The second disagreement that Ricky and Verity had was also about names. This time it was about the name of their child - a wonderful long-limbed little girl with pale, creamy skin and lustrous chestnut hair. Ricky, predictably, wanted to name her Verity, but this time Verity put her foot down with a new confidence that motherhood had imposed, and quashed the argument before it could begin. ‘Really, darling. Nothing could be sillier. Neither of us will know who you’re talking to when you call us. And Verity doesn’t have a nice short version. Everyone called me Veetie for years; they’re still doing it now. You don’t want to wish that on our child, do you?’

Ricky thought of Verity’s unprepossessing parents bellowing ‘Veetie’ at his little girl, as though her fate would already be sealed to emulate the unhappy early adulthood of her mother and, shuddering at the idea, capitulated. ‘No, I wouldn’t, darling. You’re right, as always.’ He paused a moment. He had another suggestion that had come from seeing Verity’s French books while they were being unpacked in their new home counties house near his Slough office. A slim volume by Voltaire had caught his attention and given him an idea. ‘Had you ever thought about Candida? Like Candide, only for a girl. I think it’s a lovely name - it means truthful, honest, sincere, forth-right. Lots of good things, a bit like Verity, only different.’

‘Candida …’ mused Verity, trying it out. ‘Candida, Candy, Dida, Didi …’ Holding their little daughter in her arms, she spoke softly to her, ‘Candida? Are you a Candida, little one?’ She looked up at Ricky. ‘I think it’s a lovely name, darling. And it shortens so nicely, doesn’t it? Who could ever be cruel to a little girl called Candy or Didi?’

Ricky took Verity’s face between his hands, looking at her wide-open blue eyes and the faint blush on her cheek. He kissed her carefully on her forehead, on the bridge of her nose and on her thin, soft lips. ‘I don’t think we’ll need to abbreviate. No one will ever be cruel to our little girl,’ he promised Verity.

He wasn’t to know that, in twenty years or so, their little girl would meet a notorious heartbreaker, the lead singer of a band with a cult following, who paid his rent by occasionally waiting tables in his father’s restaurant.

The Musical Memories of Sharif Khan