‘Paul,’ he said, holding out his hand. We shook. Firm handshake, great smile − I felt a flicker, a definite vibe, and I knew from the way he held eye contact with me, that he felt it too. ‘You’re working for Nick?’ he asked. His voice was pleasant, educated. In fact, there was something slightly public school about his whole persona: just confidence, perhaps. A cheerful strength emanated from him.

‘That’s the plan,’ I said.

‘Whatever you do,’ he warned me in a murmur, ‘don’t drink his tea.’

‘Too late.’

‘Well, good luck!’ He turned his attention to Nick. ‘Now, where are these chairs?’ They disappeared behind a pile of furniture at the far end of the storeroom and emerged, after a minute or two of shuffling things about, Paul carrying two heavy wooden chairs, thickly painted in white gloss, their seats covered with loud floral fabric. I know nothing about antique furniture but even I could see that a travesty had taken place.

‘Nice to meet you, Juno,’ he called back over his shoulder as Nick opened the door to let him out.

‘Customer?’ I asked when he’d gone.

‘Paul?’ Nick shook his head. ‘He restore furniture. Those chairs, he take off paint, polish, re-cover. Bring back, good as new. You see.’

Well, I thought, with any luck I might. ‘How about Saturday?’ I suggested, although I don’t usually like tying myself up at weekends. ‘I could come on Saturday, just for the day, see how it goes?’

‘How it goes,’ Nick repeated, smiling and we shook on it.

‘And no squirting,’ I told him solemnly. ‘I promise.’

CHAPTER FOUR

At three years of age I was found in a London underpass, a graffiti-scrawled subterranean passageway that stank of piss. I’d been there hours apparently, strapped in my buggy, screaming my head off, whilst on the floor beside me my young mother lay dying of a drugs overdose. I don’t remember it. I have very little memory at all before my fifth birthday; no memory of my mother. I’ve blocked it all out, so they tell me.

When I was rescued from my buggy I was placed in the care of social services whilst a search was made for my family. My mother, it transpired, had been its little black lamb. Granted all the advantages: wealthy parents, an expensive education and a place at university, she’d thrown it all away, getting into recreational drugs, moving on to the hard stuff, dropping out, falling pregnant, and finally getting in trouble with the police. By the time she died, my grandfather hadn’t seen her for four years, during which time my grandmother had passed away. No one had any idea who my father was.