Dad’s painful awkwardness floods the line. It comes back to me, the thing he once said to me, trying to explain how much worse it became when I moved away. She took it as a slap in the face. And now, again, I have put him in such an awkward position. I can picture that room behind him, the pristine sofa, the stack of coasters that must always be used, every prized cushion placed just so, the rug Mum used to hoover and hoover as if she was trying to hoover the whole floor away.

But Dad tries, he really does. ‘All right … let me see. Wait just a sec, Jennifer,’ he says.

I wait for what feels like a hundred years. I lean forward and press my forehead to the sharp bones of my knees. It’s as if I’m praying or bowing or waiting for some kind of blow to the head.

A rustle again at the handset.

I sit up.

‘Jenn,’ says Dad, ‘I’m sorry. She can’t come to the phone right now. Another time maybe, it’s just, right now …’

He is still talking, sorry about everything but I lift the phone away from my ear. My whole body feels cold and rigid. Whatever had opened or softened before has closed up again. I’m almost disgusted with myself, letting myself get in a state like this. All these years I’ve shut this part of my life down, and now I’m the one ripping open the wound? It doesn’t make sense. I’m not making sense.

Very carefully, very quietly, I hang up.

Chapter 23

Four days later, on Friday, I’ve arranged to meet Alastair during my lunch break. It’s the only time I can do it, I’ve explained, I have my son with me all the rest of the time. During the working day, though, he’s at school.

‘I don’t mind at all,’ Alastair replied. He has all this week – and next – off work. He’s happy this time to come and meet me close to my office. Closer to home – I’ve told him where that is. My world this time, instead of his.

He must have Googled a venue, because he suggests Brixton Market, the place where everyone from outside Brixton thinks they should go. I have forty-five minutes for my lunch break. Enough time to get a coffee and maybe a sandwich together.

At twelve forty-five, I head down the stairs. I have my smart work suit on, flat shoes this time, but my smartest jacket. I re-did my make-up at my desk before leaving. The streets of Brixton are heaving; I have to side-step constantly and, as I pass the narrow section of pavement under the railway bridge, my handbag gets shoved off my shoulder.