The car is still in Chinatown, in the car park, exactly where I left it. My surprise is such that I realize I expected it to be gone. Towed away by the car park management perhaps. Or stolen. Or damaged.

I am further surprised to discover that I was not all that worried about any of these outcomes. I was resigned.

Resignation is undeserving of its negative connotations. It can be a good thing. Because Iris, it seems, is also resigned. She appears to have resigned herself to the changed circumstances of this trip. To the fact of Dad and me. Being here.

I force my face to remain impassive when the ticket machine displays the amount I owe.

“I’ll pay,” says Iris, taking her bank card out of her wallet.

“No,” I say, feeding twenty-pound notes into the ravenous mouth of the machine.

“I have a lot of disposable income now,” Iris says. “And not much time to dispose of it.” Her tone is jocular.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about that,” I say.

“I’m not talking about it, I am merely making a passing reference to it in a comical fashion,” Iris says.

“It’s not that comical.”

“It’s black humor.”

I pull the receipt out of the machine, stuff it into my purse. I don’t know why I keep it. Habit, I suppose. I keep all my receipts. Record them in a ledger at the end of each month. Have done for years. It’s not really a ledger, not in the professional sense. Just a record of outgoings. Brendan says there’s no need, but I do it anyway. You’re more careful when it’s somebody else’s money you’re spending.

Sometimes the girls asked why I didn’t have a job like their friends’ mothers. Even a part-time one. They didn’t understand. They were my job. I did it to the very best of my ability and it’s okay that I never got thanked, or paid, or promoted or a gold watch at the end. It’s okay that nobody patted me on the back and said “well-done.” I’m fine with that.

It’s the niggling sensation that your daughters might look at you now and feel the tiniest bit sorry for you.

That’s the bit that stings.

I take the receipt out of my purse and tear it up. Toss the pieces into the glove compartment, like someone who couldn’t care less. Because this is not Brendan’s money. It’s mine.

I drive through the streets of London. There are ten million Londoners, and on this Tuesday morning, it feels like all of them are here. In their cars and on their bikes. Crammed into their buses and taxis. Steam erupts from a vent in the road ahead, and below, the rumble of the Tube. Above, planes circle like vultures, waiting for their chance to land.

Iris takes her phone out of her bag, opens a GPS application, but I don’t need it because I remember the way back to the Airbnb.