I stare at him, wanting suddenly to talk to him, to tell him about my childhood. I wish I could describe the man my father was and how our relationship epitomised confusion, how I’d learnt at an early age that it is possible to love someone very deeply and still want to hit them over the head with a chair.

Instead, I smile and shake my head. “Not now,” I settle for saying, and he smiles with understanding written in his eyes. Over the last few days it’s amazed me how attuned our moods are. He seems to sense mine and steer around or through them in the same way I do his. It’s an astonishing feeling to someone like me who’s led a very self-contained life.

“Okay, then,” he says calmly. “Let’s have a wander.”

“And an ice cream,” I say sternly. He looks at me, and I nod. “Ice cream and when we get back you can burn that fucking outfit and put your Sesame Street T-shirt back on.”

“That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons at the formal dinner tonight,” he says demurely.

“Will the cat eat the Nina pigeon?”

“Not unless it wants severe heartburn. That woman has indigestion written all over her.”

My laughter is loud on the quiet street.

Jesse

We eat ice creams and wander the pretty village, following the river, crossing bridges and finding ourselves in little roads filled with gorgeous houses. I spin fantastical stories about who the owners are, becoming bold again under that warm gaze of his that looks at me so attentively.

As we walk, I lean closer, feeling the occasional brush of his hand against my leg and inhaling the scent of oranges and sandalwood on him. It used to epitomise the distant glamorous figure of my boss, but these last few days have given me a different view. Like I’ve shaken up a prism and seen different colours and patterns. Now, he’s still glamorous but he’s not distant anymore. He’s the kind, funny man with tired eyes that still show a faint hint of the self-contained boy he must have been, striving to take care of people in a world filled with ever-shifting priorities.

I still see the perfect good looks and charm but they’re buttressed by the way I now know that he’s secretly a little awkward in social situations. I can see past the shiny exterior to the way his back gets stiff and a faint furrow appears between those pretty eyes when he’s having to make polite conversation. It gives me a heady thrill to have this secret knowledge.

I shake my head as we stop outside an art gallery. I don’t know what to do with this new knowledge of him that I have. I watch him looking at a huge watercolour with lively appreciation. In a month I’ll probably never see him again.