But this is also a city of fashion. Nearly everyone looks good in London. It’s the hair and the new clothes. Londoners make an effort, having faith in the pages of glossy magazines. Or else it’s turbans and saris: Nigerian women in paradise greens and head wraps so large only they could carry them.

Down in the Underground station it is warmer. I wonder what Hisham will be like after all these years. I wonder why I never looked him up on Facebook. Jubilee line, Metropolitan line. Crystal Palace and Marble Arch. What will I tell him about the Circle Line, and how Oxford Circus is not a circus?

He can’t truly know London until he is here in winter with its fog and gloves and Christmas lights. There are secrets, then, under the dark coats and bare trees. In the wisps of smoke from breath and street lights. It is also important to know that in Speakers’ Corner, not everyone is insane. Not everyone.

We meet off Regent Street in a café with pictures of dead Hollywood stars, and an American slant to the menu. Ten in the morning and it feels early for London. Clean, not too much traffic, not too much heat.

A sudden sticky nostalgia when I first see him. His shoulders are broader, his hair is cut short. I briefly crave the frenzy of our younger selves, itchy swimsuits and sunburn, the blast of the sea, our parents in the background, genial and laughing. What if I never have children? Hisham orders a cappuccino and I order an iced Coffee Extravaganza, trying it for the first time. It comes tall and sweet, sealed at the top with thick white cream. It tastes so good, I can’t believe it.

‘Have another one,’ he says. I am shocked at this suggestion, intrigued. I say no. It will be greedy, all that ice and cream.

The second glass lasts longer. I sip through the straw and there is caramel at the bottom. ‘There’s caramel at the bottom,’ I say, and offer him some. He shakes his head.

I was four when my parents moved to Abu Dhabi. Flushed with new money, they fed me on McDonalds and Pizza Hut, indulged me until I refused to eat anything else. I ate nothing but junk food for two years until I fell ill. It was a struggle to wean me off it, get me to eat a solid meal. For a long time anything green felt strange and tickly in my mouth.

‘How long will you keep hiding in London?’ he asks.

I am taken aback and launch into a long and hectic explanation. I brag about how regularly I jog in the park and about the new car I am buying. He must never feel sorry for me.