The next few minutes are silent as we walk along with me following his lead. He seems to know where he’s going.

“You know the area?” I finally ask.

He looks startled for a second, and I get the strangest sense that he’d forgotten I was even here. Which doesn’t make sense, as he was the one who asked me to come with him. My curiosity stirs.

“I do know it,” he finally says. “My brother’s lived in the area for years. He likes being near water.”

“You’ve visited him?” I’m startled and I don’t know why.

He smiles at me. “Of course. I visit him whenever I’m in England.”

“Where do you live?” My question surprises me. I don’t usually get interested in men beyond a discussion of sexual preferences. Nevertheless, I wait eagerly for his answer.

He takes a left turn, walking down a narrow side street that’s lined on both sides with elegant houses. “I live in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.”

I whistle, thinking of the hilltop village in the South of France. “Beautiful place.”

“You know it?”

“I backpacked around Europe when I was sixteen. That was one of my favourite places. We reached it in the early evening and the smell from the flowers was incredible. It was less incredible when we had to sleep on a bench outside because someone stole our wallets and I realised that I got hay fever.”

He chuckles but a soft expression crosses his face. “It’s home,” he says simply.

I eye him curiously. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that about anywhere apart from my chambers.

“How did you come to live there? Did you have family over there?” I ask, manoeuvring around a woman who seems to feel her pushchair gives her the right to take over the entire pavement.

He takes a right and leads me into a small park—one of those you find dotted about London. People are everywhere, walking dogs or playing with children. A group of teenagers linger around a bench talking loudly. The scent of doughnuts being fried in a small kiosk infuses the air.

“No family now,” he says. “My grandmere was French. She was an artist, and I was very close to her. I used to spend my summers there painting with her. She taught me more than all my art professors together.”

“What was her name?”

“Marie Adnet.”

A memory flares. “Marie-Jeanette?”

“You knew her?”

“I’m the son of an artist,” I remind him. “And she is still very famous. It’s just that she’s only known by her first name.”

“Like Prince,” he says and I chuckle.

“I never knew her surname was Adnet or I’d have made the connection with you more quickly. I think she came to Denmark for a few weeks to spend time with my mother when I was a child.”

“Really?”