‘Daddy?’

‘What’s up, big man?’

‘Can I get a hamster?’

‘Uh, don’t know, William. We’ll see.’

We’ll see. Parents’ code for I won’t mention it again, wait for you to forget.

‘Jacob P. has a hamster.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘He’s called Mr Chocolate.’

‘That’s a good name.’

I smiled at my son in the rear-view mirror as he played on the iPad. My son, the image of his mother. He was going to be a heartbreaker when he was older, that was for sure. His mother’s face, her colouring, her big brown eyes.

And then there she was across the car park, walking quickly to her car: my pretty wife, dressed for tennis in her pink Adidas hoodie, blond ponytail tied up high.

She had her head down, a frown on her face.

Looks like she’s about to cry.

I was suddenly glad we’d made this detour.

‘William, I’m just going to talk to someone for a minute, OK? You stay here like a good boy and I’ll be right back.’

He looked up at me with those big brown eyes.

‘Is it Mummy?’

‘You stay here just for a minute and don’t get out, OK? Then after a minute you can see Mummy.’

‘What if bad men come?’

‘Bad men aren’t going to come, big man. You’ll be able to see me, and I’ll be able to see you.’ I held up a finger. ‘One minute.’

He nodded slowly, but didn’t look convinced.

Mobile still in my hand, I got out and locked the car with the remote. The underground air was flat and sour in my nostrils.

Mel’s VW was reversing out fast. Two lines of parked cars between me and her.

I waved.

‘Mel!’

The VW pulled off sharply, Mel pulling her seatbelt across her chest with one hand as she accelerated hard towards the exit ramp. She hadn’t seen me. Threading my way between the parked cars I almost tripped on a low concrete divider between the rows, stumbled, shouted again, my voice flat against the low concrete ceiling.

‘Mel!’

Her car disappeared up the exit ramp and then she was gone, out into the Thursday night traffic.

4

There was a soft chime from the lift at the far end of the car park. The doors slid open and Ben emerged, briefcase in hand, cigarette between his lips. He lit up and lifted his head to exhale, seeming to spot me out of the corner of his eye as he took his mobile out of a jeans pocket.

He had seen me, I was sure of it.

He carried on walking as if he hadn’t.

‘Ben!’ I said, waving.

He slowed, stared at me for a second, raised a hand half-heartedly as I walked over to him. He stood by his car, a pearl-white Porsche Cayenne with the number plate W1NNR, dressed in that casual-but-not-casual way you get when you spend a lot of money – designer jeans and tailored jacket. He looked at me like I was the last person he wanted to see, taking another drag on his cigarette.