He looks out of the window. “No need. We’re here.”

He pays the fare, and I follow him out of the taxi, gazing up at the building. “A bookshop? You’ve brought me to a bookshop. Why?”

“For books.” I roll my eyes, and he elaborates. “This is one of the oldest bookshops in England. It apparently looks like something from a Harry Potter film. People are always Instagramming it.”

“Ah, Instagram. What a joy.”

He smiles. “Not for you, Dinosaur Dave?”

I grimace. “I don’t have any particular desire to photograph my breakfast.”

“Is it because it’s usually a dick?”

I choke on my own spit, and he laughs loudly. He looks up at the exterior of the shop. “I’ve always fancied coming here, but I never made the time before.” A complicated look crosses his face.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Okay,” I say. “So, we go in and look, and then we come out and find somewhere to get a drink, yes?”

“It’s like taking Oliver Reed out for the day,” he observes. “We will be taking our time in there.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a bookshop, you cultural desert. And I have a challenge for you.”

“Is it to beat you at drinking vodka? Because I’ve already done that.”

“I wasn’t on my game.” He points at me. “Don’t distract me. Your challenge is to go in and pick ten books.”

He opens the door, and I follow him into the shop. I can instantly see why he’d be attracted to the place. It’s wood-panelled, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a mezzanine level. Three huge stained-glass skylights are set into the ceiling, and the sun shines through them, laying lazy stripes of colour over the shelves and floor. There are leather chairs and sofas dotted about and a smell of fresh coffee in the air. I smile because I’ve already spotted four people taking selfies.

I return to our conversation. “Why will I be picking ten books?”

“To read. And you have to read them. That is the rule, Mags.”

“Why do so many people put rules in games? These limitations spoil all the fun.”

He bites his lip but doesn’t quite conceal his smile. “Oh, I’m seeing a lot of your father in you today. Well, at least the bits I remember from that article about his private life in The Sun.”

I grimace. “Please don’t. That was published while I was at school. I was called the Son of Spanker for a whole term.” I look around. “So, I have to choose ten books, and then we can get out of here and get a drink, yes? Easy.”

I walk away and stop when he calls me. “Where are you going, Mags?”

I wink at him. “I am going to Paris for a croissant. What does it look like I’m doing?”