“I could always ask Alice to join us. Make it a proper reunion. Maybe I’ll do that.” And he hung up before I had a chance to say anything.

“What can I do for you, Andy?” The club, a pornographic spread of establishment clichés, was fairly empty. All the members off in their constituencies, or enduring family time, or visiting country houses. There were lots of oil paintings of prime ministers, viceroys, and generals through the ages in huge gilt frames, oak paneling, the works. How was it all still here? All still standing?

“What’s your guess?”

“Money seems to be what women usually want from me these days, but you don’t look very needy. All this time I’ve had it wrong. All these years, on the very rare occasions I’ve found myself at home during the day, and put the TV on and there was the usual trash on Jerry Springer or Jeremy Kyle, I found myself thinking of you and wishing you’d make an appearance.” Our drinks arrived and we paused to let the waiter put down two little white napkins and set the tumblers upon them.

“What would have been the show’s theme that day, do you think?”

“I’ll admit to a weakness for the paternity test ones. You know, is daddy Cousin Wayne or is it Uncle Kev? But you left all that behind, didn’t you?”

“You’ve googled me?”

“I have.” And he looked all fake bashful and fluttered his eyelashes. It was after six. Beyond the tall windows the day was giving up the ghost. A short time before I’d been in bed in a stained T-shirt with a multipack of Hula Hoops, but I’d scrubbed up for Rob, and now I was glad. Our armchairs were leather. Beneath a portrait of the Light Brigade, a cheery little fire burned. Rob was fatter now, and receding a touch, but otherwise little different. In return for my glance, Rob leaned in and gave me a very direct, very appraising look.

“It’s very good.” His eyes had come to rest on my face, like a surgeon admiring a particularly nice bit of work. “All utterly unexpected. If a little—”

“A little?

“Homogenous? Are you forty yet? Not quite. Well, it’s the new thirty, I hear. And fifty is the new twenty. And eighty is the new three, since you’re back wearing nappies being fed with a spoon. You know we sold the manor? It’s a care home now, a warehouse for the decrepit.”

“How are you, Rob?”

“Married. Divorced. Two children, a boy and a girl. Nearing the top of the queue for VP at work. Girlfriends, houses, cars, school fees, skiing holidays.”

“Well done, you.”