‘His boss, yeah. Guy called Curtis Worthing – he’s a—’ He swallowed what he was going to say and looked over his shoulder as if Curtis Worthing might be right in this basement with them. ‘The property’s worth a lot. They’re keeping half of it and converting the rest into flats.’

‘Was there no way you could keep running the business? Keep it intact and rent it from this Curtis guy?’

‘I guess they can make more money from flats. Besides,’ Vincent shrugged, ‘there’s only Gloria left who knows anything about music, and she doesn’t want to run the business alone.’

‘Why don’t you help her?’

He snorted a derisive laugh. ‘I don’t know enough about it. Don’t have a musical bone in my body. Anyway, I’m not planning to…’ He stopped talking.

‘You sounded convincing when I heard you talking about the equipment.’ When I’d been spying on you, that is.

‘Yeah, that’s tech stuff, not music.’

Petra guessed that the tech stuff and the music would go hand in hand in a studio, but didn’t know enough about it to say anything. Besides, it seemed to be a sore spot. Gouts of historical sadness and disappointment were loaded into the sale, that much she could see.

‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘the business was running at a loss even when Max was alive. We’d never even afford the utilities.’

‘So you’ve thought about it, at least.’

‘Yeah, for sure.’ He trained a look on her, deciding whether to add something else. Finally he opened his mouth again. ‘You know, my daugh—’

Their electronic order buzzer sprang into life, cutting him off, and Vincent went up the narrow, creaking stairs to collect their food. Whatever he was going to mention seemed important and Petra wished he’d been able to finish.

She watched his wake settle behind him as he left and pondered their meeting so far. Call it a date. It did feel like a date; it certainly was the most date-like hangout she’d had for a while. Why had she allowed it to take such a serious turn? Normally, she’d never talk politics or probe into someone’s family history a minute after meeting them, but even though it was spoiling his mood and she was probably busy crashing and burning, she still felt there was something not normal, something better than normal, about Vincent and their serendipitous meeting.

Deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he had fallen into her life for a reason, no matter how she tried to write it off as the fanciful yearnings of a lonely person. Maybe the reason wasn’t love, as she’d assumed and hoped when it had happened, but there was definitely some reason. She was being real with him, feeling entirely natural, asking him questions simply because she was interested in the answers, not because they were the polite or optimal thing to ask; she was revealing her own unformed and vulnerable worldview rather than presenting a curated, polished picture of herself. No matter how badly it was going, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. When she felt her best, in her most confident moments, she was messy, interesting, decidedly uncurated – and something about Vincent encouraged that. This evening and its muddled imperfection was a moment of authenticity like she hadn’t felt in… forever. No posturing tonight, no trying to fit in, no acting the good immigrant – just failing authentically.