Ten minutes later, I’m glaring at him. He’s leaning against the bar, looking studiously ahead.

“This is me,” I say. “This is highbrow. Were you using that word in the correct sense or implying that I’m going bald?”

He eyes my hair. “No chance,” he says. “This is you.” He bites his lip. “Dark and dour and smelling of beer.”

I shove him. “You are a complete idiot,” I inform him. I look around again. “If you think—”

He shushes me. “We’ll never get served if you start airing your opinions. This place is wonderful. A little piece of England’s history. Charles Dickens and Mark Twain drank in here.”

“They’re probably still waiting to get served,” I say. “The barman isn’t exactly speedy.”

He nudges me. “Admit it. It’s lovely.” He looks around. “I do miss English pubs. There’s no place like them.”

“It is very atmospheric,” I admit reluctantly. The small pub is wood-panelled with low beams and comfortable chairs. “My problem isn’t the decor.”

“What is it, then?” He’s trying very hard not to smirk.

“There is a fucking dead parrot over the bar,” I hiss.

He starts to laugh, and the merry sound finally attracts the barman’s attention. Laurie orders a couple of pints and turns to me, leaning back against the bar and smiling. “That parrot is very famous,” he says.

I take the pint he hands me and follow him to a small table beneath an even smaller window. The light does nothing to dispel the gloom from the low ceiling with its heavy dark beams. “Did he die from lack of sunlight?”

He chuckles. “No. Although he did faint once after he imitated the popping of four hundred champagne corks at the end of World War One.” I laugh, and he continues. “Polly was rather abusive to customers he didn’t like, and people came from everywhere to be insulted by him.”

“Like an avian Basil Fawlty.”

He gives a wicked grin. “Or a Mags Carlsen.”

I huff. “Not my name,” I say and take a long drink of my pint. I exhale in pleasure. “That’s good,” I say reluctantly.

“This place has got a good reputation for its beer. Good to know the guides are right.”

“You’ve never been here?” I ask, surprised. “You’re rather knowledgeable for a stranger.”

He shrugs, and I watch as he traces a beer spillage on the table, drawing patterns with one long finger. “I read about it.” He looks up at me. “I’ve drawn up a list this time. Usually, when I’m in London, I see family and friends and then vanish home.”

“But not this time?” I ask.

“No, I can’t—” He hesitates and then says quickly, “No, I want to do something different this time.”