‘I’d rather avoid the pain.’

Angelica sighs. ‘I almost feel sorry for you. Don’t you get lonely up here in your penthouse, looking down on the little people and their messy little lives?’

Before I can answer, behind us the door opens and Casey strikes a pose. ‘Ta-dah!’

She’s wearing bright-yellow dungarees, a funky headscarf around her wig and a pair of copycat Converses the same blue as mine. She reminds me of the women in wartime posters, doing their bit. She breaks my heart – which would surprise Angelica, who doesn’t believe I have one.

‘You look awesome!’ I say, and Casey beams back at me.

Is that another mistake? It felt natural to pay her a compliment. But what if every kind word makes it even harder when August comes and we go our separate ways?

I know I’ve fucked up my past. I do not want to fuck up her future.

On the quay Casey falls into the same walking rhythm as me, but her eyes dart everywhere, hungry, taking in the late-afternoon mayhem.

The little people and their messy little lives . . .

‘Can I ask you a question?’ she says, as I toss a couple of quid into a busker’s guitar case.

‘Yeah. Anything.’ Shit.

‘Are you sure you don’t have a girlfriend?’

Of all the questions she could have asked, this is getting off lightly. ‘Totally sure. Why?’

‘Loads of girls are checking you out. You’re . . . you’re not ugly. You don’t smell weird. And your flat’s amazing. So what’s the problem?’

We pass the shipping containers and she hesitates, as though she’s expecting to go into one of the pop-up restaurants on this side of the water. I hope I’ve picked a place she’ll like.

‘There’s no problem. I’ve had girlfriends. But nothing serious.’

‘Don’t you want to get married?’

‘Ha. My friends are always on at me about that. No. I like my own company.’

‘What about kids? Most people your age want kids.’

‘I’ve got you, haven’t I?’

I see Casey’s cheeks colour and her eyes sparkle, reflecting the shimmering water. Is that another false hope I’ve given her?

‘Don’t you miss having a big family?’ she says. ‘I’ve always wanted one.’

I remember how disappointed she looked when I chatted to her on FaceTime and had to tell her there was only me: no grandparents, no cousins or uncles or aunts. And how quickly she switched to sympathizing with me because I’d lost both parents.

‘I prefer friends, because they’re the family you get to choose,’ I say.

We cross Prince Street Bridge and walk past the Arnolfini. Casey gazes at the skateboarders over on the other side, kids her age doing amazing stunts that make me worry about broken bones. Have I ever worried about broken bones before?

She wants to watch, but we’re running behind, and I have a hunch that Angelica will go nuclear if I keep her out too late. We cross Pero’s Bridge, and Casey runs her fingers along the padlocks bolted to the sides.