This journey felt different. We were heading back into the city, but to a part of South London that felt like a village. The roads narrowed again, lined with huge, ancient trees and handsome Victorian houses.
We drove through Dulwich Village, with its white picket fences, old-fashioned pubs, and people queuing outside a bakery, the smell of fresh bread and coffee hanging in the air. The noise here wasn't traffic; it was the sound of life.
The distant shouts of kids playing in the park, the chatter of people sitting outside a café, the gentle hum of a place at ease with itself. This felt real.
We pulled into a private underground car park beneath a modern, stylish but understated apartment building that overlooked the park.
"It's the penthouse," Christine said, leading us towards a private lift. "It's been vacant for a few months. We had it fully furnished for a player who was supposed to be coming from Spain, but the deal fell through at the last minute."
