I didn’t like this direction. Alan had had real trouble getting Quin’s portrait. He had wanted to shoot the designer in the Tamesis nerve centre, where a giant screen streamed live data from the app. But Quin had refused, and was steadfast in his refusal, fretting about client confidentiality and industrial espionage. The alternative offered was his characterless office, which Alan hated. Eventually, using the combination of charm and un-embarrassable persistence that is a standard part of the photographer’s kit, Alan got Quin up on the roof of Bunk’s Shoreditch building. The London skyline made a good backdrop for the creator of Tamesis. But the very next day I got an agitated phone call from Quin – the first of many – insisting on picture approval. Compounding all this was the rush caused by our – by my – lateness. I would prefer never to hear the name Quin again, but it continued to dog me.

‘Can you nudge your people?’ Alan said. ‘I haven’t been paid.’

‘Shit. Alan, I’m sorry, I’ll give them hell.’

‘I knew I could count on you,’ Alan said.

The coffee was too hot to hold for long and I had to continually switch it between hands as the pain became unbearable. Alan did not appear to be affected. He even sipped his.

‘Do you want a hand with those bags?’ I asked.

‘Nah,’ Alan said, redistributing the load around his body with a practised sequence of heaves and shrugs. ‘Used to it. Like to keep everything with me.’

‘Very sensible.’

‘You drinking that? We’ve got to get a shift on.’

‘Uh, I’ll take it on the train,’ I said, changing hands.