she’d done well. She was going to show him. Start a hugely successful business and then he’d be sorry.

Issy’s insides had begun to shrink. A few days’ Googling was definitely not up to scratch here. In fact, she couldn’t give a presentation after that one, so immaculately researched and explained. She would look like a total idiot. Mr Barstow looked Caroline up and down. She really was extremely impressive, thought Issy. She’d give it to her.

‘So what you’re saying …’ he began. He still hadn’t removed the sunglasses he’d been wearing when he came in, even though it was only February. ‘What you’re saying is, you’re going to stand there all day, in an alleyway off the Albion Road, three hundred metres from Stoke Newington High Street, and try and push beetroot juice.’

Caroline was unperturbed.

‘I believe my extensive in-depth customer-based statistical analysis, commissioned from a leading marketing agency …’

‘What about you?’ said Mr Barstow, pointing at Issy.

‘Uh …’ Suddenly all Issy’s hastily gleaned knowledge seemed to fall straight out of her head. She knew nothing about retail, nothing about business, not really. This was sooo stupid. There was a long pause in the room as Issy searched her brain. Her mind had gone completely blank. This was a nightmare. Des raised his eyebrows. Caroline smirked nastily. She didn’t know, though, thought Issy suddenly. They didn’t know about her secret weapon.