“All those in favour,” said Nigel Fairbrother, “please raise your hands.”

Thirty-one hands went up in the clubhouse at Kingsmere Gardens.

The motion was printed on the sheet in front of me. Proposed change to the constitution of the Kingsmere Residents' Association: from today, only homeowners may serve on the committee.

“All those against?”

Six hands. Mine. Doris Wright's, who was eighty-two and had rented her house for twenty years. Liam Carter's, a single dad of two. And three owners who looked embarrassed.

“The motion is carried,” said Nigel, banging a little wooden gavel he'd bought specially. “Which means, I'm afraid, that our three renting committee members must step down. Effective immediately.”

He looked down the table at me and smiled.

“No offence, Kate,” he said. “You've done some lovely work on the summer fun day. But you're just a renter. You don't have a real stake in this place. You'll probably be gone in a year.”

Penny Lockwood, the secretary, crossed my name off the committee list with a red pen.

I picked up my bag and moved to a chair at the back of the room.

Nigel had no idea that I'd signed a contract that morning.

And neither did anyone else.