We kept it up until lunch and after that there was exciting paperwork including a surprisingly long form in which I explained how I’d managed to lose an expensive X26 taser pistol and reduce the working insides of an airwave handset to sand. Coming up with a plausible explanation for both kept me busy until late afternoon when Simone phoned.

“I’ve found us a hotel room,” she said and gave me an address off Argyle Square.

“When shall we meet?” I asked.

“I’m already there,” she said. “Naked and decorated with whipped cream.”

“Really?”

“Actually,” she said, “I’ve eaten the whipped cream, but it’s the thought that counts.”

Argyle Square is about a fifteen-minute walk from the Folly. Twenty if you stop off at the mini market to pick up a couple of cans of aerosol whipped cream—it always pays to be prepared.

It was only a two-star hotel but the sheets were clean, the bed was sturdy, and it had a tiny en suite toilet and shower. The walls were a bit thin but we only found that out when next door banged on the wall for us to be quiet. We did our best that one last time—which, and I’m guessing here, lasted a couple of hours and resulted in both of us walking funny the next morning.

Then we got to stay in our sturdy yet comfortable bed and fall asleep to the London lullaby of police sirens, shunting trains, and catfights.

“Peter,” she said. “You haven’t changed your mind about tomorrow, have you?”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Your dad’s gig,” she said. “You said I could come, you promised.”

“You can meet me there,” I said.

“Good,” she said and fell asleep in my arms.